Three Months Ago

Haarwatch

The world was on fire.

It was a dry heat, but that was no consolation. His scar-tight skin puckered with each bloom from the horizon, as war was waged only a half league away…but the inferno had not started with the Hierocracy’s invasion. It had kindled among the Protectors Guild, spread through the Dust and Crafter’s Quarters, until it had consumed the Eyrie from within. 

Consumed him.

He coughed, and it was like dredging hooks across his lungs. The flames of ambition had scourged him deeply, until there was little left but a husk of Body and Spirit, each balanced precariously on his Mind. The merest puff of an Apprentice Tier’s power, and it would all collapse.

Tucked in a bed on the northern side of the healer’s ward, he couldn’t see the battle. His eyes were so ruined, he could see little more than foggy impressions of light and shadow. Instead he could feel the aftershocks as the walls shook and the air filled with the scent of blood and fire. Ever since the assault began, Lady Boscal’s newly built tower was filled to bursting with the wounded. Near-corpses riddled with fungus, gasping victims bound in webbing, and those slashed to ribbons had streamed through the doors, many whipping past his room on their way to treatment. 

For glasses, it continued—until a final shudder sent a quake through the entire city. He thought, for a blissful moment, that the very roof of Boscal’s mansion would fall upon him…but it was not to be. The walls held, and quietude reigned across Haarwatch.

The cheering started shortly after that.

He sat in the sound, unable to do much else. Stewing. Burning as a name was repeated on every set of lips, no matter their age or Temper.

Praise Nevarre! Praise the Fiend!

He couldn’t stomach it. His teeth were little more than nubs in his jaw and his hands were half-melted—but he clenched them both, until red fury gave what to incandescent agony. The pain helped. It reminded him of his hateful reality. Of the need that kept his heart beating each day.

The day dwindled, but the celebrations did not. Pent up fear and grief was excised, breathed into the air like a fog where too-loud laughter chased it off into the distance. The moons of Siva and Yyero rose above the mountains, their silver and bronze light wan against the revelry below, and the shadows grew long and cold. It burned just as much as the heat.

“Elder Teine. How the mighty have fallen.”

“Who—?” A wet, rattling cough tore from his chest and the room spun. Someone was there, standing just inside the doorway.

“A friend.” The door closed, but he still couldn’t make them out. “You look like you could use one.”

Teine spat out a wad of something coppery and hot. “Haven’t you heard? I am a pariah. Anathema.”

“Considered such by fools who have given their allegiance to a heathen Lord. Their opinions are false before the Light.”

Teine squinted, trying to flare his broken Perception. He could barely make out that she was a woman, and even that was fuzzy. “Why would a Pathless zealot seek me out?”

The figure drew closer. “The Light has guided me to you, Elder Teine.”

“I am an Elder no longer.”

“Master Teine, then.”

Teine gritted his broken teeth. “Are you as blind as I am? My power is broken.”

“But not your ambition. Despite your injuries, you are uniquely capable, Master Teine.” The figure—definitely a woman—drew within arm’s reach. “And the Light has need of you.”

“I care nothing for your god, and less for your politics. I have nothing to offer your kind.”

She was close enough now that Teine could make out her features, and he wasn’t surprised to find her in almost as bad condition as himself. Blood streaked her once-white armor, staining her tunic where black char didn’t ruin it further. The cloth-of-gold starburst upon her chest was still pristine, but that she covered with the nondescript brown cloak around her shoulders, and the deep hood hid bruised eyes and numerous lacerations across her lips and cheeks. 

She smiled, and it looked painful. “But we have so much to offer you.” She lifted a hand, and golden Mana curled around a small bottle. It was filled with a thick amber liquid. “An elixir, one of two powerful distillations. Made from the finest alchemical ingredients and purified in the Light. Master Tier. Designed to clarify and restore one’s very Aspects.”

Teine couldn’t help the gasp that leaped from his lips…but it soon twisted into a sneer. “No gift is free, zealot. What is your price?”

“For a healed Body, Spirit, and Mind? What price can be too great?”

“Tell me!” 

