2023-09-06 An Audience With The Lady - Henri

"How will we even tell the others about her if we have been forbidden from talking about her?" Orianna asks the group: Henri, Lucky, Matches, and Crow standing in a semi-circle in the middle of Portal Plaza.

"Well, I'm sure we can figure something out," Henri replies. He sweeps his hand across his shoulder, dusting off any remnants of the Court of Sorcery that might have settled there before their plane shift home. He winks in Orianna's direction, a sly grin exposing his pearly white teeth. And we were only forbidden from speaking, I recall. His voice rings clear in her mind.

Orianna raises a hand to her mouth, surprised at the sudden intrusion. "I- I did not know you could do that!"

Henri's smile widens, and he inclines his head slightly. "One of my many little gifts. I always forget about it - we can't converse, and where's the fun in that?"

"So I give you an intercom and you don't even use it." It is Henri's turn to have a voice ring clear in his mind - this one drawling, surprising, and all too familiar. Henri's breath catches in his throat before he manages to respond in kind.

"You're welcome to try. But if I recall-" He cannot even complete the thought before a bolt of ice shoots down his spine. His eyes flick over to the source - a single, smoking, grey finger that traces his shoulder. Pantos' voice, a touch of anger colouring the words, whispers into his ear.

"My, my. You fuck one little drow and suddenly you've got your balls back, is it? Or should I say, you got fucked by one little drow."

Henri's jaw flexes, but he manages to maintain his grin. The others look on with... is that amusement? A grin, from Lucky, at his reprimanding? Henri avoids their gaze, willing himself to turn and try to look Pantos in the eye. "Do you enjoy watching, Pantos? That's a bit rude. Those are private moments."

"Mmm." Pantos comes closer, his finger nearly to Henri's collarbone. "You know full well you gave up any privacy when you decided to walk the Staircase."

"Ah, but what does it say about he who peers through an open window, hmm?" Henri returns, his voice steadier now, his footing secure.

"You assume I always have a choice. Regretfully, I have been tasked with watching over you. And oh, the things I have seen." Pantos' finger reaches the hem of Henri's vest, hooking into the silver fabric tucked beneath. With a gesture, it begins to float out, twisting around Henri's neck and head until it comes to rest atop his head. The silver threads move and twist, until they come together to form a beautifully woven crown. "I've seen your dreams. Such ambition. Who are you to deserve such power?"

Henri's eyes narrow briefly, his fingernails digging into his palms as he struggles to maintain his own composure. "I've earned it. I've paid my dues, I've taken my steps." His eyes follow Pantos as he comes fully into view. His tail flicks lazily through the air; his bare feet leaving small imprints on the cobbled stones.

Pantos laughs, taking a sip of the thick, gunmetal grey liquid from his silver chalice. "You've paid your dues? Who do you think you are, Gerhard? You've barely begun your journey."

At the mention of him, Henri's blood rises in his cheeks. "You wouldn't even have him if it weren't for me."

"Have him? He was always destined for the Stairs. You think you brought him to us? You were an accident. A distraction. A little lost bunny that needed rescuing before the real work could begin."

"HE WAS A COWARD." Henri finds his voice rising, his footsteps dragging him closer to Pantos. His hands shake with anger at the accusation, at the belittling of his role. "If it weren't for me he never would have step foot on your Staircase. If it weren't for me, he never would have even tried. He'd still be following me around like a lost puppy." His eyes are locked on Pantos' own. They cannot help but notice Orianna's face pale at his words. "And how do you repay me, for all I've given you? Scraps. You haven't called on me in months."

"I haven't called on you because you forget your place." In a breath between moments, Pantos stands directly in front of him, his hand reaching up to tug tightly on his hairs where they meet his scalp. "You think our position is just about the Staircase. About travelling. We are so much more." With a jerk, Pantos shoves Henri to his knees, his hand pushing roughly on his head. The crown atop Henri's head begins to melt, turning to threads that weave into ropes that bind their owner tight, his wrists bound to his ankles as he kneels at Panto's feet.

Pantos kneels down, lifting Henri's chin up to face him. His golden eyes pierce his facade, see through to Henri's innermost thoughts, and he smiles. "Maybe you should ask your dear beloved all about it. And until you understand, no. You will not be called on."

