Post by Jaezred Vandree on May 29, 2022 22:26:45 GMT
(Continued from Oneiromancy.)
A timid knock comes at the door of Lord Vandree’s apartments, the clock well past midnight on this warm summer night. Jaezred, still dressed in a white shirt under a red waistcoat, black trousers, and tasteful black dress shoes, gets up from the sofa and stretches. He’s been expecting this visit.
He cracks the door open to see a tired, dishevelled, and worried-looking face on the other side, dressed still in the remains of the black-and-white outfit from the circus, lace lining her throat dirty and torn. His perceptive eyes see the edges of her dress, bearing the evidence of scorching. The mystery and intrigue he felt in the circus is diminished by seeing the tarot reader bereft of her usual set and setting.
“Lord Vandree, I am sorry to bother you so late. I have only just arrived in the town. If you are busy, I can always return in the morning?” Celia Brockenhide asks.
“I am not busy,” he says, opening the door wider for her to enter, brow creased slightly with concern. “Please, come in, Miss Celia.”
The fireplace is lit and crackling quietly, emanating an orange warmth to the spacious suite, which is decorated and furnished in an understated elegant sort of style. The fragrant aroma of tea and pastries fills the air, originating from a still-hot brew and a plate of scones on the table. Jaezred closes the door behind the young woman and takes her coat to hang it by the mantle.
“Pardon me for asking,” he says as he looks down on the burn marks on the black-and-white fabric, “but I thought Danse teleported you away. Did you…come back?”
“No, we did not return, but Danse’s initial move was to simply bring us inside the ‘safety’ of the walls of Kundar. Safety that, it seems, was false. We appeared on the battlements, only to see a gout of flame rush along towards us. We fell, landing on the cobbles”—she gestures to the now yellow bruises evident on her arms and legs—“being only partially engulfed by the flames.” She beckons to the edges of her dress. “Still, it is not something I would wish to repeat.
“He remains badly hurt but we made it to the Temple of Waukeen earlier this evening. I came to see you once I was happy that he would receive the treatment he requires.”
The silver-haired half-elf slumps down in a chair without asking, her manners forgotten in tiredness and reaches for a scone. It is consumed without grace and she licks her fingers as she gathers herself to ask her question.
“Lord Jaezred. Why did you summon me here? What is it I can do to help?”
An invisible pair of hands picks up the pot and pours tea into a cup meant for her. Jaezred lifts a chair and places it next to hers by the table, where he sits down facing her. She sees now that he is holding a black-and-white tarot card between his index and middle fingers — The Tower card that she had mailed to him, the silver writing on it still visible.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you and Danse,” he begins. “But you have now seen the might of the githyanki. You asked me if I know why they came. They were looking for a man, a pillar of the adventuring community here in the Dawnlands, who in a mishap has had his mind merged with that of an ancient flying city. If that sounds strange to you, well, strange is the norm around these parts.
“The gith are not of this world. They do not know it well. They’ve been attacking random places around the continent in search of this man, who is being hidden away by the Council of Daring Heights, and in the confusion, Kundar and the circus got caught in their crosshairs. They do not care how many people they have to kill as long as they get what they want. And now they have set a course for Daring Heights.”
Jaezred pauses to sip his tea whilst Celia absorbs this information quietly, stunned into silence by the potential consequences of what she has just heard. Staring into the fire, her distress is written across her face; memories flash before her eyes, these flames echoing with those that recently destroyed her home and killed her friends. Minutes pass, eventually she sighs deeply, raises her gaze once more to meet her host.
“You didn’t answer my question, Lord Jaezred. What is it I can do to help?”
The drow leans in holding the second cup of tea, which he puts into her hands, enclosing her palms around the porcelain so she can feel its comforting warmth. His crimson eyes, glinting in the firelight, do not once move away from her gaze.
“You have a gift, Miss Celia, an extraordinary gift,” he murmurs. “Divination is potent magic for it obeys not the laws of time — it can glimpse into the future, uncover remnants from the past, and spy on the present. We are in need of all three. Divination is the map that leads to the wellspring of information, and information is power. Information is how we win this war.”
