It takes time, but I eventually drift off the sleep and find myself in the same dream, but it feels more visceral. It feels like I’m there and it’s real in a way that’s hard to shake. I am running and running, trying to get to Garrick. He’s standing in the middle of the town I found the man in, locked in combat against him. Garrick seems unable to react quickly enough, always too slow to block hits and never able to actually land his own.
When I finally arrive, I see a scene of carnage, nonsensical in how it’s laid out. Buildings slashed to pieces, bodies strewn around like a dumped out toy box full of dolls, streets torn up as if with the hands of a giant. But I see in the middle of the street, that man, that thing, pinning a bloodied Garrick to the ground with his human arm. A moment later, I try to launch into motion, but I’m too late. He plants that terrible arm over Garrick’s heart, draining him of everything vital that makes him Garrick. He becomes frail, weak, and small. Shrinking down and down until he looks shriveled. The man looks up at me and then stumbles away backwards, looking at me in fear, as if he hadn’t just killed my friend.
But it’s no matter. I rush to Garrick and see he’s changed, his hair is no longer salt-and-pepper gray, it’s white. His helm has been replaced with a crown of horns, and he has pointed ears. I realize that I’m looking at myself. I extend a hand up to reach for the still whole “me”, and I see my lips struggling to form words, but after a few attempts, my voice comes through audibly, “Stop him.” My eyes bore into me and I feel a surge of panic rising as the reaching arm goes limp and I watch myself die.
I violently jerk into a sitting position, hyperventilating and drenched with sweat once again. I look around frantically, feeling my eyes nearly bugging out of my skull as I take in the near darkness and adjust. After a moment, my vision clears, giving me a decent picture of where I am, though painted in hues of black and gray, stripped of color and getting blurry out past about fifteen feet. I see I’m not on a street in a burning town. I’m not looking at that man killing…me.
I draw a few breaths, holding each for a second, trying to bring my breathing back under control, and after a few moments I feel marginally better, but with the nagging feeling at the back of my mind that what I saw was a warning. “But of what?” I try to think back through the rapidly fading and jarringly visual dream I’d experienced, “Was that a warning of risk to Garrick? Or of me showing up to help him and getting killed myself?” I sit there in the dark, trying to figure out an answer but coming to nothing satisfying as each moment has the dream get farther away, leaving me only with the feeling of panic — of needing to do something.
I slide out of my bed, mind racing while pacing, before settling on a course of action. I’d been considering doing it before I’d gone to sleep, but with the most recent dream feeling so real, my mind is made up. I set about tucking extra blankets and clothes to make it appear like I’m in bed and quickly jot down on a board on the wall an excuse about sleeping poorly and how I would appreciate being left alone in the morning. Nothing that will stop anyone, really, just enough to buy a little more time if someone wanders in casually.
That done, I slip on sturdy, padded shoes that were left near my bed from my earlier excursion. They're terribly uncomfortable with the way my body is shifting as I age, but I'll suffer it for now. I make my way over to the window, cracking it open slowly and quietly. I can’t walk out the front, as there are menders assigned around the clock and they would surely want an explanation and would worry if I was gone for more than a reasonable amount of time. Instead, I slink through the gap in the window, lowering myself into the grass below as slowly as possible to avoid any rustling. Staying low to the ground in the blessedly moon-free night, I feel a chill settle in almost immediately, so I quickly close the window to get a move on.
I keep low, but start to move, heading for a nearby row of glass-paned walls framing one of the countless hallways of the keep and make my way along it to the nearest door. I drop to the ground though, as soon as I see light round a corner ahead and see two patrolling nightwatch — A largely superfluous role within a walled keep atop a mountain plateau in the age of arcane sentries, but one that has always been kept if only to give recruits something to do to establish good habits.
I press myself against the lowest section of the wall as they approach whilst having a hushed conversation, “-saying that this is pointless. We could be sleeping and nobody would be the wiser for it as long as we were up for the changing of the guard. Just stick in the watchpost for something to happen.”
His comment is met with a sigh from an older sounding woman with a husky voice, “Ah and if ya did that what woulda happened two weeks back, huh? When that recruit got wounded in the woods at night an’ needed help? Ye know, the one who used a spell to signal for help and was spotted by the nightwatch?” They begin to pass by me, and their voices are coming with more clarity than before.
