Chapter IV - Into the Hills

"Then we must leave. I will find you, when you leave." , he gets up and leaves the hut. Rima follows him. He cannot stand this helplessness. They are suffering, yet he cannot help. He leaves the village and enters the solitary of the forest.

A while later a small fire is crackling, shielded from sight from the village. Over it roasts a small rabbit. It was a meager meal for him and Rima, yet the hunt and preparation took his mind off the previous problem.
The village was not far and Rima and he will take turns in watching it for villagers approaching, or the scholars leaving. They had good hearts, albeit soft. In the Wilderness they needed him. During Rimas watch he dozes off, until her moist nozzle touches his cheek to wake him.

Drace, appreciative of Draern succinctness, gives him a single nod as the huntsman leaves the hut. He then flows from sitting to a low crouch, "I will tell the men of our imminent departure."

He finds a small group of the men, including the young man who had manifested a gift for the healing arts.  "We will be leaving shortly and so I ask that you heed my words: The women diminish you and you have accepted that it is your lot to be less.  Understand your worth as their equals, if not for yourselves, then for the boys who have not yet known your fate. Think on it, and be well."

He does not wait for their reaction or a response, turning on his heels and returning to the hut. "We may leave when you are ready."

"My Lord!" the young man calls out, trying to speak with Drace before Drace walks off.

"A sending ceremony is traditional when guests leave. A feast, speeches, and an exchange of gifts."

Gifts?

"Guests provide gifts to thank the hosts for their hospitality."

What sort of gifts?

"Anything of value, especially things we do not make ourselves. Weapons, iron, artwork. Anything finely constructed. Magical items are prized."

And if there is no ceremony and/or no gifts?

"A grave insult," the young man shakes his head sadly. "You would not be welcome to return."

He looks like he might be about to say something more, but stops himself. He bows lowly and withdraws.

Before the young man can withdraw, Drace stops him.
"Speak, if it will be of use," he says, giving the man an encouraging smile despite the flatness with which he spoke.

The lad demurs.

"It has been a pleasure," he tells Drace, bowing to him. The wooden mask is so large and heavy it's a wonder it doesn't tip the young man over.

"One hopes that you will return and... visit us again," the boy says before clamming up for good.

Left alone in their temporary lodgings, Cithrel decides to apply the finishing touches to their gifts for the sending ceremony. Cithrel retrieves a long, cylindrical scroll case and opens the sealed cover.

They pull out their canvases, a trio of skillfully tanned deer skins provided by Draerngromlaes. When Cithrel had shared that they intended to provide drawings as their offerings to the tribe, but that they needed a material more resilient than paper, the woodsman had grunted that he'd take care of it without explaining any further. A few days later, he had laid out the exquisitely prepared hides in front of Cithrel. The skin was smooth and clean, without any obvious flaws. When Cithrel had complimented his work, Draern had simply nodded to show he'd heard them. The young elf still had no idea if he'd been pleased by the praise.

Cithrel only had black ink, so the colors had been provided by Drace. The healer was quite knowledgeable about plants and bugs, and had been able to provide enough tints to turn Cithrel's line work into a vibrant piece of art.

Cithrel unrolled the three hides, examining their work with a critical eye. They had drawn three scenes. The first was of the Matriarch. She stood proudly, in the strong, defiant stance. Cithrel felt they had managed to competently capture the strength she exuded when they had first approached the village. The second was of the men hard at work. Some were busy fixing a hut, while another group was preparing a meal in an outdoors cooking space. Cithrel had focused on showing the lack of hierarchy among them, and the cooperative spirit that animated their shared labor. The third and final drawing was of the women triumphantly returning from their hunt. It had been hard to capture the joyous and raucous atmosphere that had been on display when Cithrel had witnessed the scene in real life.

These are very... nice. You've done a good job capturing the emotions you wanted to put on display and translating them onto this... challenging canvas.

Cithrel deflates a little. Rector Filaurel's words echoed through their mind again: You've already mastered the visual arts as Temisia, Cithrel. Nothing you can do will outmatch the masterpieces she's delivered to the Order. Her spectre had been kinder, but Cithrel knows she agreed.

