Post by Sunday on May 31, 2019 15:04:19 GMT
"You've not been to see me. I've been back two whole days!" says an accusing voice. Varis looks up to see a familiar figure sitting on the ledge of his office's open window. Sunday breaks into a smile and jumps down from her perch. She walks over to stand in front of his desk.
"Hello, Varis. You look well."
The Half-Elf is perfectly still for a moment, the tiniest of frowns creasing his brow and his eyes narrowing more in confusion than anger. Then he gives a surprised snort, his face splitting into grin as he stands and rounds the desk, coming to a stop a foot from the diminutive purple Tiefling. He looks her up and down, noting the intricate breastplate seemingly carved of living wood, his eyes stopping at the resplendent green and gold sunburst at the centre.
“So, you serve The Protector now. Unless…”
He reaches out to touch her, searching for signs of the illusion she was once wont to clothe herself in. His hand freezes as he realises what he is doing, a faint heat rising in his cheeks.
“Forgive me…I…Uh. Forgive me. It is good to see you, Sunday. My message reached you then?”
Sunday reaches out and takes Varis’ outstretched hand, her skin warm like a forge left to cool. No illusion this time. This close, an almost-palpable aura envelops her; like the crackling smell of ozone in the atmosphere before lightning strikes.
After a moment, she releases her grip and runs her hand through her long blonde hair. Her gold-flecked eyes hood slightly, before she grins and raps the emblem in the centre of her chest.
“You like my new look? Not as dramatic as yours, of course, but I think it suits me. I wouldn’t say I serve him; I’m not sure I could serve anyone again. But he has taught me a lot and I do love him. I guess I serve no-one and everyone now. If that makes sense?”
Sunday pulls herself up to perch on the edge of Varis’ desk, bare feet swinging in the air and she looks up at him.
“What message? I heard Daisy needed help so I decided to come. You sent me a message?”
“What? Uh, no - well, not exactly. I asked someone to find you, or rather, if they knew where you were. I thought they might have gotten word to you.”
Varis’ eyes search her face, lighting again on the symbol on her chest plate. He turns, walking slowly to where his own armour sits neatly arranged on stands and pegs, fingers playing idly over the design emblazoned on the cuirass. The bloody black iron fist seems to spark at his touch.
“So you seek to preserve the old ways then? The Ancients? I suppose they don’t come much more ancient than the First of the Selderine.”
His lips quirk as though at a private joke.
“You won’t be alone in your goals here in Daring. But tell me of Mechanus - I would have joined you there but I was in Vorsthold when the call went out, and by the time I made it back you had left.”
Sunday turns in place watching Varis walk back behind his desk.
“Your messenger never reached me. I hope they’re ok – it’s easy to get lost in the Feywild. I did for a while. Mind you, I was lost for some time beforehand. Ah, Varis! You should see the Fey. Have you ever been? It’s terrible and beautiful.”
Sunday’s gaze follows Varis as he brushes by the suit of armour.
“Regardless, you certainly have the...spark... of something Fey in you, already. And I’m not sure if preservation is the word. More encourage. Or grow. I’m very into growing things these days.”
She holds out her right hand and smiles faintly as a single green shoot emerges slowly from the centre of her palm. The bud at the top gradually unfolds, opening into a single white rose.
“Mind you, I’ve not completely changed.”
Her grin is wolfish now. More like the Lady she was before. She suddenly balls her hand into a fist – and the rose shreds as hundreds of tiny thorns, briars, and brambles erupt from her exposed skin.
The barbs slowly retract as she unclenches her hand. She leans back slightly.
“Mechanus? That’s a joyless place if ever I saw one. Full of rules and order and protocol.... You might like it.”
Sunday winks at Varis... but instead of dropping eye contact, she looks at him quizzically with her head cocked to the side.
“Or maybe not. Maybe you’ve changed a little bit too.
Anyway, I heard Daisy needed help. A family matter. And what’s family if not everything. Apparently her grandma had been imprisoned right in the heart of the Mechanical plane. Aurelia and someone else had plotted a course as close to her cell as possible. Turns out they landed us in a supply closet! All that magic and they sent us to join the brooms and spare uniforms.”