Henri's jaw, clenched so tightly that he feels as though his molars might crack under the strain, opens just wide enough to spit a few words. "He will definitely be hearing of this."

"Good." Pantos releases his grip, and Henri's head jerks back.

He opens his mouth to rage, to fight, to show Pantos he has not been brought low.

But his patron has already gone.

And the only ones left are his friends. His family. They don't look amused any more, as he scans their faces. They look.. concerned. He can't bear to meet their gaze.

All he sees is pity.

Days, months spent travelling the Staircase.

Days, months spent under Mister's thrall.

Weightless, as though his body was not his own.

As though his actions were not his own.

Pantos is not Mister. Mister was not Pantos.

The crushing boot of the tyrant is nothing compared to the firm hand of the guide.

He knows this, somewhere, deep down.

But healing takes time.

And a guiding hand can feel like a stinging blow when one's soul is still raw from scrubbing.

The letter begins as it tends to. A name, an address, a destination.

It ends differently than the others. Smooth folds give way to crumpled parchment; the courier's satchel forsaken for smouldering coals.

The sun has set over the roofs of Daring Heights when the little drow knocks softly on the door. It's greeted with surprise, as though another was expected instead.

Hoped for, maybe.

But for now, the softly asked question is answered softly in turn.

The little drow nods and turns to leave before suddenly turning around and hesitantly asking the question on his tongue.

"Is everything alright?"

"Never better."

The lie drips with pain, pain that the little drow sees clearly.

The little drow nods once more.

"Good night."

The sun has set over the roofs of Daring Heights when the waiter knocks softly on the door. It's greeted with surprise, as though another was expected instead.

Hoped for, maybe.

But for now, a bit of comfort food will do just fine.

Dreams are funny things.

There are those who say they are windows to other worlds, other realities. Times and places where different choices were made - a step taken, or missed; a word spoken, or not.

There are, of course, others that refute that hypothesis as pure nonsense. To them, dreams are nothing but the pure creativity of our souls laid bare for us to witness.

(Both tend to forget that it is the creativity of our souls that help us to choose, and that our choices are the wellspring for further ideas.)

Occasionally, someone brings up the Dream spell. They are usually dismissed out of hand - those aren't real dreams, after all. A pendant's argument, to be sure, but one that silences critics all the same. Others may bring up the elves, and their trance, only to meet the same scorn.

But if this dream is a lens to another world, it is one far too similar to our own for comfort. And if it is a wild burst of creative inspiration, Henri's well has dried up if the best he can do is go over the events of the day once more.

Flying through the air of the Court of Sorcery astride a mythrider.

Matches, doubled over to avoid revisiting his breakfast once we arrived at the Black Diamond Tower.

The Unseelie, their robes floating above the black diamond as though one and the same; their ink-blotted white masks the only means of telling one from the other.

And Rylas. Rylas Thanim, researcher and academic, who wants nothing more than to discover more of the Lady of the Well. The greatest secret that Sovereign Farleth, the keeper of secrets and sorceries, has.

A cough. A turning. A greeting.

Ranni, the leader.
Kallun.
Hivlathra.
Dalis.
Culrith.

Maybe here the way diverges. Maybe you are in one of those dreams of other lives - maybe this time, you think to convince them to stay, to root out the traitor in their midst.

No such luck.

The dream fades, and the scene changes. The ten of them walking, their feet carrying them at Crow's direction deep under the Court of Sorcery into the very depths of the Feydark.

Crow, listening for the sound of fomorians. The giant kin are silent.

Matches, sidling up to Dalis with a spark of kinship. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

Lucky, asking Ranni about the water that streams along the rock above their heads. Magic made manifest.

Orianna, asking Culrith about the rest of his colleagues. Motivations not shared.

Henri, asking Kallun about his ambition. A story, in exchange for safe passage.

They round a corner and hours of rock give way to a vista, a precipice over a vast underground cavern. Though to call it a cavern is to do it an injustice: miles across, with huge crystalline mushrooms from edge to edge, humming a strange melody.

The trail of water is now a torrent that flows downwards towards a central pillar of rock that descends from the ceiling to the floor. Other rivers of this water also flow in from other directions, all congregating in the central pillar.