The younger man stammers a bit, “Well, I guess he would hav-”
“Died, yes. He woulda died. Just because the job is somethin’ that's not needed ninety-nine nights outta a hundred, do ya wanna be the one who leaves someone dead in the woods because ya “didn’t feel like it”?” Her voice is cold and sharp, clearly a more veteran knight, maybe even Kyla? The voice is hard to get specifics from through the wall. But after another minute, they wander on away, taking their lights with them. I rise, and make the rest of my way to the door, feeling damp after laying in the grass, and chilled even worse because of it.
Carefully and quietly, I push into the hallway, regularly lit with dim red lights and make my way towards the officers wing and my room. The short journey is gratefully uneventful until I arrive in my room, where I lock the door and reach over to imbue a small rune on the wall to bring the lights up with a little of my essence. They come up the same red hue as everything else — a light level designed to be easy on the eyes at night and to not ruin night vision for those people who can’t see in dark with any clarity, and in time my eyes adjust and I see a pile of gear laying on my bed, neatly arrayed as though it would be set out on a merchant’s table, and far more than I asked for.
Taking stock of everything, I have: one set of Vigil Sojourner armor, two viciously curved fighting daggers with ripping teeth on the reverse face of the cutting blade, two braces of five throwing knives, one utility knife, a weather resistant and armored traveling cloak, a carry-all bag full of traveling gear, four mid-grade healing phials, several vials of purified essentia — one each of the base elemental essences — an Vigil Field Codex, and about two weeks of traveling rations. I oggle the blades for a little while: crafted from moonsteel and each a little over a foot long, the blades are curved gently and covered in simple winding runes meant to receive any imbuements I might use. The rations are a surprise, however, and come with a brief note from Theron in his blocky, accurate, handwriting.
Nyssa,
I believe I figured out the last quarter of your truth, so forgive my assumption if it is made wrongly. These things have been worked with simple repair and durability enchantments, and the armor is hardened against bludgeoning. The cloak is your preferred style of fighting cloak and weighted and reinforced against puncturing and slashing. They are far from perfect, but with such short notice it was all I could do to tailor them to your probable needs.
Travel well, Little Dagger, and when you must slip the sheathe, may it be on favorable terms.
Theron
I find myself smiling, though chastising myself for apparently being this predictable. But maybe that’s just Theron, he’s been at this longer than anyone I know of and has surely seen one or two clandestine departures.
I spend the next fifteen or so minutes slipping out of the ward garb and into the underlayer of the armor: a jet black form hugging bodyglove covered in attachment points for armor. Once I have each piece in place, I send a small jolt of essence into them and they make small adjustments using simple enchantments, expanding or shrinking to limit slack or pinch points. After that comes the segmented plates to reinforce critical areas: shoulders, torso, thighs, wrists and stomach chief amongst them, with the rest being covered by a scaled and heavily woven magically derived fiber. Looking at myself in the mirror, and before donning the helmet, I give off the vague impression of a particularly lithe beetle, with the overall profile still appearing fairly sleek for how well protected I am.
As the final pieces tighten and latch themselves into place, I feel the baseline enchantments activate. Basic physical enhancements, keyed to activate alongside any motion the wearer makes to amplify strikes, running, jumping, and other things as the need arises. Defensive enhancements designed to distribute impacts across the surface of the armor, or to absorb and bleed offensive essentia either into the air or into the armor itself. Altogether these facets are designed to allow us to fight toe-to-toe with all but the most dangerous monsters in the world. Though the enchantments aren’t unique to the Vigil, few militaries would devote the resources into arming their entire armed forces in such a way because it would be far too expensive and at the scale of nations, quantity has a quality all it’s own.
Had I been wearing this during the expedition, things would have surely played out differently, but I’d been more lightly equipped since I’d been traveling with a full cadre, against my wishes, even. But, that’s remedied now and will never happen again.
Securing the cloak to my shoulders, I pull the hood up, which instantly casts a veil of darkness in the dim light that obscures my face. From there I strap the rest of my gear on, packing away the rations into the Carry-All, securing the vials to my belt, and putting one brace of throwing knives on my left leg and left arm each.
With a final spin before the mirror, I take myself in, stopping to feel at my ribs and stomach where the armor has been reinforced the most to protect an old and nearly fatal injury — I have to smile at Theron’s thoughtfulness.
Holding the featureless black helm, which has adjustable braces to wrap around horns or the animalistic ears of beastkyn, I decide to eschew it for now, instead clipping it to my side securely so it won’t rattle but will still be to hand. I look ready, and as I glance over to the clock I see midnight has passed by. Meaning a new guard shift should have come and gone, which should leave me a fairly clear shot to the front of the keep.