Sunday throws her head back and lets loose a loud, vibrant laugh. The sound fills the room, its echoes resounding off walls like a river bouncing off rocks.
“We were all squeezed in there. Taffeta, Daisy, Paw, Dorian, even Tugark! After getting out, we smashed our way through a few things; some traps and some guards. To be honest, it was pretty simple stuff.
We found Daisy’s gran trapped in a chest of drawers. No, don’t ask me more about that – I don’t know anything else. Actually, she was trapped in a jewel in a draw. We freed her and she turned into a giant eagle. I don’t mean an eagle that’s big. I mean a GIANT eagle. She was glorious. She tore the place apart with her mind, and ripped a hole in the fucking sky and RAINED DOWN SUCH FIRE AND PAIN!!!”
With these last few words, Sunday’s voice rises to almost a shout; her grip on the edge of the desk tightens and the wood begins to smoke. As the smell of charred timbers grows, she looks down at her hands, shocked, and lets go.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! That’s not me anymore. I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the damages on that of course.”
Sunday vanishes from the desk and reappears by the far wall. She kneels down in the corner and mutters a few words in Sylvan. She stands and turns away, the space now wreathed in half-grown vines and flowers. She walks back over to the centre of the room, continuing as if nothing had happened.
“So we rescued her and it turns out she had been visiting Daisy over the years occasionally to guide her. The talking got boring, so Dorian and I stole some stuff from the other draws. Did you know he kept my room key after I left....”
Sunday flashes a look at Varis before continuing.
“We got a load of gems. Also, a giant statue confined really small in a gemstone. The place was getting pretty hot, so Dorian took us home.”
Sunday snaps her fingers.
“Like that. We recouped in the Ettin. And a tiny goblin turned up looking for that statue. Claiming it was Jack’s champion. Jack’s a…man, I suppose, from Mechanus. You know these games the Fey are having? He’s in them somehow. He’ll be trouble, I’m sure of it.
Sunday looks down at Varis’ desk, trying to read some of his papers upside down before giving up and looking back up at the Half-Elf.
“What about you? Have you left this stuffy room since I last saw you? What’s the Vorsthold like? A good fight?”
The young warrior’s fingers absently drum a strange rhythm on the black steel of his helm as he ponders Sunday’s question.
“A good fight? No. I’m starting to doubt such a thing exists.”
For a moment his expression sours, then he gives a tiny shake of the head and turns to face his visitor again.
“The Vorstborn are a strange folk – shaped by war. It is all they know. Besieged by horrors from below, locked in a perpetual struggle for survival. For all that they are brave and honourable, and there is warmth there, once you earn their friendship. I would do what I can for them, but I’m sure it will not be enough. One man cannot hold back the tide, regardless how great his ‘spark.’”
Varis looks from the shredded white petals to the small arboretum that has appeared in the corner and back to the stout wooden desk, wisps of smoke still rising from the narrow black impressions of four delicate fingers. The corner of his mouth twitches, as though he were smothering a smile, and he seems to relax a little for the first time since Sunday appeared in the window. His eyes twinkle as he turns back to face the Tiefling woman.
“But Mechanus - rules and order and protocol you say? Yes, I can imagine how that might not be to your taste. I’m glad you could help Daemorys though. As I say, I would have been there if I could. The Feywild I have known, though perhaps not as well as you do. Book learning, and some stories from my father’s people. I’ve even set foot there once or twice, but I’ve sense enough not to wade in a river if I don’t know the current. The minds of the Ancients are beyond my understanding. It seems to have suited you though.”
The smile he offers her is quiet but warm as he comes round to the front of the desk and gestures to the door into the mess hall.
“Will you eat? Or perhaps something to drink. The Vorstborn sent me back with several barrels of their beer. Personally I think it tastes like iron filings but the men seem to like it.”
Sunday turns away from where she had been trying to fix the scorch marks on Varis’ desk and lays her hand on his forearm as he motions towards the door.
“Mechanus is no joke. Believe me. I fear it is worse than anything either of us have ever seen or heard or confronted. More so than the war with the Orcs; more so than that god you killed; more so than Granny.
At least those dangers had motivations we could fathom and try to anticipate.
