The sending stone ring was hot on his finger as Tiberius saddled up Bel, half in a daze. He delayed just long enough to order Tacitus to lock down the estate, to rouse every guard from their beds. If they were about to fall under attack, the Eyes at their door— He should not leave, he should have roused Akibrus instead. Perhaps he read that judgment in his seneschal's eyes, or possibly it was only his own guilt.
Tiberius had always been far too permissive with Lyric, and now it would doom them all.
Swinging up into the giant cat’s saddle, they launched into the night with only a vague idea of where to go. He knew the rumors – strange monsters in the sewers, escaped slaves and Venatori cultists in the old thiag. They’d be somewhere close to sea level, on the outer edge of the island. Tiberius brandished his staff, violently wrenching local spirits out of the Fade with a silent command: lead me to her. Wisps and wraiths scattered, then coalesced. Bel sprang after them, ignoring the roads as only an agile feline could.
Wet sand sucked at his boots as he neared their hiding place, the ground streaked iridescent shades by alchemical runoff. Several old tunnels outlet here, where the cliffs crumbled into the sea. Bel padded carefully behind, grumbling as cold sea water washed over her paws.
“You don’t belong here, Magister!” A torch swung out of the darkness, aimed at his head. The sudden light was momentarily blinding – Tiberius stuttered forward in a sweeping wave of shadow, disappearing and reforming on his assailant’s other side.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t give me an excuse to murder you. Where is she?” Now he was in the middle of them, breathing and quiet voices all around. He stuck the end of his staff in the sand and it flared into soft, silvery light, illuminating dozens of faces. Wretched, rawboned, freezing in their rags. The scent of smoke was slowly exhaled by the cavern to their backs.
And there Lyric was, still dressed for the palace. Curled at the foot of a weather dwarven pillar. Tiberius strode forward and knelt before her, holding his breath as he took in the state of her. Exhaustion and blood loss – he could tell little else. He produced a small silver knife and slashed open his palm, then gathered up her hands.
“You have to heal yourself, sunshine. Take my mana.”
@Lyric Oatshield
Tiberius had always been far too permissive with Lyric, and now it would doom them all.
Swinging up into the giant cat’s saddle, they launched into the night with only a vague idea of where to go. He knew the rumors – strange monsters in the sewers, escaped slaves and Venatori cultists in the old thiag. They’d be somewhere close to sea level, on the outer edge of the island. Tiberius brandished his staff, violently wrenching local spirits out of the Fade with a silent command: lead me to her. Wisps and wraiths scattered, then coalesced. Bel sprang after them, ignoring the roads as only an agile feline could.
Wet sand sucked at his boots as he neared their hiding place, the ground streaked iridescent shades by alchemical runoff. Several old tunnels outlet here, where the cliffs crumbled into the sea. Bel padded carefully behind, grumbling as cold sea water washed over her paws.
“You don’t belong here, Magister!” A torch swung out of the darkness, aimed at his head. The sudden light was momentarily blinding – Tiberius stuttered forward in a sweeping wave of shadow, disappearing and reforming on his assailant’s other side.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t give me an excuse to murder you. Where is she?” Now he was in the middle of them, breathing and quiet voices all around. He stuck the end of his staff in the sand and it flared into soft, silvery light, illuminating dozens of faces. Wretched, rawboned, freezing in their rags. The scent of smoke was slowly exhaled by the cavern to their backs.
And there Lyric was, still dressed for the palace. Curled at the foot of a weather dwarven pillar. Tiberius strode forward and knelt before her, holding his breath as he took in the state of her. Exhaustion and blood loss – he could tell little else. He produced a small silver knife and slashed open his palm, then gathered up her hands.
“You have to heal yourself, sunshine. Take my mana.”
@Lyric Oatshield
10-26-2024, 02:43 PM
