Fluid - 31 (Patreon)

Ellother’s laughter draws the attention of those arguing within the hall, causing some to walk towards us.

“By the way, aunt Sarah, did they ask politely?”

Sarah’s smile doesn’t fade. “Those that arrived early did. Those that arrived later seemed to have forgotten to pack their manners. They were agitated when I left them unfed after getting your news. A few priests might have invoked blessings to prevent them from going hungry.”

“Your aunt was considerate and informed them of the security before she left,” Calinion adds. “I must admit, I was upset to learn I had intruded twice uninvited except by my assumptions.”

Ellother nods and glances at the approaching nobles. “High Singer Glingaerneth informed everyone that you had concerns about the villagers’ anxiety. Some were less receptive to that news than others.”

“Where are the other representatives?”

“I believe they’re staying clear of the arguments,” Calinion offers. “Sarah was kind enough to inform attendees this morning that she’d announce meals.”

“Might I ask who suggested your alliance should accompany the delegate?”

Calinion’s mouth hardens only fractionally, but his gaze is cold. “I was foolish enough to believe the word from a court contact that such would be beneficial, not ill-received. While it has been beneficial, it certainly wasn’t an outcome of their making.”

“Was it a current court member? Or someone who was there from the former Queen’s time?” I ask, and Calinion’s nod at the second question is enough. “I’m told some of that second faction are present. Did your encourager come along?”

“She certainly implied she would do so,” clarifies Calinion. “I must remember to get her the proper gifts upon my return.”

A lady steps forward from among the approaching gaudy group, all glittery in silk and mithril, despite the limits on materials Maition had mentioned last night. Her hair is a dark honeyed hue, seeded through with strands of red and gold; a complex circlet braid directs its cascades down her left side. The silk of her overdone gown matches it so well that it's hard to tell where the locks stop and the dress begins.

“Gailneth, might we know why you detained us in this place?”

“As Glingaerneth told you, your group's presence has caused anxiety among the local villagers,” I state, but before I can even ask her name, a fancily dressed male speaks up.

“Why is anything about such short-lived creatures important?” The sneering question comes from a male Elf standing near her; though they have different house crests, both look excessively adorned to me. His tunic and pants exceed the lady’s outfit for its overblown display, though his mithril is concentrated in unenchanted ornate bracers and bands around his upper arms. Does he believe that mere silver threads might get lost among the gloss of the shimmering sky-blue silk he wears?

Blinking at his tone, I turn to the speaker. “Creatures?”

“The humans,” he retorts, and I’m already sure I don’t want to know his name.

“So short-lived species aren’t worthy of my concern?”

With his upper lip curling, he shakes his head. “Humans hardly matter, other than that they breed fast enough to counter the humanoid threats.”

That statement was too much for some of the group, who had the good taste to frown, though none object. Then I catch the constrained emotions in their songs, and those that dare display the most significant distaste are those whose clothing comes the closest in value. The elven Celestial who taught me their customs had told me of their stratified ranking but hadn’t made the indicators clear. I guess a Celestial doesn’t understand displays of plumage—which is odd, considering the highest ranks have both larger-sized wings and more of them.

The lady that spoke first finally interjects. “Lord Glorchon, perhaps you should-”

Though I’m glad someone spoke, I lift a hand, and she cuts off. “So you propose that a being, short-lived relative to yourself, is unworthy of yours or my time?”

“Whatever time you spend with them is gone in the blink of an eye. It's why those foolish enough to take Human lovers regret their decisions so quickly,” asserts Glorchon. “Love can be wonderful, and humans burn bright, but watching them wither so quickly brings naught but pain.”

Tapping my chin thoughtfully, I only give him a few breaths to retract his statement before I begin. “Let me check your logic, shall I? Shall we allow fifty years for a Human? Given that most villagers live hard lives without magic, their old age is around fifty, though some live longer.”

“Precisely, a pittance of years. They always worry about those more powerful; it is the way of their existence. Though many don’t even make fifty,” argues Glorchon.

“Well, most elves don’t live a thousand years, but let's use that as an upper limit; there are certainly outliers in both species. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the easier maths. Divide one thousand by 50; you’ll get 20. Now divide eight or even one billion by a thousand,” I instruct, and his eyes widen a hair's breadth. “Now, do you see the problem with declaring a short-lived species unworthy of consideration? Why should I care about you if you won’t care about them?”

