A Family Meeting - 16.11.2023 - Calla Prim
Nov 18, 2023 10:58:15 GMT
Andy D, Orianna Èirigh, and 3 more like this
Post by dee on Nov 18, 2023 10:58:15 GMT
This place. A place beyond places. A fragment of the Plane of Earth untethered, is where Calla returns. Except for autumn leaves and a dusting of frost, the middle of the space is clear while the edges are furnished. A low writing desk, a set of drawers for maps and schematics. Soft furnishings piled into a nest of sorts. Two chests full of supplies, large planters for Underdark-native trees. Shelves full of books, curios, geegaws, trophies. Day in, day out, a sanctuary. A place of quiet surety and, the Mountain apart, near solitude.
She stands in the very centre of it. Eyes closed, bathed in the purple glow of the Heart’s faceted walls. Each plate of her armour, increasingly laden with quicksilver thorns and etched detail, reflects it, amplifies it: aches a corona of pinks and blues in return. She can shed the armour with a thought, its enchantments will melt it into a river that reforms on its own. Each iteration in the Heart has left its mark of course, but not one she minds. Despite the exhaustion of the day, this time she chooses to unlatch and unhook gauntlet and bracer. It’s a puzzle box she knows intimately. While her deft fingers solve it, she remembers the day.
Awash with adrenalin and relief, she’s still in shock that her plan worked so well. Even Mezza, predictable in his outrage, so easily positioned in his hurt to her purposes. She inspects the labyrinth of the scheme, turns it over in her mind, and for the hundredth time is pleased in its simplicity. It is the thing that separates labyrinths from mazes - a singular path to a singular outcome: First Mountain restored to his place among the Primordials Incarnate.
She watches as the day’s path plays from entrance to centre and back again, and then... a frown as it leads out to... the next…
The next labyrinth. A schematic that takes the Wellspring’s power firmly in its grip. Now unnecessary.
She swaps it out for the alternative. A successive design with Enlace at its core. Now…
Now also redundant?
Fingers still busy, plate metal folded into cloth in sequence, she begins to construct another and…
Kessarax’s eyes are in its place. That gentle smile.
“All you need to do is ask”.
Confused, bewildered, she traces the labyrinth back again to the Court of Sorcery. A moment where she nearly strayed from the design in panic. And…
And she can see the problem. It’s mazed. The labyrinth has had a second path ever since the moment of Zola’s return. A path built by Kessarax instead of Calla. Only recognisable at all for its familiar architecture of trade and favour. That feels... like relief. A kind of gratitude that she doesn’t have to build on anything freely given, or take advantage of something in which advantage has not already been taken.
Arms free, she unhooks gorget and spaulder as she huffs, half-shrugs, and starts building again. Turn and Event and Path come to mind, some re-used from those scrapped designs, some brand new, built on that soft gaze.
There is still circumstance to keep Asteros busy. Still Animos on the board. Still enough discord to keep the Mountain from being struck down again once renewed. Still her own upstart cunning. Still a promise to keep and a path to keep it on. But although she barely understands it, that too has mazed.
“You should go back to your friends”.
Of all the words spoken by Kessarax, the final phrase is what has shaken Calla to the core.
Orianna has been a sister now for longer than Calla’s kin have ever been, and although she's been watching for the knife, the debt, the bargain of it, Calla has come to understand that it will never come. That this found family is the textbook definition of it, not the shell game she was raised in.
But friends? Whether Undercommon or Sylvan the word is a mockery in her own tongue. An irony. Something said to gain leverage or territory. It feels unwieldy and unused in her mouth.
Mittens? Her ward. Rae, Archie, Amble, Glint? Valued colleagues. Ruthenia, Quilis, mentors of sorts. Keros, Digs, Cechec, all important allies.
Henri, Lucky, Matches, Florian. Gods damn Florian. That reaching hand with no thought or agenda. No history, no margin. Freely given, no advantage taken. Nothing on which she can build without violating some sacred trust. Just the visceral horror of a betrayal she must avoid at all costs.
A friend.
All of them, she must eventually realise, as each part of her armour is neatly dismantled and put to rest:
Friends.
She stands in the very centre of it. Eyes closed, bathed in the purple glow of the Heart’s faceted walls. Each plate of her armour, increasingly laden with quicksilver thorns and etched detail, reflects it, amplifies it: aches a corona of pinks and blues in return. She can shed the armour with a thought, its enchantments will melt it into a river that reforms on its own. Each iteration in the Heart has left its mark of course, but not one she minds. Despite the exhaustion of the day, this time she chooses to unlatch and unhook gauntlet and bracer. It’s a puzzle box she knows intimately. While her deft fingers solve it, she remembers the day.
Awash with adrenalin and relief, she’s still in shock that her plan worked so well. Even Mezza, predictable in his outrage, so easily positioned in his hurt to her purposes. She inspects the labyrinth of the scheme, turns it over in her mind, and for the hundredth time is pleased in its simplicity. It is the thing that separates labyrinths from mazes - a singular path to a singular outcome: First Mountain restored to his place among the Primordials Incarnate.
She watches as the day’s path plays from entrance to centre and back again, and then... a frown as it leads out to... the next…
The next labyrinth. A schematic that takes the Wellspring’s power firmly in its grip. Now unnecessary.
She swaps it out for the alternative. A successive design with Enlace at its core. Now…
Now also redundant?
Fingers still busy, plate metal folded into cloth in sequence, she begins to construct another and…
Kessarax’s eyes are in its place. That gentle smile.
“All you need to do is ask”.
Confused, bewildered, she traces the labyrinth back again to the Court of Sorcery. A moment where she nearly strayed from the design in panic. And…
And she can see the problem. It’s mazed. The labyrinth has had a second path ever since the moment of Zola’s return. A path built by Kessarax instead of Calla. Only recognisable at all for its familiar architecture of trade and favour. That feels... like relief. A kind of gratitude that she doesn’t have to build on anything freely given, or take advantage of something in which advantage has not already been taken.
Arms free, she unhooks gorget and spaulder as she huffs, half-shrugs, and starts building again. Turn and Event and Path come to mind, some re-used from those scrapped designs, some brand new, built on that soft gaze.
There is still circumstance to keep Asteros busy. Still Animos on the board. Still enough discord to keep the Mountain from being struck down again once renewed. Still her own upstart cunning. Still a promise to keep and a path to keep it on. But although she barely understands it, that too has mazed.
“You should go back to your friends”.
Of all the words spoken by Kessarax, the final phrase is what has shaken Calla to the core.
Orianna has been a sister now for longer than Calla’s kin have ever been, and although she's been watching for the knife, the debt, the bargain of it, Calla has come to understand that it will never come. That this found family is the textbook definition of it, not the shell game she was raised in.
But friends? Whether Undercommon or Sylvan the word is a mockery in her own tongue. An irony. Something said to gain leverage or territory. It feels unwieldy and unused in her mouth.
Mittens? Her ward. Rae, Archie, Amble, Glint? Valued colleagues. Ruthenia, Quilis, mentors of sorts. Keros, Digs, Cechec, all important allies.
Henri, Lucky, Matches, Florian. Gods damn Florian. That reaching hand with no thought or agenda. No history, no margin. Freely given, no advantage taken. Nothing on which she can build without violating some sacred trust. Just the visceral horror of a betrayal she must avoid at all costs.
A friend.
All of them, she must eventually realise, as each part of her armour is neatly dismantled and put to rest:
Friends.