Celia’s head bows slightly. She lets out a smaller sigh, eyes downcast for a second.
“If information is power, Lord Jaezred, then I am afraid I am powerless. All of my tools, my foci, they were destroyed in the attack. Without my crystal ball, tarot, bones, or reeds, I am no more able to predict the future than the next circus performer. It took me years to find those items, master their individual use, and curate a set of instruments through which I could pull the secrets of the past and future to my mind.”
She sets her teacup down. Her eyes come up to meet his. “If you can find me items like these, I would be more than willing to search into the cosmos and look for the answers you seek.”
“I have my own set of crystal, bones, and tarot, but I assume you are in need of specific items that speak to you?”
“You are correct, my visions do not come in the same way that perhaps your adventuring friends cast their spells. I do not hold the same sort of power. Mine are focussed on specific tasks and require foci that speak to me on a personal level.”
Celia lifts the beautiful black, white, silver, and grey card bearing The Tower from where it is sat between them.
“I do not know of an artist who could replicate these, nor how to capture the moon-cast light that sat within my crystal ball. The bones I cast — those came from a most abhorrent creature, a once-noble dragon, chained and corrupted by mind flayers.”
Celia shivers at the thought, thanking the gods that she never had to face the beast herself, no matter the exorbitant price she paid for the knuckles she carved to make her divining tools.
Jaezred glances down at the tarot card, purses his lips, and nods. “Very well, Miss Celia. I’ll see what I can do,” he says. “The High Diviner of the local Temple of Selûne is currently out of commission but the gith will not pause their advance to wait for his return. Any intelligence we can gather in the meantime could be imperative. If I am able to find these foci or some alternative means for you to access your talents, are you willing to help in this war? Know that I shall not hold it against you if you walk away from this now.”
A smorgasbord of emotions crosses the tired woman’s creased and dirty face. Worry, fear, anger, determination, angst, and anxiety.
“Lord Jaezred, I do not have the courage to put myself in harm’s way, but should you be able to assist me in sourcing the means to do so, I will happily lend my strengths to the cause of bringing these foul raiders to their knees.”
Celia stands. Unsteady on her feet, she braces subtly against the chair she was sat upon.
“Forgive me, my lord, but the day’s exertions are catching up with me. I think I might need to lay a while in my bed and rest.”
“Of course,” Jaezred says, rising to his feet after her and holding her stable with a gentle hand on her arm.
He offers to pay for her accommodation in Daring Heights for as long as she plans to stay but she politely declines, having enough coin from her time at the Night Circus, though he manages to persuade her to take a nightgown that Imryll left behind to wear for the night. When he presses the soft, silken dress into the fortune teller’s hands, his brow is creased with deep thought.
They don’t have time to recreate her entire curio cabinet of divination tools, but moonlight cast in a crystal ball… That is familiar to him. He has seen something like that a few times before, in the Witching Court.
Celia moves towards the door, turning to belatedly thank Jaezred for the tea and scones before taking her leave. The smell of burnt cinnamon and tang of dried sweat hangs in the air for a few moments after the door closes.
The next day, Jaezred spots Celia wandering around Castleside on a small shopping spree — an effort to fill her wardrobe with something more appropriate than a charred dress. Then they go to visit Danse at the Temple of Waukeen together, bearing a home-cooked meal of potato soup and fresh bread courtesy of the drow lord. The old tiefling is still bedridden, his tuxedo replaced by a simple white robe by the acolytes, drifting in and out of consciousness. The patches of burn marks that cover his red skin seem to have been healed too late to avoid scars.
In a rare bout of kindness borne out of gentlemanly regard that surprises himself, Jaezred remains by Celia’s side for the rest of the week, placing a warm cup of tea in her hands whenever he senses that she needs it. She seems appreciative, but her gaze often wanders to Danse laid out on the bed, the guilt that haunts it clearly visible to him. It is reminiscent of the look on the faces of some younger drow after they returned from the Silver Marches. A look he once wore himself.
For all his wit and glibness, he never knows what to say in these situations. So he just sits there in silence, a steady, constant presence in the midst of an approaching storm.