That clockwork hellhole is a threat to all we care about. And all we don’t. I can see it rolling inexorably over everyone and everything. It cares nothing for individuality or possibility or ambiguity or change or dreams or hopes or emotion or innocence.
You’re right; no fight is good. But this will be a struggle for survival over oblivion. Not even against evil; but against the harsh implacability of a regime that cannot even comprehend what it will crush.
Jack….and this recent business with Daisy’s grandma…. I hope I am wrong, but a conflict with that Plane seems inevitable. Will you help beat back this brutal wall of cold indifference if it comes for our home and our friends? I would feel a lot safer knowing you and your troops were ready.”
The boyish smile fades from Varis’s face, and he gently but firmly pulls his wrist free from Sunday’s grip, looking down and nodding to himself.
“The man who taught me the blade was a farmer before he joined the Knights of the Merciful Sword. He watched his village burn and knew that his old life was lost to him. But in his heart he was always that farmer. He would have lived in peace, but his enemies brought him war.”
He looks up at her, his smile full of quiet sadness and regret.
“That was never my path. I have always been a man of war, and I do not doubt I will end my days in fire and blood. Would it had been otherwise, but I fear there is no peace for such as we.”
He closes his eyes, letting out a long breath, and when he opens them again he seems older, harder.
“I’m glad you’re back, my friend. I’m glad you are safe and that you have found purpose in your travels. But you were right when you said that I have changed. I am not the man I was when last we met. That man was filled with rage, with a need to revenge himself upon the world, to leave a mark. That man is dead. Before you stands one who has known the burden of leadership, the weight of the lives that depend on him. My men, my friends, the people of Daring and indeed of all Kantas. Not that I am so arrogant as to believe all hinges on my decisions, but neither am I so blind or so selfish that I will ignore the responsibilities I carry, the trust that has been placed in me. If Mechanus threatens this place, the Order will stand against them. You have my word. But I hope you are wrong.”
“Me too, Varis, me too. And I often am. Gods, I’ve been wrong about so many things, ha! But I don’t think I am wrong this time – and I’m certainly not wrong to put my trust in you. I’m glad the rage has been replaced with something else. Whatever it is, it suits you. As does that smile. But please, no more talk of burdens and weights – it reminds me too much of that plane. Tell me some more about this beer….?”
"Hello, Varis. You look well."
The Half-Elf is perfectly still for a moment, the tiniest of frowns creasing his brow and his eyes narrowing more in confusion than anger. Then he gives a surprised snort, his face splitting into grin as he stands and rounds the desk, coming to a stop a foot from the diminutive purple Tiefling. He looks her up and down, noting the intricate breastplate seemingly carved of living wood, his eyes stopping at the resplendent green and gold sunburst at the centre.
“So, you serve The Protector now. Unless…”
He reaches out to touch her, searching for signs of the illusion she was once wont to clothe herself in. His hand freezes as he realises what he is doing, a faint heat rising in his cheeks.
“Forgive me…I…Uh. Forgive me. It is good to see you, Sunday. My message reached you then?”
Sunday reaches out and takes Varis’ outstretched hand, her skin warm like a forge left to cool. No illusion this time. This close, an almost-palpable aura envelops her; like the crackling smell of ozone in the atmosphere before lightning strikes.
After a moment, she releases her grip and runs her hand through her long blonde hair. Her gold-flecked eyes hood slightly, before she grins and raps the emblem in the centre of her chest.
“You like my new look? Not as dramatic as yours, of course, but I think it suits me. I wouldn’t say I serve him; I’m not sure I could serve anyone again. But he has taught me a lot and I do love him. I guess I serve no-one and everyone now. If that makes sense?”
Sunday pulls herself up to perch on the edge of Varis’ desk, bare feet swinging in the air and she looks up at him.
“What message? I heard Daisy needed help so I decided to come. You sent me a message?”
“What? Uh, no - well, not exactly. I asked someone to find you, or rather, if they knew where you were. I thought they might have gotten word to you.”
Varis’ eyes search her face, lighting again on the symbol on her chest plate. He turns, walking slowly to where his own armour sits neatly arranged on stands and pegs, fingers playing idly over the design emblazoned on the cuirass. The bloody black iron fist seems to spark at his touch.
