Of Relics and Recognition

Dark Clearing


 * A shadowy clearing on the northern outskirts of Hawk's Aerie, surrounded by clusters of hale birch trees and scattered shrubs. Animals can be heard chittering, scurrying and growling in the shadows of the underbrush. Smoke twists from the brick chimney stacks of buildings in the nearby town.

The air begins to tingle with the intangible buzz of the arcane, charging the area with an indistinct yet equally sensational charge...

Though the Weave may tremble with eldritch energy, the clearing itself rests in the peace of a warm, late summer night. Dark clouds fill the sky, and the land below is an endless stretch of thick gloom, save a single point of glowing silver light. On the edge of a the clearing, on the thin trunk of a pale birch tree, a white rune glimmers with a liquid silver brilliance that shifts like water as the Shadow quivers beneath it.

Below the silvery rune, a small humanoid figure rests on the clearing floor. He leans back against the trunk of the birch, alert and awake, patiently watching the infinite darkness that stretches out before him.

'''Sometimes, it's not what you can see that will get you, and it's not what you understand that will make itself known. Against all conventional, a point of electric blue light appears above the lone Imperial within the clearing. From that point the light trails in a circular, clockwise fashion, drawing a band of light in an arc around Temple, vanishing beneath the ground, and then appearing on the other side to complete the hoop.'''

The Dark Clearing lives up to its name this night. The night is warm and very dark, a darkness broken only by an arcane shimmering at the clearing's edge. A single glowing rune sits on the trunk of a birch tree, shimmering with unusual agitation. In front of the rune, a glow of greater signifcance hovers in midair, surrounded by a loop of arcane energy that is embedded halfway in the ground. Within this circle of energy sits Syton Temple.

The young Mage doesn't seem to notice that he is surrounded by a band of magical energy, at least, not at first. After a few moments, though, he sits up abruptly and turns to inspect the glowing loop. Though it looks for a moment like he is going to stand, he does not move from his spot on the clearing floor.

The glowing band of electric blue light continues to halo Temple for a moment or two longer, until eight spokes descend from equidistant points from within the inner ring, joining at a point just in front of Temple in the middle of the halo itself.

Another finds their way to through the small clearing of trees. The person is keen to keep their features hidden beneath the voluminous cloak and not to betray any of identifiable marks of the woman. Even her hands are cloaked in gloves this warm evening. Her hooded gaze looks over the haloed man with interest.

Tempering his curiosity with caution, the young Syton Temple scoots back a bit from the arcane wagon wheel of electric blue energy. He presses his back tightly against the narrow trunk of the runed birch. All the while, his eyes scan over the pattern that floats in the night air before him, but he does not seem to see anything that may lie beyond it.

'''The arcane wagon wheel of electric blue energy follows Temple's movements. As he moves back, so does the halo of light, the middle-point remaining flawlessly in place, aligning with his position until, abruptly, the halo collapses in on itself in a flash of light...''' And when the haze clears, Syton Temple is no more.

Northwatch Forest: Watchtower Ruins 


 * The forest of Northwatch is old and wild, with ancient biinwood and hale birch trees dominating the view in every direction - their trunks often several feet in diameter, covered in lichens and climbing vines.


 * Raucous birdsong echoes through the trees, easily hiding the presence of other, less declarative beings - but all high in the branches, up near the canopy where the leaves tint all light with a greenish glow. The nearer one gets to ground level the more silent and oppressive the forest becomes, until every step taken on the rotting leaves and broken twigs that cover the forest floor echoes in the ears.


 * To the northeast, a lightness in the shadows of the trees and a freshness to the taste of the air hint strongly at the presence of water, and to the west more light can be seen reaching the forest floor. A great shadow darkens the wood to the southwest; here and there are signs of human habitation. Broken but shaped stone blocks, covered in creeping vines and moss, and here and there the remains of trails that might once have been roads.

Smooth grass to rotting leaves--it's a change that doesn't go unnoticed. The blinding flash of arcane blue light was also a clue that /something/ may have just happened. Syton struggles up from the ground as quickly as he's able, turning around two or three times as he inspects the new, very different forest that stands around him.

He doesn't say or do anything, for the time being.

