Ode To The Seasons - 02.05.24 - Calla Prim

Featuring Riah as The Fourth Cantor, an Ancient Druid, Queen Merla, and the Lord of The Hunt,
and Michael as Mittens.

.

Back in the penultimate chamber of the Temple For All Seasons, Calla marks out something you could mistake as a spiral around the dual statue of Archdruid and Ancient Queen. Cautious not to vandalise the temple floor she uses chalk, powdered silver, and holy water that glimmers in its own right: Giving Acacia a questing look before each material is applied, who nods, content to watch the ritual unfold. Slowly, but surely, the stone figure is encircled in concentric rings of labyrinth.

As the Arcanist progresses she narrates her reasoning to Mittens, that the first spell she wants to use formally requires only verbal components, and indeed, specifies no target at all. That the markings and the script she's using are designed to restrict vague terms and limit her focus to the technically unnecessary but practically essential material component within the increasingly magical circle. A second spell she holds in reserve, as a kind of hammer where the first is a chisel, and in that case her markings are absolutely required: to drop a curtain at speed if necessary.

She works from the inside out, careful not to interrupt her own workings, and explains that more than one ambitious mage has come unstuck due to a neglected mark, or an unintended scuff. Herself included, if counting the adventure Mittens recently embarked on within Calla's own mind.

As she takes her last step, away from the now gently glowing runework, she gestures at Mal, poking his snout out from behind the statue. Her tone is resolute but slightly aggrieved as she explains that familiars can, and should, be used to acquire contact with things too dangerous to handle directly. There seems to be some subtext directed toward the strange creature. As if she recognises that over the last year or so Mal has maybe been used in exactly that fashion, but with Calla herself as the dangerous thing.

She takes a deep breath, strides around the circle twice, checking her working, and then turns to Acacia and Mittens.

"Any questions before I begin?"

"From me?" Acacia gestures to herself. At Calla's nod, she seems to think for a moment. "Are you hoping to contact the Queen of yore herself? Or something else?"

"Indeed, the Queen. Although I recognise I might get two responses to each question, given the nature of the, well..." Calla raises an arched eyebrow as she gestures at the statue.

"Quite!" The Fourth Cantor turns to Mittens. "What about you, young one? Understand the theories and protections well enough?"

Mittens stirs from his thoughts, surprised to being acknowledged on Calla’s actions by Acacia. “Uh I think so.” He answered honestly, scratching one ear as he casts his eyes over Calla’s spell calligraphy. “Calla seems to know what she’s doing and, well-”

He falters, thinking back to the last visit to the temple when he’d half carried Calla to the boat aiding in their departure, after her last attempt of this spell had clearly gone awry. But things were different now. He’d seen Calla at her weakest both on that day, and in a flash of memory of her as a frightened little girl, hiding behind a column. She needed all the confidence she could get.

“Calla will make the right decisions.” He said resolutely. “She always does.”

The dark elf nods, a small smile on her lips, before continuing.

"Very well. In that case, two caveats before I begin. The first, please don't ask anything that might be construed as a question as I proceed. No 'has it started yet'. No 'are you okay'. No 'was that a question'. Secondly, if I get this wrong, and it will likely be obvious if I do, please ignore everything I say and put me somewhere quiet to recover. Likely for around four hours. But now, with that out the way..."

Ignoring the limits of joint, or tendon, or bone, Calla crooks two fingers firmly into their neighbours. Behind her, the circle flares with opal fire.

"Let's begin".

As she turns back towards the circle, raises her arms and casts the first spell, she mutters to herself in undercommon.

“And let’s not fuck around”.

—

Elven words, tinged with Summer, now echo across the chamber: "Queen of yore! What is your name?"

A voice, rich as the earth, responds in a low, quiet tone. “Forgotten by all… except by her children… and me…”

Calla resists the urge to lose her temper, and presses on, "Where now rests the spirit of the Queen?"

Again, that same voice, “…In Harmony…”

Eyes narrowed, a third question: "Where is the prisoner who was kept in this room?"

This time there is the sound of snapping twigs and whining roots when the single word response comes, “…Unclear…”

"Why was the Queen's image defaced?"

The whining reaches a high pitch, a tone that makes Calla’s eyes water. “…A child’s anger… at a choice that could not be undone…” There’s a loud and deep crack, as if a thick tree branch is about to break from too much pressure.

Calla pauses for a moment, giving room for the pitch to ring and diminish. And in doing so realises that she's out of avenues she understands enough to explore. She takes a sigh, then turns and gestures to Acacia. Quietly, almost conspiratorial, she addresses the Cantor.

"Consider this price paid for your allowances. If you have a question, ask it".

Acacia blinks, surprised. Then lets out a little chuckle, placing a hand on her hip. “No, I think I’ll keep this favour for a later date, Arcanist Prim,” she says, smiling.

Calla's face goes slack as a moment of white hot fury fills her eyes. Not just at the Cantor taking advantage of an offhand kindness, but in how very predictable it is. In how she should have known better. In how it affirms every shred of bias she has. She holds Acacia's smiling gaze, and in this place there's almost the sound of brick being laid upon brick. Of a wall being redoubled.

"Fine. But the shape of the favour is immutable. One question, one answer. Of no more value than the least of these".

Calla turns back to the statue.

"Do all Archfey return to the land when they die?"

The words come out as a sigh, as the sound of branches and roots release their tension. “…Most do…”

And with that the ritual is all but concluded. All that remains is the formality.

"Very well. Continue your rest. I'll disturb you no more"

—

Half an hour later Calla Prim stands outside in the glorious sun of the Court of Harmony. Her vision adapted for caves and vaults, even with shaded glasses she's near blind.

Queen Merla is stood on the stage, speaking about the Temple, about its future, her plans for it. But Calla barely hears the words. Instead the Fourth Cantor's easy smile plays, again and again, over and over, in the light.

Only a single word from Merla pierces that awful reverie.

'Peace'.

Without thinking, beneath her breath, Calla replies*.

And a spear is thrown.

—

Scant seconds later, as archfey blood runs into her hair, Calla recalls a strand of half-forgotten play, unbidden.




—-

* In Undercommon, a single line:

“Peace? I hate the word”