“I represent the noble line of-”

“Tsk. Don’t finish that,” I say, casually waving him off.

“Why do you defend them?” asks Glorchon, persisting in the argument despite following my instruction.

Putting my back to Glorchon in an insult I’m sure he’ll miss, I almost asked Calinion my question, but the hierarchy issue might put him in a bind, so I redirect my attention. “Representative Ellother, my apologies for putting you on the spot. Is everyone else keeping quiet because Glorchon’s clothing is tastelessly gaudier?” I ask, tossing in the title on the spot—I had told Phile that rulers give out titles. It's the first one I’ve got to give away, and I hide a wince when Ellother’s song rings. Her unfocused gaze shows the Class vision hitting, but it’s gone in a blink, leaving Ellother smiling with delight and possessing a fourth Class that sounds diplomatic yet combative in one.

“His house outranks the others, Gailneth,” Ellother shyly confirms, making me feel even worse. “There are Andúnë rules for the displays of wealth within the clothing according to one’s noble and social ranking.”

What did Gideon do?

“Thank you, Representative Ellother,” I state, keeping my voice a trained calm. “I appreciated your insights in last night's discussion as well. Many nobles seem to miss that the cost of any undertaking diverts funds and energy from things people in their communities need.”

“You’re most welcome,” replies Ellother demurely.

Unable to resist, I grin and feel the mischief light my gaze. “If I wear something gaudy as well, do you think they’ll take me more seriously?”

Ellother spreads her hands helplessly. “You are an Anar, Gailneth. Our customs, you've already made clear, aren't your own.”

When I turn back to Glorchon, his tight jawline matches the cords within his song, and I have to admit I was hoping he'd be dumb enough to get bubbled. Maybe my Wood Elf appearance is giving him trouble, but I’m not about to make it easier. “You asked why I defend them. My reasons are my own; if you knew enough, I wouldn’t have to chastise you, but my personal reasons shouldn’t be all you consider. Others won’t speak up because you outrank them, correct?”

“Interrupting one's betters-”

That statement is just such an invitation, so I cut him off. “Let's get right to the chase then, Gardener.”

He waits until I stop but immediately corrects me in a tight voice. “My name is Glorchon.”

Stepping close enough to ensure what I’m about to point at is obvious, I jab a finger toward his house crest, magically impressed into the cloth across his shoulder. “Gardener. That’s what your family did. Specifically, gardening in the service of an extinct Lómë family. Tell me again how important your noble line is?”

“That’s preposterous, we accompanied the Lómë across the stars-”

“One takes servants with you when you leave a world dying because of a cooling sun. It would be horrible manners to leave them behind to die as well,” I state and, still wanting to give him a shake, I shift into my male Anar form and step closer. The combination of a sudden transformation and proximity causes him to inhale. “Though that’s okay, your family did a job they weren’t around as ornaments.”

Giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, I take in the suppressed mirth among the crowd before pointing out other crests. “Launderer. Cleaner. Kitchen hand. Stablehand. Don’t be embarrassed, I got an Exotic Stablehand Class offered to me once—unicorns are lovely, and a few wanted to follow me home.”

I keep going through the crests uninterrupted until I point out the librarian assistant crest on one lady.

She blushes and pushes light autumn-hued tresses from her face. “My forebearers' records said they were sages; they recorded many of the older texts in the Tower of the Singers.”

That someone finally spoke up is a breath of fresh air. They’ve clung to tokens of a past they didn’t understand, and none has countered with what their family has done since.

“They likely got offered the Class when they started trying to capture the history of your people. One’s perspective can distort things considerably. Why don’t you join me at my table for lunch so we can talk more? Ellother and Calinion, please join Sarah and me as well.”

When they both nod, I move on through the rest, revealing the meaning of all the crests, and each revelation deflates their egos.

“Who here represents the Queen’s, sorry, former Queen’s faction? Come forth, don’t be shy.”

A few of the gathered crowd came forward, already having incorrectly believed themselves immune to my ego deflation, looking at me warily.