"Something more than black white and gray..." The deeply resonating voice that echoes through the local area of the Forest of Northwatch shouldn't be unfamiliar to the recent arrival. It is, after all, one of those voices that is quite unique; as deep as oblivion, yet as elegant as silk. Both the rumble after the storm and the quiet that preceded it. The voice of a dragon, and a black one at that. "I was wondering when you would show up," that dragon casually notes, sitting a little way away from Syton's point of arrival - namely that of a halo of blue light that abruptly dissipates into nothingness as the young Hedge-Wizard is brought fully back into the Prime Material Plane, "The Shadow is, after all, such a temperamental thing, and not entirely fond of being manipulated in such... unconventional ways." Lustrous overlapping scales of deep, dark metallic charcoal, give way to draped leathery wings of soot and charcoal. Ivory horns curls back and sweep gently upwards from above fanned ears upon the wedge-shaped head that the voice flows from.

Bone white talons contrast against the darkness upon the ends of his claws, while eyes of the clearest azure shimmer like gemstones against his aphotic form. The long and sinuous tail finishes off the form of the dragon, sitting upon his haunches with his back turned to the Imperial. Zael'tharalax.

Syton turns to the sound of the voice abruptly. It is a void he had swept past fractions of a second earlier, but in his haste, he missed the black scales against the black night. That voice, however, reveals the Draconic figure as well as anything could. He takes a step back from the Drake before, oddly enough, straightening his armor and running a hand through his wild blond hair.

"Zael'tharalax," the young Freelander says, finding his throat suddenly very dry. He clears his throat abruptly, before managing a few more words in a rough voice. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" An uncomfortable, nervous chuckle lingers afterwards.

"Curiously, I have a gift for you," the black dragon announces, turning just enough to regard Syton with the right side of his head. His tail swishes casually all the while, though makes neither sound across, nor mark upon, the grass and leaves beneath it. "One that I thought you might enjoy, depending on what you have come to conclude regarding our last... discussion, shall we say?" That smooth, sonorous voice of his betrays nothing in the way of emotion, agenda, or intent. One might also notice that the "Drakesfear" effect commonly associated with the Drakari'ri is curiously absent; as it was the last time the Dragon and the Freelander encountered each other. Zael'thralax evidently doesn't feel the need for it. At least for now. "And what *have* you concluded, my small and nectarously fragile friend?"

His curiosity obvious, Syton begins to slowly walk around the Drake, staying at a bit of a distance from him. He circles Zael'tharalax in a slow arc, moving around towards the Dragon's front.

"Well," he begins thoughtfully, "you gave me a great deal to think about." He pauses for a moment, glancing away from the Drake for a second, gathering his thoughts, then turning back to continue. "I've given a lot of thought to this Balance that you serve. I think I'm beginning to realize that I serve it as well, but I would like to learn more. To do more."

Zael'tharalax tracks Temple's movements in one smooth motion, his head following each step with flawless precision as the Imperial moves around to his front. The Drakar'ri himself doesn't change position at all, however; it would seem that he is quite content to remain settled in that posture, sitting back upon his haunches as he looms somewhat over his human companion. "You have decided that you would rather not take any side in the conflict between Light and Shadow then," he concludes with a slight bob of his head, his wings twitching little behind his liquid-shadow form. "My sister attempted to balance the field, as you may have borne witness to. While her efforts are commendable, the execution leaves much to be desired."

Zael snorts at that thought, shaking his head while his ears fold back in a display of mild contempt. "Pawns of the Shadow with more power than they had access to before. Cat's-paws of the Light, praying to things they do not understand, though harnessing little power enough to counter the darkness already prevalent." Though his words speak of antipathy for the contained collision of powers behind the walls of the Aegis, his tone doesn't quite share the sentiment. If anything, it tells of indifference to the entire thing. Indifference, and perhaps a suggesting of impending mischief. "Deviants subverting the Laws of Nature..."

"Either extreme is dangerous," Syton agrees with a nod, stopping in front of Zael. "And yet, the ambition of each is to destroy the other and rule absolutely." He faces the Drake squarely, looking up into the creature's eyes with curious expectation.

"Obviously, not all of your kind serves the balance in the same way. Val'sharax has his 'bartering', and some Drake destroyed Apple Village." Syton sounds almost conversational, his voice barely betraying any emotion beyond calm interest. "But if I may ask, Master Drake, what is /your/ place in serving the Balance?" He cocks his head to the side inquisitively.