Do not concern yourself with such perfectionist thoughts. These are surely far beyond anything these savages have ever seen.

Cithrel sighs. They could hardly believe they'd ever been such a judgmental prick. The young elf bends over the artwork and applies a new, thin layer of varnish, sealing in their adequate work.

<<Noon - Day 19 - Early Spring - Village in the Hills - Wilderness>>

Your departure is communicated. The Matriarch makes all sorts of polite pleas and injunctions for Cithrel to stay. (The Matriarch makes no mention of Draern or Drace.) But, in the end, it is decided that your ceremony will be at noon the following day. That will give the men sufficient time to prepare an adequate feast.

The women of the village grumble a bit because this means that they cannot go out hunting and instead must stay behind for the ceremony. But the muttering is muted and seems to be more about the disruption of their routine rather than any real inconvenience.

The men, as usual, have to work twice as hard to complete their usual duties while simultaneously preparing a feast.

The ceremony is outside, which seems fitting for someone leaving. You gather in the center of town, such as it is, in a circle around a large fire is built for no particular reason. It is not cold nor wet so you do not need the heat nor the light, but yet they build the fire all the same.

Food is served and the women begin to eat ravenously and sloppily. The men stand back as servers. The whole affair is decidedly more sober than the evening ceremony a few days ago, but the women seem to spill and make a big mess all the same. This does seem to be a cultural thing rather than just sloppiness from being inebriated. You can tell there are eyes watching you to see if you've absorbed this cultural lesson.

Once the eating is mostly finished, the Matriarch stands and silences the crowd by raising her hands, and then gives and speech. "Friends! We have gathered here today to [blah blah blah] [platitude platitude platitude] [meaningless expression of thanks and everlasting friendship] [blah blah blah] [etc.]."

Concluding her speech, she bows to Cithrel, then indicates that Cithrel should stand and give their speech of predictable clichés and unoriginal banalities.

Now knowing what is expected of them, Cithrel drops their Wizard's Grandeur Art for the feast. They did not enjoy being dirty, but appearances had to be maintained. As the old saying went, when in Ka-Adun, do as the Adunic people do. They skip breakfast on that day and make sure to eat plenty and messily during the feast.

Cithrel's eyes gloss over during the speech. They had heard dozens (hundreds?) of similar speeches over their many lifetimes. They felt like they could almost recite the Matriarch's prepared remarks in unison. Cithrel notices the tent go silent. Their eyes regain focus and they see that the Matriarch is gesturing to them. Right, my turn. Cithrel stands and looks around at the assembled women.

"Thank you, Matriarch, for these touching words and stalwart expression of friendship. My time among your people has been some of the best in all my years. You opened your home and your hearts to a weary traveler, and made her feel as welcome as if she was family."

"You generously gifted me and my men with shelter, food, drink!," Cithrel says raising their glass, "and unmatched companionship. I feel truly blessed to have been able to spend the last few weeks in such esteemed company. It has been an honor to meet you all."

"As a small token of my appreciation, I have prepared some works of art that will, I hope, manage to convey at least a fraction of the gratitude I feel." Cithrel motions for Drace to bring the drawings and present them, as the elf's hands are smeared with grease. "These depict the strength of your leadership, the humble but honorable contribution of your men to your village, and the glorious skill of your women."

"I regret that I must leave, but the unknown calls to me, and I cannot turn away from my duties. As I travel beyond your lands, I will always cherish the memory of my time here, and will sing your praises to all who cross my path. I raise my glass to you, Daughters of the Goddess!" Cithrel raises their glass and then downs its content, making sure that plenty of it runs down the front of their robe.

They glance at the Matriarch, seeking a sign of approval, then sit back down if they get it.

The Matriarch's body language suggests that she is getting emotional at Cithrel's speech. Indeed, when the Matriarch starts to speak, the waver in her voice makes it sounds like she's holding back tears.

"Oh, Cithrel," she says breathlessly, "you have no idea how much your words mean to us."

She accepts the art gratefully, clutching it close.