I step out of my room after looking both ways and seeing nobody, stepping across the stone section of the floor and onto the plush carpet to deafen my steps until I leave this wing. Luckily, the armor is fairly dark, and the runes it’s enchanted with are on the inside of the armor, protected by small sheets of fused metal, so there’s no obvious enchantment glow. Sojourner armor is for scouts and skirmishers, and the Vigil trains them to focus on quick engagements and ambushes, so the armor is designed to be quiet, hard to spot in the dark, and self-sufficient via enchantments.
When I reach the end of the carpet, however, the metal soles of my Kharbon-steel greaves click loudly and carry along the stone hallway in the otherwise silent night. Uttering a curse, I quickly work to call aero essence from the environment and within me and shape it quickly into a simple spell.
Skystep
[Underfoot | Barrier | Aero]
Finishing the effort with a whispered mnemonic word to help guide the shaping, I feel the spell take hold. Aero essence , the primal essence most closely associated with sound and airflow, issues through enchanted vents in the armor around my palms, feet, and at regular intervals elsewhere and begins to pool around my feet, lifting me just a hair off the ground. With more effort, this spell can be used to allow me to run on open air as though there were platforms, but at this low level of investment, it does well enough to just cushion my steps from ever actually touching the ground and is only noticeable by the sound of a very light breeze in the area.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
The secondary benefits of Aero essence also settle onto me improving my mental clarity and helping me move with more surety. While I’m not normally given over to sneaking in general — I prefer to engage threats head on — other usages have made this spell something of a bread and butter for me over the years. Now able to move quickly, I stride onto the stone tile and begin to briskly walk to the front of the keep. Armored and armed, I’m slightly less worried about being spotted provided nobody sees my face, so I don’t sneak as carefully as I had been before and make better time for it.
After five minutes or so, I arrive at the anteroom and stride in confidently. The space is well lit and ostentatious looking even at this hour. Lining each wall are grand tapestries depicting notable events, art, arms, armor and gifts from nobility across the kingdom. But at the far end of the garish display are the Steps of the Unspoken. A tall hemispherical set of oversized stairs covered in what appears to be random personal effects — stuffed dolls, books, clothes, jewelry, among other countless remembrances. These are the Vigil's most precious relics — that which remains after a calamity had stolen the life from an area in totality. Kept with the Vigil to ensure that if any should come looking to seek proof of someone's passing, they can. The whole display is enchanted with a stasis effect field, keeping the items from decaying despite many of them being decades old. I find myself staring for a while, unwilling to move on from the edifice of memories. At this hour there's nobody searching through it, but it's fairly common most days to see one or two people at any time looking around. I stare for a bit, thinking of the day Garrick found me all those years ago — an entire lifetime.
The sentries at the Steps pay me no mind, as it's fairly common for Vigil personnel to stop and pay respects. The altar is an eternal reminder of when we weren't fast enough, skilled enough, strong enough, or lucky enough to prevent a disaster and served to galvanize most Knights — as the majority of the Vigil comes from backgrounds personally affected by such tragedies. Many of us are among the few remaining relics of places wiped from the map, no differently than any of the dolls or jewelry are.
Breaking my reverie, I turn sharply to the grand entrance of the space. “The best way to be unnoticed in a modern environment is to move with sureness and act like you belong there. Most people will never question you, especially if you’ve got a docket.” Lans words come to mind, and I smile, imagining the green-skinned Sidhe walking around with a clipboard in the heart of a city hunting some monster or another.
The front gates are open and looking into the bailey: an open area used for training that is scattered with occasional small buildings and weapon racks. Framing the yard are fifty foot tall walls made of colossal dark red stone bricks carved out of the nearby mountain range. The walls are topped with alternating watch posts, siege stations, and essentia amplifiers, the lattermost being used most hours of the day by Vigil Seers to scry into the ley to check the currents of essence or to farsee to check on deployed Knights when feasible. Both processes are incredibly difficult and prone to false starts or missed information, but they are reliable enough, often enough, that it’s worth pursuing generally.
I see nobody in the Bailey at this hour, which simplifies my goal even further. I’m probably walking too fast to appear natural, but on seeing that there’s basically nobody around I feel a bit bolder and start to jog in an attempt to limber up my body and to help my armor adjust. By the time I reach the stables, I’ve felt the armor making minute adjustments to intersecting plates in such a way that it’s eliminated most rubbing sounds and is moving with me more effectively.