"That all depends on what you understand the Balance to be," Zael'thralax offers by way of answer, apparently in no rush to explain or justify his motives to his smaller companion, no matter how well intentioned the question may have been. His voice retains that deep sonorous aspect to it without break nor weakness, dipping the area in the depths of silken oblivion and hidden power. The dragon then proceeds to raise his right foreclaw to gesture to the ancient forest around the small but not insubstantial clearing that the two currently reside in, his ivory claws glimmering in the moonlight just as well as the subdued refraction from the metallic darkness of his scales. "That, Syton Temple, is the balance. Forget what others may tell you. Disregard what that degenerate Val'sharax may have claimed. The balance cannot be described because it needs no description. It is life, and it is death, and is all that is in between." Zael chuckles darkly at this; a deep and almost ominous sound indeed, even when you're not on the receiving end of the ire that prompted the umbral amusement. "The balance is nature, and all that dwells within it. As for maintaining that balance, do you honestly believe that nature cares if one wayward imbecile summons a creature from the plane of Shadow? Do you really trust that this will somehow tip the balance between Light and Shadow and Nature in such a way that forests turn to desert and mountains crumble to dust?" "Of course not," he continues, answering the question for Syton, "And that is where Val'sharax manipulated you. Nature is, in all things, indifferent to the supernatural and the struggles of man and mer; for nature is far greater than anything manifested of Light and Shadow... for the most part."

Syton blinks and immediately asks, "Mer?" Staring up at the Drake, this question quickly loses its significance, and he quickly shakes it off to ask another in its place. "So if the Balance is beyond the petty, short-lived squabbling of men, Light, and Shadow, as I can see it must be, then what is there left to do?"

The black dragon watches Syton for a few moments, allowing the ambiance of the breeze passing through the forest to give voice to the ghosts that haunt it. Ghosts that whisper things that make little sense or form anything close to coherent words. Yet they whisper all the same; a whisper of serenity and quiet content, shrouded by the hiss of leaves and the snick of branches. "Watch, and wait, Syton Temple," Zael softly answers, looking beyond the Imperial and into the shadows of the forest beyond. "The Balance is beyond mortal things, but exists in equilibrium with them all the same. The Light chases the Shadow, the Shadow hides from the Light, and the two push equally. Between them stand those who are neither one nor the other, but merely are, and may take either side, or none at all." "While this equivalence of power is maintained, Nature can continue her march, remaining neutral as she is wont to do. However, should the scales tip too far in favor of one side or the other...” He glances back upon Temple now, this azure eyes burning with deep sincereity as he adds, "You did not witness the Cataclysm. I lost my sister to it. Sho'drakar lost far more."

The small human accepts this answer with a simple nod. "Then preventing another Cataclysm seems a worthwhile goal," he replies in dead seriousness. A slight smile follows such sincerity, and with a touch of humor Syton adds, "Though I may not be a powerful Mage, watching and waiting are two things at which I excel, Zael'tharalax. Beyond that, I will do whatever I can."

"Though I doubt we shall ever see a second Cataclysm," the black dragon intones, placing his foreclaw back upon the ground in front of him once more, "And though I doubt you would survive long enough to see it if one did come about, we do what we can. As for your role in that grand scheme..." At this point, Zael'tharalax gestures with his head towards a hollow treestump, and then looks back upon the Hedge-Wizard with a sly smile.

"As I understand it, one of those deviants of whom I spoke before is currently running around your lair with little concern for the laws of Light, Shadow, Fastheld, or anything between them. There is a trinket to be found that may help bring her to heel."

Syton regards the hollow stump curiously. After a few seconds, he returns his attention up to the looming Drake. "There are many criminals and deviants and madmen in Fastheld," he says, slowing moving over to inspect the hollow stump more thoroughly. He moves slowly, obviously restraining equally obvious eagerness. "So who is this woman, and what makes her crimes more significant?"

"That is *entirely* for you to ascertain," Zael'tharalax offers upon sonorous tones of amusement, pausing for a moment to unfurl his wings behind his back, unfolding them and stretching them in a swift and fluid motion that is abruptly exclaimed with a loud *crack* of snapping leather as they reach full spread. In reply, a number of birds quickly chirp and flutter skywards in random locations, taking flight upon wings of fear as they ascend into the night sky. "Or not, as the case may be."

The young man cannot help but flinch as the Drake spreads his wings. Thankfully, Syton has the hollow stump to focus his attention on. He looks inside for a moment, reaches down into it, and withdraws an old iron gauntlet from its depths. After glancing over the gauntlet, he reaches back into the stump and ends up finding nothing else. Ultimately, his attention returns to the Drake.

"So," Syton says, sounding a bit confused. "This gauntlet..." he holds up the object, "is going to bring my enemies to heel?"