“So you seek to preserve the old ways then? The Ancients? I suppose they don’t come much more ancient than the First of the Selderine.”
His lips quirk as though at a private joke.
“You won’t be alone in your goals here in Daring. But tell me of Mechanus - I would have joined you there but I was in Vorsthold when the call went out, and by the time I made it back you had left.”
Sunday turns in place watching Varis walk back behind his desk.
“Your messenger never reached me. I hope they’re ok – it’s easy to get lost in the Feywild. I did for a while. Mind you, I was lost for some time beforehand. Ah, Varis! You should see the Fey. Have you ever been? It’s terrible and beautiful.”
Sunday’s gaze follows Varis as he brushes by the suit of armour.
“Regardless, you certainly have the...spark... of something Fey in you, already. And I’m not sure if preservation is the word. More encourage. Or grow. I’m very into growing things these days.”
She holds out her right hand and smiles faintly as a single green shoot emerges slowly from the centre of her palm. The bud at the top gradually unfolds, opening into a single white rose.
“Mind you, I’ve not completely changed.”
Her grin is wolfish now. More like the Lady she was before. She suddenly balls her hand into a fist – and the rose shreds as hundreds of tiny thorns, briars, and brambles erupt from her exposed skin.
The barbs slowly retract as she unclenches her hand. She leans back slightly.
“Mechanus? That’s a joyless place if ever I saw one. Full of rules and order and protocol.... You might like it.”
Sunday winks at Varis... but instead of dropping eye contact, she looks at him quizzically with her head cocked to the side.
“Or maybe not. Maybe you’ve changed a little bit too.
Anyway, I heard Daisy needed help. A family matter. And what’s family if not everything. Apparently her grandma had been imprisoned right in the heart of the Mechanical plane. Aurelia and someone else had plotted a course as close to her cell as possible. Turns out they landed us in a supply closet! All that magic and they sent us to join the brooms and spare uniforms.”
Sunday throws her head back and lets loose a loud, vibrant laugh. The sound fills the room, its echoes resounding off walls like a river bouncing off rocks.
“We were all squeezed in there. Taffeta, Daisy, Paw, Dorian, even Tugark! After getting out, we smashed our way through a few things; some traps and some guards. To be honest, it was pretty simple stuff.
We found Daisy’s gran trapped in a chest of drawers. No, don’t ask me more about that – I don’t know anything else. Actually, she was trapped in a jewel in a draw. We freed her and she turned into a giant eagle. I don’t mean an eagle that’s big. I mean a GIANT eagle. She was glorious. She tore the place apart with her mind, and ripped a hole in the fucking sky and RAINED DOWN SUCH FIRE AND PAIN!!!”
With these last few words, Sunday’s voice rises to almost a shout; her grip on the edge of the desk tightens and the wood begins to smoke. As the smell of charred timbers grows, she looks down at her hands, shocked, and lets go.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! That’s not me anymore. I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the damages on that of course.”
Sunday vanishes from the desk and reappears by the far wall. She kneels down in the corner and mutters a few words in Sylvan. She stands and turns away, the space now wreathed in half-grown vines and flowers. She walks back over to the centre of the room, continuing as if nothing had happened.
“So we rescued her and it turns out she had been visiting Daisy over the years occasionally to guide her. The talking got boring, so Dorian and I stole some stuff from the other draws. Did you know he kept my room key after I left....”
Sunday flashes a look at Varis before continuing.
“We got a load of gems. Also, a giant statue confined really small in a gemstone. The place was getting pretty hot, so Dorian took us home.”
Sunday snaps her fingers.
“Like that. We recouped in the Ettin. And a tiny goblin turned up looking for that statue. Claiming it was Jack’s champion. Jack’s a…man, I suppose, from Mechanus. You know these games the Fey are having? He’s in them somehow. He’ll be trouble, I’m sure of it.
Sunday looks down at Varis’ desk, trying to read some of his papers upside down before giving up and looking back up at the Half-Elf.
“What about you? Have you left this stuffy room since I last saw you? What’s the Vorsthold like? A good fight?”
The young warrior’s fingers absently drum a strange rhythm on the black steel of his helm as he ponders Sunday’s question.