Looking around, there aren’t any skyglides. It’s not much surprise, since there’s usually only two running at this time of night. I’ll just have to wait around until it comes back — which has me feeling uneasy. The walk to the city limits would be about three hours from here, whereas I can wait maybe fifteen minutes to cut that down considerably to porbably thirty to forty-five. The math is pretty clear.
With a sigh, I move to stand to the side of the stables out of sight to wait, passively scanning the area with growing boredom. “Who’d have thought a daring starlit escapade would involve so much standing around.” I look up and see Serelune just cresting the Ironreach mountains towering high above, seeming to glint off of the eternally ice covered peaks some ten thousand feet above. I watch her erratic movements, changing speeds as she crosses the sky. Being full, she's casting her chaotic light across the world — a coppery-golden shimmering light that flickers, grows, and fades at random , never evenly distributed in any discernible pattern — like a painter having spilled a bottle of shifting light across the canvas of the world.
Serelune is one of the main sources of Perditio essence in the world — that most chaotic of essence that is hard to come by anywhere but settled places. Its chaotic nature gives me pause as I think about implications for what I’m about to do. “Are you telling me that chaotic times are coming? If so, what variety?”
As I stare up at her, waiting for the skyglide, May pops unbidden into my mind, lecturing about the moons and other facets of cosmology. She's always been studious in all things — even moreso than me. Remembering her lecture reminds me that the moon also represents fortune and good travel in many cultures since its passage through the sky is so quick and erratic, it is a traveler's companion with great frequency. I find myself smiling, remembering all those years back, standing here late at night, waiting for a skyglide just like this, but it is a short lived joy, as the memories that come after remind me of how things shook out and continue to poison my feelings about it all.
I fall into Garrick's mantras to focus, trying to distract myself, but am saved from the mood when I hear the gentle rush of air of a coming skyglide and turn to take it in. It’s one of the newest models and looks sleek with its polished and enchanted silver hull, covered with delicate loops and curves embossed into the metal, subtly obscuring the sigil enchantments of aero and aero-derived compounds within that hold the vehicle aloft while in an area with sufficient essentia density in the right concentrations. Large enough to support five or six people or a comparable amount of light goods.
I set my mind back to the task at hand. Its windows are emitting a bit of light but only the barest amount due to their opacity. For that same reason, I can’t even begin to guess who or how many people will be in it. I start to try to decide if it’s more or less suspicious to be fully helmed versus just armored but before I’ve come to a good answer, it comes to a slow stop, settling to the ground, and I see a figure stand. “Just one, that’s good.” I opt to leave my helmet clipped but to instead pull my hood tighter against the autumn chill and approach the transport as its doors open. I jump forward as the person inside quite literally spills out headfirst, grabbing them and setting them on their feet.
They’re wearing nice clothes, the sort of thing one would wear for a night on the town. Fine black slacks, a nice white button up shirt, and an emerald green vest with some Vigil sigils embroidered on the hems. He slurs “Ach, ‘tanks for the save, damn thing lurched as I stepped out.” I look at the skyglide behind him, sitting obediently on its landing legs.
“Are you alright to walk? You…smell like you’ve had a good time tonight.” I try to will away the smell of strong liquor and sweat as I work to right him and stop him leaning on me. Only to finally get a good look at his face and realize it’s the recruit from yesterday, Marcis.
Both of his eyes finally manage to focus on me at the same time and he lights up, “Ach! Nys-!” As soon as he starts to say my name out loud, I cover his mouth and shush him.
“Please keep it down, I’m…” I pause, trying to think of a plausible excuse, “...Supposed to be testing the nightwatch tonight to see if they can find me. Don’t wanna give it away, yeah?”
He nods slowly and I release my hold over his mouth, “Yah ‘tats alright, sorry.” He looks very bashful for a moment, “I should be able ‘ta walk, now ‘tat the ground ain’t moving under me.” I step back, letting him stand under his own power, and, after a few wobbles he seems reasonably confident, and turns and beams at me, “You saved me, ‘tat’s why you’re gonna be ‘te new Slayer, huh?” He stops talking abruptly, looking everywhere but at me for a few moments. Abruptly, he refocuses before blurting out, “You ‘tink I’d ever ‘ave a chance with someone like ya?”
I stare at him for a few moments, blinking slowly, “I…don’t really know how to answer that question.” I stand there, absolutely thrown for a loop as he stares at me with hopeful eyes, “I guess so? What do you mean by “someone like me”? As in another vigil knight you fancy or something? That being the case, I think probably, yeah. There’s nothing wrong with that.” I guess, trying to speed along the uncomfortable topic. “I mean, it’s pretty common, most people do at some point or another.”