The dragon bobs his head in a gesture of affirmation, allowing his wings to drape down his flanks as a cloak of charcoal leather as he regards Temple. "In a manner of speaking, depending on your application of that which it permits you to do and - subsequently - your wisdom in using it." "The choice is ultimately yours," he rumbles in elaboration, "Do note that the decision to accept it, or not, should not taken lightly. The artifact you hold there is a relic of a time before and during the events leading up to the Cataclysm, and *does* hold some power. If you choose to accept it, it will remain with you for life. If you do not, it shall continue to sleep beneath the watch of nature, ignorant of the passage of time and all that unfolds within it." "It will undoubtedly grant you the indifference of that which you strive to attain, however - perhaps not in personality, but in strength of will."

The human's steely blue eyes tilt back down to the gauntlet, considering it with greater depth. He turns the gauntlet over in his hands, feels its weight, and meditates for a moment on the implications of such a thing. After several long seconds of silence, he nods and looks up to the Drake.

"I don't think that turning away a useful tool will further my goals," Syton replies at last. "I accept this gift, Zael'tharalax." With that, he slips the gauntlet neatly onto his left hand.

As the gauntlet is slipped onto Syton Temple's left hand, a number of subtle things occur: The first is that the gauntlet appears to tighten around that hand, apparently molding itself to the contours of the palm and wrist of the person that now attempts to claim ownership over it. The second is an agonizing stab of pain that repeatedly strikes up the length of Temple's left arm, all the way up to his shoulder, as various eldritch forces are reawakened after time immeasurable...

"The pain will only be passing," Zael'tharalax notes with relative dispassion as he watches the pact between Human and Artifact take place, "You should survive the process.".

"Shades!" Syton shouts in pain and surprise. He cringes and stumbles backwards a few steps, gripping his left arm above the elbow. Though he doesn't try to remove the gauntlet, he holds it away from him, fist clenched painfully. "What is this?" he asks emphatically, looking up to Zael just as another stab of pain drops the Freelander to his knees.

"A covenant between the natural and the supernatural, if we are being dramatic," the dragon quirks in that sonorous voice of his, sounding at once both ominous and amused at such a question as his ears perk with curiosity as if even he wasn't quite sure what to expect.

"The artifact is most likely deciding whether or not you are worthy to be called its master, as well as estimating how compatible you are with the draconian enchantments that are contai-" The pain abruptly stops. The gauntlet settles into a comfortable fit. The enchantments take hold. The process seems to be over.

"Ah," Zael'tharalax purrs, the interest within the depths of those azure on matte-black eyes not faltering in the least. "There we go."

Syton, panting and a bit sweaty, stays on the ground for a while longer before standing. He releases his left arm at length, flexing the fingers of his gauntlet with a measure of caution. "It hurt..." he mutters, as thought it wasn't obvious before. He runs the fingers of his bare hand over the surface of the gauntlet, entranced by it, at least for a few seconds. The small human looks up to Zael'tharalax curiously and asks, "What does it do, other than make a bold fashion statement?"

A devious fire lights within the depths of Zael's gaze as Temple asks that rather enticing question; the dragon raising his left claw from the yielding ground beneath him to direct a talon in the Hedge-Wizard's direction. "Watch..." he softly and ominously states.

'''On cue, a number of small spheres of phosphorous violet light shoot from that extended talon and all the ones that flank it. The spheres launch off at varied angles before curving towards a trajectory that will place them on a collision path with Syton's chest...'''

'''Each of the five magic missiles impacts in turn. One, and then two, and then another, and another, and then - finally - the last one strikes Temple square in the chest. Except nothing seems to happen. The spheres impact and then fizzle to nothing...'''

For a moment, Syton is stunned. However, he is not stunned by any effect of the missiles, but rather, by the /lack/ of an effect. He stands statue-still, the blank look on his face is a shade or two paler than usual. "Wow..." he mutters, shaking his surprise enough to look down at the gauntlet. "So it protects me from the arcane." At length, the little human looks up to Zael'tharalax. "Is that right?"

The black dragon bobs his head once more, lowering his left foreclaw to the ground yet again, though leaving neither track nor trail upon the soil beneath him. His tail flicks for a moment, and then falls deathly still behind his sinuous metallic matte-black form, his ears folding and perking in quick succession as he regards Syton. "Your race's ability to ask questions that they already know the answer to is still vexing even after all this time, but you are correct. The name of the artifact should suggest what it was originally created for; a name that I suspect is now known to your subconsciousness, even if you have yet to hear it spoken by any living creature."

"Wraithguard," Syton replies immediately. He smiles a bit afterwards, as though pleasantly surprised by his answer. "A measure of protection against Shadow Wraiths, now to be used against some troublesome Mage running amok through the Empire." All the while, he cradles his gauntleted hand comfortingly in the other. As an afterthought, he adds, "Thank you, Zael'tharalax, for this gift."