"It is so rare - so rare! - to find someone who understands and reflects our values. You have no idea how many outsiders we must kill each year in defense of our ways, our lifestyle, our beliefs. We are under constant assault. But the Goddess protects us, and the Goddess sends us friends like you to reinforce our faith."

The Matriarch embraces Cithrel, which is decidedly awkward given the giant wooden mask. It bangs Cithrel's shoulder and bumps the side of her head.

Separating, the Matriarch holds Cithrel at an arm's length while the Matriarch considers the elf. She seems to deeply approve of Cithrel's messy apparel.

"Our values are your values, so our home must be your home!"

The Matriarch startles suddenly, as if a thought just occurred to her.

"We will keep your hut for you!" she says impulsively. "It is yours from now forevermore, ready for you whenever you need it."

A glance might register a moment of shock from the two men who had been evicted from it a few days ago.

The Matriarch snaps at two young men, who practically fly over to you in their haste. The flop on the ground and bow piteously to Cithrel.

"These two will serve you at all times in the village. It is their honor and their pleasure."

The young men have on large masks that are facing toward the dusty ground, no doubt concealing their honor and pleasure. It's unclear what these two are supposed to do that Drace and Draern do not, but it seems important to the Matriarch for Cithrel to have a bigger entourage.

"Pipe the music!" the Matriarch commands. Young women begin to play their instruments. The warrior women begin to dance, although it's rather less rapturous than it was a few nights ago, most likely due to lower blood alcohol levels.

The music and dancing is meant to escort you from the village on a high note. You take this as your cue to depart.

Tecumseh wrote:

"Oh, Cithrel," she says breathlessly, "you have no idea how much your words mean to us."

She accepts the art gratefully, clutching it close.

Cithrel beams with pride. I did it! She likes my art! Stuff that in your pipe and smoke it, Filaurel! Tears start to form in the corner of their eyes.

Tecumseh wrote:

"You have no idea how many outsiders we must kill each year in defense of our ways, our lifestyle, our beliefs. We are under constant assault. But the Goddess protects us, and the Goddess sends us friends like you to reinforce our faith."

The Matriarch embraces Cithrel, which is decidedly awkward given the giant wooden mask. It bangs Cithrel's shoulder and bumps the side of her head.

Cithrel's eyes grow wider and their smile grows more taut. Part of them wants to ask how many outsiders the villagers have slain, but their survival instincts scream at them to SHUT UP!

The judgmental prick's voice chuckles. I told you: Savages.

Tecumseh wrote:

"We will keep your hut for you!" she says impulsively. "It is yours from now forevermore, ready for you whenever you need it."

A glance might register a moment of shock from the two men who had been evicted from it a few days ago.

The Matriarch snaps at two young men, who practically fly over to you in their haste. The flop on the ground and bow piteously to Cithrel.

[...]

The music and dancing is meant to escort you from the village on a high note. You take this as your cue to depart.

Cithrel gladly takes the cue to leave. They pass by the hut to pick up their things on the way out and wave the two men closer. "I expect the hut and its furnishing to be in good condition for when I return. As such, make sure to use all that is provided for me as if they were your own, as there is no better way to ensure that they are in their proper state."

With their final instructions given, Cithrel leaves the Goddess' village behind, turning once to wave goodbye to the villagers, before disappearing into the forest to meet up with Draern. As soon as they are out of sight, they reactivate their Wizard's Grandeur, breathing a sigh of relief.

Drace's eyes narrow ever so slightly when the matriarch mentions murdering those who did not comply with the village's customs.   Daft, he sneers silently, while looking on impassively. It was ever clearer why the young man had been so reticent to develop his skills or to be forthright with him.  He takes a moment to be grateful for having been raised within the Barony, and for his mentor's guidance.  They might not have been gentle when teaching him and his classmates, but he knew that discipline was required to mold you children into useful members of society.  There was a certain irony to Drace's inability to perceive and rail against his own indoctrination, but then he had benefitted from it.

For the first few days, as they continue their travels, Drace carefully dissects the time that they had spent in the village. He had not anticipated the degree of risk to which they had exposed themselves, and found the experience to be both humbling and illuminating.