“Did any of you hint to other interests it would be to their benefit to come along uninvited?” I ask, and they don’t visibly react even though their songs shiver. “Nevermind, I already know you did. Why are you here? You have only one chance to speak up right now.”

“To gain the aid of True Song to lift a curse from the crown prince,” offers a richly dressed male. I’m not sure why he’s wearing ornate blue half-robes despite lacking a Wizard or other magically inclined Class for which such attire is customary. Still, the deep blue is nice, and matches his eyes. Their colour pops in the setting of his fine face, which possesses the typical Andúnë dusky complexion and hair in autumn hues.

“I’ve no interest in coming to the aid of a Demon summoner.”

Outrage sparks in his gaze, and I almost feel bad for him. “Who has fed you such a foul lie?”

“I know how and why your Prince got into the condition he’s in. Though the punishment is harsh, if he were innocent, he’d not be in that state. The Celestial that traced the Demon summoning to him considered sending him to Hell for judgement, only that someone might be ordered to save or resurrect him stayed their hand. Instead, he got put into a living hell within the confines of his flesh.”

“That’s preposterous. You’ve said yourself that you’ve not been to the Andúnë realm. How could you know any such thing?” The injured bluster in his voice matches the darkening in his skin.

“Tell me, is the Temple of Lerina close to the capital?” I ask the crowd, recalling the image that Aggie provided me of it nestled among a grove of trees.

“There is only one Temple to Lerina among the Andúnë lands. It is within my lands on the western boundary,” says Litthor, having entered the banquet hall while I scolded them. It’s amusing that he’s stayed at a safe distance until the revelations ended. Perhaps to avoid the exposure of his own family’s crest? “They were the Cult of Amdirlain when their petition to establish one in the capital was rejected. I believe the usurper’s allies talked the former Queen out of it. I gave them a spot in the second largest city in the west.”

Taking out a crystal disc the size of a small coin, I add a fragile song to it. Once I’m done, I hold it out to the male; his skin still darkened in outrage. “Touch this to his forehead and tell it to display history—that phrase is all that’s needed. It will display images from his personal experiences related to demons, but only things he’s seen. The crystal will last, but the song’s tie to it is delicate; you’ve perhaps a dozen uses, depending on how many images are recalled, so don’t be wasteful.”

“What?” he asks, and his gaze darts between the crystal and my face.

“Go ahead, take it. The tie is partly to you, so you’ll need to use it. Put it to his forehead and say the words. You can use it on others to test it if you’d like; touch it to my forehead, and you’ll likely see a few demons I’ve had to fight against.”

“This has to be a trick,” he declares, but he goes pale despite his protests and doesn’t dare test it against me.

“A Celestial put him in that state, the same who told me the tale upon hearing of my travel plans. She told me all about what he’d been up to, including the breeding of half-demons. He wanted to empower the Manes to crush humanity because he despised them. He even thought he’d be able to deal with the Manes afterwards, turning them on each other. I’ve seen worlds where demonic cults gave the Abyss a foothold; it doesn’t end well.”

Licking his lips nervously, he persists. “They must have been misled.”

“Hold that thought until you’ve seen the images yourself,” I say. “Have a Priest of the Summer Court with you when it's used. They’ll be able to use Augury or another Blessing of divine divination to confirm the images are true. His involvement is why various Andúnë scions got images of summoning gates that most ignored.”

“But-”

“Now, some of you should have studied wizardry instead of various political classes. I imagine the trip from the foothills to the coast will give you valuable time to think,” I state, and I provide the wards with an image to expel them on the Temple’s doorstep.

However, my rude courier gets shifted last, and I put him at the Andúnë capital within sight of the palace gates—I’ll check on the crystal later to ensure its seen use.

When all those who admitted to representing the former Queen disappear, Litthor’s brows lift—but he’s not the only one. Ignoring their shock, I listen to the bowers and send their possessions.

“Perhaps they can ask the Church of Lerina for sanctuary. It might allow them to reflect on their choices and consider the consequences. Is there anyone else that wants to defend a Demon summoner?”

“Is that why you seemed on edge when asking about the visions last night?” asks Litthor.

“Yes,” I state and lift my voice in song.