"Ah, so it IS the Wraithguard. Interesting." From the sound of things, it almost seems that Zael'tharalax wasn't quite sure. Still, he seems mildly pleased to have his suspicions confirmed. "As well as strengthening your natural grounding in reality when faced with that beyond it, I believe it was also crafted with a second enchantment; that of protection against conventional harm, such as those glimmering sticks of metal that your kind - and certain Drakar'ri the color of blood - seem especially fond of. The green dragonflight too, if I recall. However, this digression from the topic at hand serves little purpose, and I believe that we are now left with a quandary to address..." The dragon smiles a knowing smile; a menacing sight, considering the teeth, even in the midst of darkness.

Without thinking, Syton takes a little step back from Zael, shrinking away from the Drake slightly. He draws in a breath unevenly and asks, "Oh? What quandary is that?" Quickly, he glances around the forest, as though this particular quandary were hiding behind a tree somewhere nearby.

In truth, Syton wouldn't be far from the mark in his suspicion. However, the quandary in question isn't hiding *behind* a tree, per se. "This is the Northwatch Forest,", Zael explains in a soft rumble, pushing himself up onto all fours in a motion so fluid that it defies what one would expect from a creature the side of a black dragon. "The ruins of Northwatch, to be precise, amidst the forest that shares the same name, though blossomed here before such men had even set foot upon the soil to be able to add such labels. We are, I believe, north of a settlement by the name of East Leg in your Imperial tongue, on the wrong side of a very large wall." Those azure eyes sparkle with mischief as the dragon adds, "I assume you see the problem?"

A look of confusion, one he has worn many times tonight, returns to Syton Temple once more. "So am I to believe that you have no Magic in your arsenal--that you are willing to use, at least--which can carry me to the other side of the wall?" He glances over his shoulder thoughtfully as though looking at the great wall, despite the fact that "behind" is not necessarily "South."

"Well," he adds a moment later. "There is a gap in the wall somewhere along its North face... and you have wings... so, there are a few options."

"The Drakar'ri do not permit themselves to be ridden like common beasts of burden, Syton Temple," the dragon mutters in a somewhat sinister tone of voice, his tail swishing quickly as if to illustrate the point. "That was entirely the wrong thing to say if you plan on living long enough to walk the path I have set you on, and you would be wise to avoid such foolish comments in the future." That stated, his tail seems to slow; the swishing relaxing into a casual swing. "Be that as it may, however," Zael then adds, his resonant voice harboring the more neutral tones that the Hedge-Wizard should be more comfortable with as he continues, "Perhaps you should look inwards for a solution. After all, I manipulated the Shadow into reversing a gateway that brought you to me, rather than you opening one yourself. A pause. "Perhaps you will be able to retrovert my flagrant disregard for the laws of the arcane?"

"Sorry," Syton mutters, a healthy mixture of embarrassment and terror accompany his faux pas. He finds his gauntlet to be a good source of contemplative distraction. "That power is different than how I have seen other Mages travel. But still, when I traveled through, I did feel /something/... so, I guess I could try. But, how does it work?"

"How does it work?" Zael'tharax repeats with a mirthless and somewhat duplicitous smile to accompany his words, if such expressions can be attributed to dragons. He gives a shrug of his shoulders, unfurls his wings, refolds them behind his back, and then turns to stalk away from the Hedge-Wizard. "That is, I believe, between you and the Shadow. Either you know, or..." He lets the end of that statement remain unspoken; the knowledge already known by practicioners of the arcane needing little spoken confirmation. "One final thing, however, needs to be said..." Zael pauses in his movement, not looking back though not continuing forward between (and often through) the trees either. "Artifacts infused with draconian magic often seek out other artifacts that share such a trait, and as such can be used to awaken such relics, when combined with the correct catalyst. Song Portals, Memory Stones, Dimensional Fissures, that kind of thing. Do with that information what you will, Diviner. Until next we cross wings." And with that the matte-black dragon vanishes into an equally dark forest, apparently humming to himself all the while, with no mark nor track to herald his passing or trail.

The young Freelander watches the Black Dragon disappear into the woods. For several seconds, he searches for the right words of parting, words that seem appropriate for a mysterious meeting with a Drake in the middle of an ancient forest. "Until next time..." is all he can think to say. Syton turns and steps over to one of the ancient, discarded stones, and takes a seat on it, exhaling deeply as he cradles his new gauntlet.

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