A descent, and a betrayal.

Dalis, his form shifting and changing like smoke.

His hand, blackened and sharp, driving through Kallun's chest.

A shout, and a revelation.

Hivlathra, her form shifting and changing too.

But there is no smoke here; only the magic of the Court, as Cervus stands amongst us.

"You are not welcome in the Court of Sorcery. Begone, vile thing."

The words have power, even now in the land of dreams. But they are only words, and it takes Lucky's sword to turn them to reality.

More words. Cervus, hesitant to let us pass. Why, all the way down here, there are adventurers from the Dawnlands?

"We're not just adventurers. We have business with the Lady, if you could step aside." Honeyed words, from a silvered tongue.

"Then your fate is in the Lady's hands."

A door, a knock, and an entrance.

"Lady of the Well. A delegation requests your audience." A flame becoming flesh, wings unfurling to blot out the sun if such a thing could see so far beneath the Court.

"Who dares enter my chamber."

"You speak to Henri, Child of the Infinite Staircase. I am joined by Orianna, Herald of Stellarum Tenebris, The Star Mother, The Night Queen, The Wyrn Queen. I am joined by Matches, Herald of Vulcanax, The Cataclysm That Breaks The World, The Shadow That Covers The Sun. Lucky, he who has known the achwyrm Kestrasz. And Crow, over there."

"I am Kessarax, the Opal Dragon, The Lady of the Well, The Maiden of Magic. Why do you seek an audience with me?"

More words. More posturing.

"My piece of the keys must be earned with more than pretty words. What would you do with it?"

"Great Lady, I would strike down your enemies. I would use your piece for its intended purpose."

"And what would that be?"

"I do not know. But a Lady as great as you must have a piece equally as great."

A nod.

"My piece locates the other pieces. Stellarum and Thodrazz designed the locks. Vulcanax and Kestrasz built and installed the locks in the para-elemental planes. Meldrosa & Azharul attuned the locks to the energies of the primordial behemoths and bound them. Eroshria and I created the keys, and split them into the 9 pieces. And Thalistrasza created the great drakes that guard the locks."

"The pieces were hidden and have remained hidden for nearly eternity. Why should I give them to you now?"

"Vulcanax has given dear Matches his piece. And the Primordials Incarnate have taken the Crystal Foci."

"Then things are worse than I thought."

A great roar, one that could bring down the cavern around them, and an image of her separates and floats up into the water. "I have summoned someone to help."

A similar light falls down through the water until crashing on the dais.

Sovereign Farleth bows towards the Lady, who holds up a single shimmering claw.

They bow, and from the great boughs that rise high above their shoulders, they withdraw a semi-circle of brass. The Sovereign offers it to the Lady, and the Lady offers it to Henri.

"Thank you, Great Lady. I humbly accept your piece."

"When all the pieces are found, they will want to come together. As is their nature. If the Incarnates are as smart as I credit them with, that is the moment they will strike."

"Thank you, Great Lady. But if I might be so bold to ask a second boon. I am not strong enough."

Maybe here the way diverges. Maybe, here, in dreams, he can get a slice of the power he craves so desperately. Maybe she will tell him what he wants so badly to hear.

No such luck.

"You walk the Staircase, yes? What makes you think I could offer more than that?"

"If any could, Lady, I would count you in their number."

The Lady leans in. A sniff, and a smile. "You've had contact with Thodrazz. Are you playing the field, dear Henri?"

"He set me on this path."

"I am afraid you are the plaything of Thodrazz. They have plans for you, it would seem, and I cannot interfere. You are not my herald. Thodrazz was gifted with the ability to see all possible futures. It leads them to be... a bit difficult to follow."

"Then I suppose I will have to be creative."

"Now he understands. Though be wary - they speak in riddles, and are incorrigible to chaos."

A bow, low, in thanks.

"The keys are more important. The Foci most of all. It could release two... very dangerous beings." A quizzical look, and a clarification. "Two of the Incarnates are more aggressive than the others. The First Life, and The First Death. The Foci keeps them bound to their planes. To unleash pure Life, pure Death... it would be catastrophic to the planes."

A nod to the Sovereign, who beckons us forward.

"Take care, and be careful. You have no idea the burden that has been placed on your shoulders."