“Ya ‘tink so?” He looks at me excitedly while still woozily wobbling in place, “Thanks Myssa- Miss…” He hesitates, and then whispers with exactly zero volume reduction, “Nyssa! ‘Tis is why people talk about ‘ya so much.” He continues giving me the warmest, brightest, drunkest smile he can muster, “I should prob’ly go sleep. Good luck ‘wit ‘ya mission!” He starts to stumble away, but stops and turns one last time with a softer look I struggle to really identify, “You’ve a real nice smile, wanted to say that in case ‘ya haven’t ‘eard it in a while.” I give him the mentioned smile in spite of myself, unsure of how to respond, and that gets him blushing. He turns abruptly, leaving me standing there, watching him happily wobble towards the gates.
“What did he mean by “that’s why people talk about me so much”? And complimenting my smile?” I shrug it off as best I can, a gnawing feeling that I’m missing some piece of information to make him make more sense, but try to chalk it up to him obviously being blind drunk. Shaking my head, I haul myself into the skyglide, swinging the door panel closed behind me. I see my own reflection for a brief moment in the glass before the lights come up, and find myself smiling when I think of what he said before he left.
As the door locks closed with a gentle click, the interior lights brighten a little to reveal the space. Three evenly spaced and nicely padded benches in a neutral blue color opposite the door, with an enchanted control rod in the center. The rod is covered in a series of runes with short descriptions next to them to indicate speed, opacity of the windows, interior lights, destination, among other conveniences.
I wave my palm over the center, exposing my Vigil identification sigil that’s implanted on my palm to it, and it emits a short series of chimes and trills — a small jingle associated with the Vigil that I’m fairly certain every single person in the Vigil from top to bottom hates. And it waits for me to activate the various runes for the destination. I charge the rune for the city outskirts and set it on a sedate pace, still finding these things leave me queasy after years of riding them. It sets off, puttering along to the plateau's edge before dropping down onto a long series of switchbacks that give me an excellent view of the industrial city of Kharbon below.
I look down at the city, sprawling out beneath the blanket of night like a vast fan, its streets glowing faintly in the darkness as they spread from the mouth of the Ironreach Mountain Pass. The colossal spires of the Emberforge still pulse with a deep, molten glow. Their heat ripples the air, distorting the starlit sky even from this great distance. The spires stand like beacons, sending waves of shimmering heat high into the night air, far above the web of streets below. The Queensway, the city's central artery, cuts through the heart of it all—a dark ribbon of stone, stretching from the mountain pass all the way to the distant capital a couple months journey away. In the soft light of the moons, the buildings of silver, stone, and marble take on a ghostly glow, like the delicate folds of a noblewoman's fan spread across the landscape.
At the city’s far edge, the Magisters Arch looms, its smooth, curving marble surface catching the pale light and gleaming faintly against the shadowy ravines below. Even in the dim glow of night, the Arch stands like a beacon, a promise to those who cross beneath it that all desires can be found within the city’s walls. Beyond the Arch, the Skybridges seem almost spectral, their fine, frail forms glowing faintly in the night, stretched across the yawning chasms. Despite their delicate appearance, they are strong enough to carry lines of skyglides back and forth, their lights flickering like distant fireflies as they traverse the fragile paths. The bridges seem almost to hum with the activity, though in the stillness of the night, only the soft echo of wind in the ravines below breaks the silence.
In the city itself, the spires rise like silent sentinels, their essence foci casting a faint aura that allows the Skyglides to drift through the air in brief bursts of flight, their lights tracing patterns against the dark. Below, the Spiral Arms market district winds like a great shadow, its low-lying buildings nestled between parks and meadows, the twisting streets guiding the flow of trade through the city’s heart.
I make mental note of the details, almost mechanically, having been told about each in detail on many rides to and from the city or out on assignments with May. Happier times. I try to force them out of my mind but find my eyes drawn to one particular district with manors on a higher strata of the city, where the Vendala estate is located and fail miserably. I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that May going with them was because of something I’d done wrong, or if May had gotten close to me to get better exposed to be noticed by the family.
“Doesn’t really matter now, does it?” I ask the city before pulling down my hood , tilting my head down, and closing my eyes to repeat Garricks mantra that helps me get through these moods. “Head down, power through…” Eventually, the steady rocking, the late hour, and the poor sleep recently see me drop off for a nap for what will be a forty five minute ride to the outskirts.