<<Night - Day 19 - Early Spring - Mountains to the North - Wilderness>>

You head toward the north. You can see snow-capped mountains in that direction. Perhaps they will thaw in the summer, but in the early spring they are still icy white.

Cithrel, from her experience as a cartographer, estimates that you could be to there with two long days of walking. Or, if the pace is more forgiving - with some time is taken to stop and map the surroundings - then two and a half days.

Nothing much happens the afternoon after you leave the village. You walk north through hills, up and down. They are wooded and there is plenty of game for Draern and Rima to harvest.

Night falls and it becomes time to make camp. Knowing that wild animals will not approach Draern makes it easier to rest. Cithrel can sleep under any conditions and so lays down to rest. Drace begins the night's watch.

The moon rises in the east. It's big and it's bright; if it is not full then within a day of being so. There are no clouds and the moon is bright enough to cast a shadow.

The moon is high in the sky around midnight when something catches Drace's eye: there's a tall tower on top of the hill to the north. It's at least three times as tall as the surrounding trees, and glowing white. It's so bright with a milky tone that it seems illuminated from within. The best comparison that Drace can think of is that it's a like a piece of the full moon was formed into a tower and brought to the surface of the Earth.

Drace is quite sure it wasn't there a moment ago.

The night is blissfully quiet, if cold; the silent expanse of the sky is interrupted only by the silhouette of a treeline bathed in moon light. Drace watches plumes of his moonlit breath rise and then dissipate, unravelling into the velvety darkness above.    Accompanying this tableau of soothing stillness is his inner voice, sounding unsurprisingly like his mentor, warning against the lethality of complacency. After a time, the young assassin takes a final deliberate breath and slowly exhales.  

The delicate mist rises past the top of his head, the treeline, and finally the tower -  the tower?!.   Having not been so complacent as to miss the erection of the moon made manifest, and feeling certain that his cognitive abilities were not impaired, Drace decides to rouse his companions. They might not necessarily want to do anything about the tower, but he thought that they ought to at least have the information necessary to make that choice; including knowing that there was a choice to be made at all. Keeping the architectural apparition within his peripheral vision, the healer crouches next to the woodsman and the scholar in turn to wake them, calling their names. "That tower was not there a moment ago. Whether to investigate this phenomenon bears discussing."

He returns to his seat and waits for their reactions to the tower.  His own curiosity is piqued, to say the least.

Cithrel groans grumpily when Drace gently shakes them awake. Why was the healer waking them now? They open their eyes. There was no sign of danger. Stars twinkle in the sky, the moon is full and bright, the tower shines with inner light, the fire crackles merrily in the-

Cithrel sits up suddenly. They rub their eyes and look again. The tower was still there. "It can't be... it's so big! Who could have managed to channel so much arcana?" They jump to their feet and start looking around the camp nervously, then start packing up.

As Cothrel gathers the group's belongings to get them ready to go, they, very predictably, talk. "I never thought that Hendrix's Abrogation of Terrestrial Continuity could be applied to such a large structure! It was conceived for small shelters, something a single person could survive in for some amount of time. For someone to have enchanted a whole tower! Incredible! Maybe it was Hendrix themself!" Cithrel pauses, trying to remember if they'd ever owned such a tower. Flashes come to them, distant, vague. A table filled with glassware. A device filled with tubes, rotating quickly. Transparent doors that open by themselves. But no tower.

Cithrel shakes their head and gets back to breaking camp. "We have to hurry. It appeared under the full moon at midnight. By morning, the tower will be gone, returning to its place outside of our world. If we're still in there when it does, we'll go with it and I'm not sure we have enough provisions to last until its next transition. That is, if time passes normally on the other side. No one knows for sure anymore. The spell is lost and a Hendrix Structure hasn't been seen in Centuries! So much has been lost, so much..." Cithrel pauses again, a look of melancholy on their face.

After a brief moment, they jolt back into activity. "I can't recall, but my theory is that times passes more slowly within the enchanted Structure. It was conceived as a way to hide from the Outsiders, you see? What better way to be rid of them than to let Time itself be your sword! And it worked! The Outsiders are gone and I'm still here!" They say triumphantly.