Around us, an illusion takes hold, and they see, hear, and by gosh smell one of the dead worlds I’ve walked on. A once great city, with the streets strewn with broken remnants of a civilisation that numbered hundreds of million. Waves of millennia-old undead, still stinking of rot and mould, stride from the buildings only to be blasted apart by our assembled forces—weapons, spells, songs, and blessings.

Ras‘ giant shape looming above the image of me draws gasps from the crowd. I briefly let them hear the agony of the souls, which has the nobles clapping hands to their ears. Aunt Am’s crystal that Ras carries draws them in; none of us wants Orcus’ soul traps to capture them again. The image expands outwards, revealing more details of our opposition, including Spellcasting liches and schirs—the goat-headed demonic foot soldiers with cruelly hooked halberds.

Within the image many celestials are fighting, and while many bear my mother’s inherited symbol, others show the runic circle and arrow of Týr, the brazier of Hesita, and other Human deities. I picked that moment in particular because Hestia is there in her leather armour with twinned swords in hand. The way I let the image expand, it takes a few minutes before she’s visible, flitting between positions atop buildings. Even restraining her abilities to challenge her skills, she quickly destroys the liches that provide our foes with magical support.

I cut the image off, and I’m so glad when the smell of death goes with it. There is something about necromancy that doesn’t let that stench fade—perhaps it's the unclean state of the dead it maintains in a mockery of life?

“The demonic forces gained a strong foothold on that world. We believe the war took two centuries from what records we found. However, that big Hound Archon you saw beside me thinks it was because the demons were playing with their prey.”

“How long has that fighting been going on?” Litthor asks. Others about the hall are fighting to quell stomachs that the smell churned towards nausea; so many don’t have combat classes.

“The work of reclaiming that world began in the days of the Cult of Amdirlain, as you called them. Legions of celestials fight to reclaim it and other lost worlds. Good isn’t served by sitting on your hands when trouble raises its head,” I state, feeling like I’m lecturing, and likely I am, but I find their placid approach to levelling worrying—some of those much older than me have fewer levels in their classes. “It took nearly half a year to clean that city out; there were tunnels under it filled with stronger undead and demons.”

Tove had closed the Gate buried in the depths and cut an arriving Balor in two.

“Who was that Human woman there amid the fighting?” asks Calinion.

I give him a grin and revert to my female Wood Elf form. “The Goddess Hestia. She’s nice, and even has a Temple here.”

Calinion swallows at my lighthearted tone. “A Goddess fighting?”

“She was there just to keep her sword skills honed. The way she was chopping them down, I think she needs to branch out to push other skills,” I say, keeping my tone as casual as possible.

“But she’s a Goddess,” gasps Calinion. “Why? How was she manifested?”

“There’s nothing alive on that planet, and she learnt the lesson of relying on her godhood that her kin paid. Hard work can earn you much. Yet long lives can be as much a curse as a blessing when you don’t push yourself to accomplish goals. Easy to say it will come in time. Surely small, measured steps will see it done? Not if you’re walking slower than a toddler crawls. The Titan’s realm rewards those that challenge themselves. Is a life of slow idle progress a challenge?”

At my last question, Sarah laughs. “Certainly wasn’t healthy for this morning’s invading Dragon Turtle that a mere Lantern Archon killed.”

“You can’t call Tove a mere Lantern Archon; after all, she has Tier 7 Prestige classes, and Thea isn’t a slouch either,” I say. “Though in fairness, they didn’t use many spells this morning—only lightning bolts and a Flame Strike for the killing blow.”

Muttering, Sarah crosses her arms. “The firefly ran ahead while others were negotiating.”

Laughing, I shrug helplessly. “Tove was most amused that she poached the fight but didn’t argue when Thea insisted on joining her. Both were happy to have something to do, which brings me to my invading ‘guests’. What should I do with them?”

“What compensation might we offer for abusing your hospitality?” asks Litthor, and he continues over others' confused protests. “You were gracious to extend it to so many who entered despite Sarah’s words that entry was for those you invited.”