“A good fight? No. I’m starting to doubt such a thing exists.”
For a moment his expression sours, then he gives a tiny shake of the head and turns to face his visitor again.
“The Vorstborn are a strange folk – shaped by war. It is all they know. Besieged by horrors from below, locked in a perpetual struggle for survival. For all that they are brave and honourable, and there is warmth there, once you earn their friendship. I would do what I can for them, but I’m sure it will not be enough. One man cannot hold back the tide, regardless how great his ‘spark.’”
Varis looks from the shredded white petals to the small arboretum that has appeared in the corner and back to the stout wooden desk, wisps of smoke still rising from the narrow black impressions of four delicate fingers. The corner of his mouth twitches, as though he were smothering a smile, and he seems to relax a little for the first time since Sunday appeared in the window. His eyes twinkle as he turns back to face the Tiefling woman.
“But Mechanus - rules and order and protocol you say? Yes, I can imagine how that might not be to your taste. I’m glad you could help Daemorys though. As I say, I would have been there if I could. The Feywild I have known, though perhaps not as well as you do. Book learning, and some stories from my father’s people. I’ve even set foot there once or twice, but I’ve sense enough not to wade in a river if I don’t know the current. The minds of the Ancients are beyond my understanding. It seems to have suited you though.”
The smile he offers her is quiet but warm as he comes round to the front of the desk and gestures to the door into the mess hall.
“Will you eat? Or perhaps something to drink. The Vorstborn sent me back with several barrels of their beer. Personally I think it tastes like iron filings but the men seem to like it.”
Sunday turns away from where she had been trying to fix the scorch marks on Varis’ desk and lays her hand on his forearm as he motions towards the door.
“Mechanus is no joke. Believe me. I fear it is worse than anything either of us have ever seen or heard or confronted. More so than the war with the Orcs; more so than that god you killed; more so than Granny.
At least those dangers had motivations we could fathom and try to anticipate.
That clockwork hellhole is a threat to all we care about. And all we don’t. I can see it rolling inexorably over everyone and everything. It cares nothing for individuality or possibility or ambiguity or change or dreams or hopes or emotion or innocence.
You’re right; no fight is good. But this will be a struggle for survival over oblivion. Not even against evil; but against the harsh implacability of a regime that cannot even comprehend what it will crush.
Jack….and this recent business with Daisy’s grandma…. I hope I am wrong, but a conflict with that Plane seems inevitable. Will you help beat back this brutal wall of cold indifference if it comes for our home and our friends? I would feel a lot safer knowing you and your troops were ready.”
The boyish smile fades from Varis’s face, and he gently but firmly pulls his wrist free from Sunday’s grip, looking down and nodding to himself.
“The man who taught me the blade was a farmer before he joined the Knights of the Merciful Sword. He watched his village burn and knew that his old life was lost to him. But in his heart he was always that farmer. He would have lived in peace, but his enemies brought him war.”
He looks up at her, his smile full of quiet sadness and regret.
“That was never my path. I have always been a man of war, and I do not doubt I will end my days in fire and blood. Would it had been otherwise, but I fear there is no peace for such as we.”
He closes his eyes, letting out a long breath, and when he opens them again he seems older, harder.
“I’m glad you’re back, my friend. I’m glad you are safe and that you have found purpose in your travels. But you were right when you said that I have changed. I am not the man I was when last we met. That man was filled with rage, with a need to revenge himself upon the world, to leave a mark. That man is dead. Before you stands one who has known the burden of leadership, the weight of the lives that depend on him. My men, my friends, the people of Daring and indeed of all Kantas. Not that I am so arrogant as to believe all hinges on my decisions, but neither am I so blind or so selfish that I will ignore the responsibilities I carry, the trust that has been placed in me. If Mechanus threatens this place, the Order will stand against them. You have my word. But I hope you are wrong.”
“Me too, Varis, me too. And I often am. Gods, I’ve been wrong about so many things, ha! But I don’t think I am wrong this time – and I’m certainly not wrong to put my trust in you. I’m glad the rage has been replaced with something else. Whatever it is, it suits you. As does that smile. But please, no more talk of burdens and weights – it reminds me too much of that plane. Tell me some more about this beer….?”