Co-written with willjenkins.
A timid knock comes at the door of Lord Vandree’s apartments, the clock well past midnight on this warm summer night. Jaezred, still dressed in a white shirt under a red waistcoat, black trousers, and tasteful black dress shoes, gets up from the sofa and stretches. He’s been expecting this visit.
He cracks the door open to see a tired, dishevelled, and worried-looking face on the other side, dressed still in the remains of the black-and-white outfit from the circus, lace lining her throat dirty and torn. His perceptive eyes see the edges of her dress, bearing the evidence of scorching. The mystery and intrigue he felt in the circus is diminished by seeing the tarot reader bereft of her usual set and setting.
“Lord Vandree, I am sorry to bother you so late. I have only just arrived in the town. If you are busy, I can always return in the morning?” Celia Brockenhide asks.
“I am not busy,” he says, opening the door wider for her to enter, brow creased slightly with concern. “Please, come in, Miss Celia.”
The fireplace is lit and crackling quietly, emanating an orange warmth to the spacious suite, which is decorated and furnished in an understated elegant sort of style. The fragrant aroma of tea and pastries fills the air, originating from a still-hot brew and a plate of scones on the table. Jaezred closes the door behind the young woman and takes her coat to hang it by the mantle.
“Pardon me for asking,” he says as he looks down on the burn marks on the black-and-white fabric, “but I thought Danse teleported you away. Did you…come back?”
“No, we did not return, but Danse’s initial move was to simply bring us inside the ‘safety’ of the walls of Kundar. Safety that, it seems, was false. We appeared on the battlements, only to see a gout of flame rush along towards us. We fell, landing on the cobbles”—she gestures to the now yellow bruises evident on her arms and legs—“being only partially engulfed by the flames.” She beckons to the edges of her dress. “Still, it is not something I would wish to repeat.
“He remains badly hurt but we made it to the Temple of Waukeen earlier this evening. I came to see you once I was happy that he would receive the treatment he requires.”
The silver-haired half-elf slumps down in a chair without asking, her manners forgotten in tiredness and reaches for a scone. It is consumed without grace and she licks her fingers as she gathers herself to ask her question.
“Lord Jaezred. Why did you summon me here? What is it I can do to help?”
An invisible pair of hands picks up the pot and pours tea into a cup meant for her. Jaezred lifts a chair and places it next to hers by the table, where he sits down facing her. She sees now that he is holding a black-and-white tarot card between his index and middle fingers — The Tower card that she had mailed to him, the silver writing on it still visible.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you and Danse,” he begins. “But you have now seen the might of the githyanki. You asked me if I know why they came. They were looking for a man, a pillar of the adventuring community here in the Dawnlands, who in a mishap has had his mind merged with that of an ancient flying city. If that sounds strange to you, well, strange is the norm around these parts.
“The gith are not of this world. They do not know it well. They’ve been attacking random places around the continent in search of this man, who is being hidden away by the Council of Daring Heights, and in the confusion, Kundar and the circus got caught in their crosshairs. They do not care how many people they have to kill as long as they get what they want. And now they have set a course for Daring Heights.”
Jaezred pauses to sip his tea whilst Celia absorbs this information quietly, stunned into silence by the potential consequences of what she has just heard. Staring into the fire, her distress is written across her face; memories flash before her eyes, these flames echoing with those that recently destroyed her home and killed her friends. Minutes pass, eventually she sighs deeply, raises her gaze once more to meet her host.
“You didn’t answer my question, Lord Jaezred. What is it I can do to help?”
The drow leans in holding the second cup of tea, which he puts into her hands, enclosing her palms around the porcelain so she can feel its comforting warmth. His crimson eyes, glinting in the firelight, do not once move away from her gaze.
“You have a gift, Miss Celia, an extraordinary gift,” he murmurs. “Divination is potent magic for it obeys not the laws of time — it can glimpse into the future, uncover remnants from the past, and spy on the present. We are in need of all three. Divination is the map that leads to the wellspring of information, and information is power. Information is how we win this war.”