“We assumed customs, but Gailneth is not Taurë,” states Maition, entering the hall through the same path Litthor used. “How might the school repay you for hosting our unwelcome delegation last night, Gailneth? By my reckoning, the wine alone would have emptied the treasury of many a noble family. Representative Ellother, would you request Lord Calinion or another from the merchant’s alliance present to give us an evaluation?”

The pair of them teaming up has me wondering if they were aligned because of the discussion last night or if they always opposed the King. With Litthor holding their western lands closest to the dwarves, it could be that the School of the Arcane just wants to ensure access to materials, especially with Maition calling upon Calinion’s alliance.

“We were-”

“Uninvited,” snips Sarah, cutting off the voice from the crowd. “If you’d done that among some wild fey, you’d already be slumbering in eternal nightmares for their dark kin to sup upon your terror.”

Ellother, without glancing at her father, motions towards the growing crowd of guests. “Lord Mallen, your house’s speciality is wine and other beverages. Would you be so kind?”

Lord Mallen clears his throat, letting me spot him; his deep green eyes match his dark silk tunic and pants. Like Ellother, his clothing displays his house’s crest through delicate embroidery rather than magical means. Otherwise, he looks like the picture of handsome Andúnë nobility, his hair carefully pulled away from his face, forming a curtain draping down his back.

“Putting a price on such a delicacy is difficult, but at least 2,000 gold a bottle, even without the exquisite carafe. I was ecstatic at the bouquet; even before I dared the first sip, it was apparent it was a Celestial vintage. I’m not sure you could even buy it; you’d have to earn it as a reward from the Summer Court. Given the rarity, who’d sell it?” asks Mallach, looking a bit shame-faced. “I fear I overindulged because I thought I’d never taste such a wondrous wine again. You set a magnificent table, Lady Gailneth.”

I frown, and he coughs in embarrassment.

“My apologies, Gailneth. I call you such only with the sincerest of respect. Your kindness in hosting us with such transcendent wine and food, especially given the circumstances, is utterly humbling. I have friends I fear I would bring to tears providing them even what inadequate descriptions of that wine I might manage,” gushes Mallach.

Following the tones of his voice lets me isolate him from the crowd, and his classes certainly are a strange fit for his glib persona: Archer, Fighter, Duelist, and Sage.

“I’m not the sort to expect every favour repaid in equal measure. But that said, after the worry you’ve all contributed to for the village, along with the host of requests raised last night, I have some requests of my own—though none involve coin being paid to me,”

“Such as?”

“First, the Royal Guard will go home this afternoon; most of you will accompany them. If you think whatever news you’ve heard is a trick, let me explain what will happen.”

I go on to state the same terms I’d told the representatives last night, and when I’m done I see more groups clustering to discuss their attendees than I had hoped.

“Second, the Andúnë realm will find out what you did to offend the dwarves and look to make amends,” I state and look over all of them. “I’m not saying this is your King’s responsibility; it’s the Andúnë people’s responsibility. ”

It's quite a surprise that Glingaerneth and Daerchon have remained out of sight beyond the first curve towards their quarters.

“Lady Glingaerneth, I’m sure you can convey that promptly to your King. Perhaps you’d like to come out so I don’t have to project my voice.”

The projected words whisper in her ear and cause her to spring into motion. Though when I see her entrance to the hall, she’s the picture of decorum.

“Third, the matter of restitution for the village will be paid via services to the village and the Adventurer’s Guild. Training for staff in martial and arcane skills, I’ll pay them, but the Andúnë kingdom will recruit them. Also, the Andúnë kingdom will pay my fee for establishing roads to help the village.”

“You said no coin?”

I don’t bother identifying the source, but the puzzled tone screams merchant.

“Oh, I’m not talking about coins. If my routine isn’t to suffer, I’ll need staff if I’m going to have long-term guests—otherwise, it seems said guests might sometimes go hungry. I’ll need skilled individuals who can train a contingent of humans with minimal to no experience. I’ll also ask for the service of the Royal Guard that came along—once they’re seen returning home. Though I expect it to be their choice. Or is it too much to ask for such skilled soldiers to aid me?”

It’s hard to tell with their helms covering their faces, but the way some guards straighten, I think I’ll have some takers.

I catch the gasps but ignore them and make for the head table. “Now, shall we have lunch? Litthor and Aerneth, would you join us as well?”