Post by dee on Nov 8, 2022 0:04:08 GMT
Prologue
An envelope lies on the writing desk. It is not a large desk, and for good reason. The study in which it rests is crammed with books. Books of all shapes and sizes. Books recently written; hundreds of years old; half decayed or mouldering. Books on flora and fauna, on strange, old, gods, on histories of long forgotten countries. So many books, in fact, that there is not another book within several miles that does not have a duplicate here.
The few surfaces not covered in lore are crowded with odd plants in mismatched pots, or shining rocks and shells, or small treasure boxes and miniature statues. A narrow path between them leads from an iron-bound and firmly bolted door to the desk, and from the desk to an unglazed window. Its wide frame: home to rich but thread-bare cushions. The view beyond them, outside the tower, encompasses an immense and shadowed cavern full of pale, subterranean, trees. It is lit in dim phosphor glow, reflecting off a winding river, home to fish that do not need eyes to see.
Calla sits in that window, staring out at that view, clutching the contents of that envelope between tightly clenched knuckles. It is a carefully calligraphied letter. A wedding invitation. A wedding invitation for a carefully arranged marriage.
“This will not do,” she mutters, as if to no-one. “This will not do at all”.
“It will not do,” a voice echoes back to her, whispering from a spar of blue crystal on a nearby shelf. “Not at all. Not at all”.
“Then it’s settled”. Calla uncurls from her seat, swiftly grabs the rock, and stuffs it into a pack that’s been ready for years. An oversized book from the desk is next, jammed into a satchel. Two ancient knives, a cloak, a puzzle box, a folded pouch full of delicate tools: all stowed into belts and pockets.
In short order a small but surprisingly well equipped dark elf studies her reflection in the room’s single mirror. Sensible boots. The book bag. Her good scarf. Large, round glasses. A delicate wreath of colourless flowers and fungal blooms.
“Get rid of me? Like that?” Her jaw sets. Her chin tilts upwards. Her mirrored gaze hardens, “Not if I do it first.”
Muffled, again, the rock echoes: “Do it first. Do it first”.
Calla barely hears it, carelessly manoeuving across the room, dragging her pack by the straps, knocking trinkets and journals aside at every turn. She stretches across the windowsill to stare down at the valley floor some twenty feet below. And after a long and shaky breath, she vanishes.
---
Weeks later, as night falls, a small but surprisingly well equipped dark elf hikes, alone, out of Daring Depths. As she climbs, sure footed and even paced, moonlight begins to pick out pale hair, clean clothes, a pair of over-large glasses tilted upwards in the dark. As she crests the edge of the path, she stops, and stares, and wonders at the Moon. Minutes pass as she surveys the sky for the very first time. She wonders at the heavens, at brand new clouds, at stars and a chill upon the air, and finally turns to look at the town before her. Nimble fingers stow a map in her jacket, grip a crystal spar in the pocket of her skirt, and sure footed: Calla Prim strides for Daring Heights.