Celia’s head bows slightly. She lets out a smaller sigh, eyes downcast for a second.
“If information is power, Lord Jaezred, then I am afraid I am powerless. All of my tools, my foci, they were destroyed in the attack. Without my crystal ball, tarot, bones, or reeds, I am no more able to predict the future than the next circus performer. It took me years to find those items, master their individual use, and curate a set of instruments through which I could pull the secrets of the past and future to my mind.”
She sets her teacup down. Her eyes come up to meet his. “If you can find me items like these, I would be more than willing to search into the cosmos and look for the answers you seek.”
“I have my own set of crystal, bones, and tarot, but I assume you are in need of specific items that speak to you?”
“You are correct, my visions do not come in the same way that perhaps your adventuring friends cast their spells. I do not hold the same sort of power. Mine are focussed on specific tasks and require foci that speak to me on a personal level.”
Celia lifts the beautiful black, white, silver, and grey card bearing The Tower from where it is sat between them.
“I do not know of an artist who could replicate these, nor how to capture the moon-cast light that sat within my crystal ball. The bones I cast — those came from a most abhorrent creature, a once-noble dragon, chained and corrupted by mind flayers.”
Celia shivers at the thought, thanking the gods that she never had to face the beast herself, no matter the exorbitant price she paid for the knuckles she carved to make her divining tools.
Jaezred glances down at the tarot card, purses his lips, and nods. “Very well, Miss Celia. I’ll see what I can do,” he says. “The High Diviner of the local Temple of Selûne is currently out of commission but the gith will not pause their advance to wait for his return. Any intelligence we can gather in the meantime could be imperative. If I am able to find these foci or some alternative means for you to access your talents, are you willing to help in this war? Know that I shall not hold it against you if you walk away from this now.”
A smorgasbord of emotions crosses the tired woman’s creased and dirty face. Worry, fear, anger, determination, angst, and anxiety.
“Lord Jaezred, I do not have the courage to put myself in harm’s way, but should you be able to assist me in sourcing the means to do so, I will happily lend my strengths to the cause of bringing these foul raiders to their knees.”
Celia stands. Unsteady on her feet, she braces subtly against the chair she was sat upon.
“Forgive me, my lord, but the day’s exertions are catching up with me. I think I might need to lay a while in my bed and rest.”
“Of course,” Jaezred says, rising to his feet after her and holding her stable with a gentle hand on her arm.
He offers to pay for her accommodation in Daring Heights for as long as she plans to stay but she politely declines, having enough coin from her time at the Night Circus, though he manages to persuade her to take a nightgown that Imryll left behind to wear for the night. When he presses the soft, silken dress into the fortune teller’s hands, his brow is creased with deep thought.
They don’t have time to recreate her entire curio cabinet of divination tools, but moonlight cast in a crystal ball… That is familiar to him. He has seen something like that a few times before, in the Witching Court.
Celia moves towards the door, turning to belatedly thank Jaezred for the tea and scones before taking her leave. The smell of burnt cinnamon and tang of dried sweat hangs in the air for a few moments after the door closes.
The next day, Jaezred spots Celia wandering around Castleside on a small shopping spree — an effort to fill her wardrobe with something more appropriate than a charred dress. Then they go to visit Danse at the Temple of Waukeen together, bearing a home-cooked meal of potato soup and fresh bread courtesy of the drow lord. The old tiefling is still bedridden, his tuxedo replaced by a simple white robe by the acolytes, drifting in and out of consciousness. The patches of burn marks that cover his red skin seem to have been healed too late to avoid scars.
In a rare bout of kindness borne out of gentlemanly regard that surprises himself, Jaezred remains by Celia’s side for the rest of the week, placing a warm cup of tea in her hands whenever he senses that she needs it. She seems appreciative, but her gaze often wanders to Danse laid out on the bed, the guilt that haunts it clearly visible to him. It is reminiscent of the look on the faces of some younger drow after they returned from the Silver Marches. A look he once wore himself.
For all his wit and glibness, he never knows what to say in these situations. So he just sits there in silence, a steady, constant presence in the midst of an approaching storm.
Co-written with willjenkins.