His words came in a strained whisper, wet with bile. The woman’s smile only widened. “A holy task. A Divine Labor, one might say.”

You Have Been Offered A Quest!

Divine Labor!

The Pathless has sent an agent of his Will to offer you a chance to restore all that you have lost. You must only sunder that which has plagued Him for too long. Destroy Felix Nevarre.

Rewards: Title, Elixir of Renewal

Teine’s heart sped up. A Quest was better than an Oath—Oaths could be coerced. “What has the boy done that would offend a god?”

“Other than turning aside His holy judgment of this city? Tearing apart His Inquisition? Breaking his Paladins atop the sands and beneath the waves?” A terrible light burned in the injured woman’s eyes, and her skin glowed from within, as if her bones were aflame. “Nevarre has blackened the eye of the Pathless’ stalwart servants, and the Light has spoken.”

She extended her hand and the elixir with it. “Take it, Master Teine, and know His munificence.”

For all his qualms, Teine snatched the bottle as fast as his broken hands could manage. It was warm, even through the glass, and the liquid contents pulsed like a heartbeat. His fingers couldn’t break the seal at the top, so he resorted to gnawing at it. His mouth bled, but his broken teeth wore at the wax seal as his beleaguered Will snapped the base sigaldry inscribed upon its surface.

Unlike many lesser potions, the elixir went down smooth with the barest hint of sweet honey. It hit his stomach with all the power of a giant’s fist, and Teine’s weakened Body all but folded in half. What felt like ribbons of light spun outward, suffusing his broken core and racing along each of his pathways. Teine’s muscles spasmed, power racing across withered fibers as aching tendons flexed and stretched. The burning sensation increased, until all of him was subsumed in a fresh agony…and then it ceased.

“I am…” Teine flexed his hands. They were still half-melted, but new strength had flowed into his muscles. “Incomplete.”

“As I said. The first of two. You will find that this elixir has restored your Body and Spirit enough for our purposes. The second will restore you completely.”

Teine felt at his teeth; new budding growths through his once wretched gums. “And I will receive that whenever I complete this task for you.”

The injured woman smiled primly. “For the Pathless.”

Teine sat up, an act that had been beyond him for months. His hands were still terribly damaged, but he could move them, flex his fingers. The once Elder licked his lips and met the zealot’s eyes. “How do I begin?”

---

Two Months Ago

“The ship is ready, sir.”

Teine was aware. Seated in his sedan chair, the skydocks of Haarwatch were just about all he could see. The elixir had restored a great deal of mobility to him, but walking for any length of time exhausted his Stamina, and even speaking wore him out. His eyes, once near-blind, now saw with the fuzzed fidelity of an Untempered man. Still, he watched the crew of the Manaship as they bustled about the pier, lifting cargo onto broad backs before marching it up the gangplank. The billowing sails caught the ceaseless winds affixed to masts inscribed with glowing sigils, and fins out of either side stabilized it upon the current of air that surrounded its hull. Most of all, he spied the flag mounted above it all, snapping bright in the morning sun.

A burning eye, surmounted by a nine-pronged crown.

Destroy Felix Nevarre, the zealot had said before parting. Anyway you can.

It had been a month since then. A month of slow accumulation and recovery. The elixir had granted him much, but it had not garnered him resources. Those he had to scrape together with what few contacts could still stand the sight of him. The Protectors Guild was not held in high regard, and the former Elders even less so. Regardless, Teine had often worked outside of the…traditional power structure.

“Bring me aboard, then.” Teine clenched his stomach muscles as the sedan was lifted into the air by his guards. The sedan bobbed unevenly as they stood up; they were strong for Journeymen, but their Dexterity was lacking. 

His guards walked Teine across the pier, making their slow way forward through the bustling crowds. The skydocks had grown increasingly busy ever since regular Manaships began transporting people between Setoria, Haarwatch, and the distant capital of the Territory of Nagast. Haarguard were everywhere too, their distinctive blue armor and halberds setting them apart from the rabble. His men avoided them as best they could, but the sedan drew the eye almost as well as his people pushed through the crowd.

“Don’t touch me!”

The Manaship loomed closer and closer, but down the docks were a gaggle of poorly dressed beggars. Teine had noticed them previously, lingering at the edges of the piers as if waiting for something, and apparently so had the Haarguard.

“Out you lot!” an Orc woman said, gesturing sharply. “You know you’re not allowed on the skydocks.”

One of the beggars, a scrawny Human man in a bedraggled greatcoat, placed his fists on his hips and puffed out his meager chest. “If you’d allow us transit to the Autarch’s city, then we’d be out of your hair, fool!”

“Transit costs coin, or else to prove you can be of use in the Autarch’s capitol,” the Orc guardswoman said in a tired tone. “You know that, too.”

“Coin we’d have if the Autarch himself hadn’t brought the Eyrie down on our heads!” one of them shouted.

A chorus of agreement swept through the crowd of beggars, and Teine noticed how well-dressed they all were. Dirty, yes, bedraggled, most certainly—but their bearing told almost as much as the quality of their fabrics.

“If you’re in need of food, the kitchens are downstairs,” said a gruff Hobgoblin, cutting through their arguments. “And if you’re in need of housing, speak to the Director of Residences. Director Kelgan will see you to a home and even a job, if you need it.”

“Pah! Charity!” The scrawny man waved away the guard’s words as if they were buzzing flies. “Handouts are for laborers and incompetents.”

“And yet you keep tryin’ to get on the flights for free,” the Hobgoblin said with a rough laugh. “Explain that, milord.”

The man bared his teeth as if he were going to bite the guardsman, but the hand of his fellows pulled him back. The well-dressed but dirty beggars pulled back, retreating toward the skydock doors.

Nobles, Teine realized as he watched the interchange. Minor ones, to be sure, one’s that likely had their home and wealth stripped away during the collapse of the Eyrie and restructuring of its government. He almost dismissed them when his eyes caught on two figures in the back of the dispersing crowd. 

He tapped his cane on the floor of his sedan chair. “Bring me closer to them. There.”

His hired goons grumbled but obeyed, turning abreast the milling morass of mortals with all the speed of a lurching sea beast. Still, folks cleared from their path, and before the minor nobles had strayed too far Teine had reached his destination.

“You. The two of you.” His words were snares and the man and woman froze, their limbs seized. The Skill was fitful and weak, but Teine put all his Will into its structure, opposing their intense desire to be free. “Speak with me for a moment. You will be free to go after.”

Their collective Will buckled at the promise in his words—one like a house of cards and the other with a tense curiosity. The large man stared up at Teine, square of jaw and thick of skull, while the slighter woman peered with narrowed eyes behind a thick scarf.

“What do you want?” the large man asked, and up close Teine realized he was little more than a boy.

I know you. Both of you. Teine’s Mind whirled with ideas, plans outlined and discarded as quickly as he could manage. “Are you looking to travel to the Autarch’s new city? This Elderthrone?” The big one nodded readily, but the woman tried to peer through Teine’s warded curtains. “I require porters. In exchange for carrying my belongings and running my errands, you can accompany me on this ship. Today.”

The big one, Dabney, if he recalled right, opened his mouth with a grin—before the girl slapped it shut. “We need coin. And meals thrice daily.”

“A stipend can be provided. Meals…are not an issue either.” Teine smirked behind his curtains. “Any other concerns?”

“This is just for the trip? No longer than that?” She squared herself up against Teine’s guards, and the scarf slipped slightly from her face. He spied scars similar to his own. “I will not be beholden to others. We have goals of our own.”

Such fire. Teine smiled despite the pain as it tore fresh scabs across his cheeks. “For the trip alone. After that, perhaps we shall talk.”

The woman, Lilian, nodded sharply. “Very well. What would you have us do for now?”

“Aid the guards. Carry these supplies.” Thick leather satchels were dropped at their feet. “Follow.”

The guards turned again, bearing Teine’s sedan chair up to the creaking Manaship. Behind them, he watched as the large boy lifted the satchels alone and hurried along. The woman scowled and hobbled after, leaning heavily on a rough wooden cane.

As his guards mounted the gangplank, Teine steepled his fingers. He smiled.

Yes. They will do nicely.