Realization dawns on them and they deflate. "After a fashion, anyway..." Cithrel adds, sounding a bit dejected.

Draern wakes immediately and is alert as if he didn't sleep at all. Years of living in the wild taught him that there is no time to wake up slowly.
When he sees the tower his faces reflects rerseved objection and Rima shies and growls at the mysterious object. Draern whispers calming words into her ear, while Cithrel informs them about the academic meaning of this.
"Wait, what? We could be trapped in there for years? Decades even?" , his first scare immediately gives way to the thought that like this he could evade the bounty hunters that are inevitably everywhere and searching for him, the deserter. He would return with a clean slate. He smiles wide, a sight seldomly witnessed. "What are we waiting for then?"

You break camp quickly and ride/run up the hill with all haste.

The milky white tower is quite beautiful both up close and from a distance. It is quite hard to look away from it. To Cithrel's senses, the magic surrounding it is quite elegant, like a scented spring breeze swirling around. The tower seems to be occupying a bald spot on top of the hill. This hill wasn't noteworthy enough to notice whether it had trees on it prior to the appearance of the tower.

The tower glows so brightly that it casts shadows in the surrounding forest. It's almost impossible to approach it while staying in the shadows.

Once you get to the tree line you notice a large front door with two guards: skeletons! They are humanoid skeletons who are holding pikes and wear Corinthian helmets with large crests. One of the sentries wears a red cape while the other wears a purple cape. It's clearly not for warmth, so... decoration? A uniform, even though they're not the same color?

Draern's savage senses have no problem picking out details from a distance: the capes were clearly once luxurious but they are now quite old. They smell musty and the fringes of them are fraying. Likewise, the pikes aren't polished to a high shine. If anything, they look a little dull. Same goes for the helmets.

The skeletons seem to notice you or somehow detect your presence. But far from being hostile, they turn and open the double-doors that lead into the tower. It appears to be an invitation to enter!

Cithrel is surprised by Draern enthusiastic embrace of the idea of exploring the tower. They had expected the woodsman to call it foolish and view the sudden appearance of a whole building with justifiable suspicion. They smile wistfully. Even after all these centuries, people still managed to surprise them.

As the three travelers emerge from the tree line, Cithrel stops and stares in awe at the tower. They have to squint to lessen the brightness, but even then it a breathtaking sight. They take a deep breath, enjoying the feeling of wonder and picking up the "scent" of the magic swirling around the structure.

Once the initial shock of the sublime nature of the tower subsides, Cithrel turns their attention to the skeletons. They follow the threads flowing around the undead soldiers' limbs and through their chests and skulls. It seems rather simple, making them into guards and doormen. Asking them questions would be pointless. "Well, it looks like we're welcome to enter. Shall we?" Cithrel asks rhetorically. The others would have to grapple them and pin them down to keep them from going into the tower.

Cithrel bows to the skeletons in thanks (it never hurts to be polite), then head inside through the double doors.

Draerns optimism fades with every step towards the tower and evaporates completely, making space for respect and, even though he'd never admit it, some fear when he spots the guards. Did he really make the right choice? Sure, ridding himself of his pursuers is tempting, dieing in the process not so much.
But he cannot step back from his commitment. What would the others say? Who would protect them? Making sure his bow and arrows are in place and Rima at his side, he follows Cithrel into the unknown.

Rima growls at the skeleton, who don't seem to take offense. The skeletons stare off into space blankly and don't seem to care much about your presence.

Wolf also shies away from the skeletons and it's a little unclear what to do with the horse. The front doors - tall and wide - are more than large enough to accommodate a horse, but what is the etiquette for bringing horses inside an enchanted tower?

There's a grand space just inside the doors, with gleaming stone floors and walls that are illuminated by some mysterious source but aren't so bright as the exterior of the tower. The ceiling inside is exceptionally tall and there's a curved staircase that hugs the wall. The stairs are to the left of the entrance and you would ascend them as they rise in a clockwise rotation up the tower.

To greet you (presumably), there is another skeleton descending the stairs. This one is somewhat larger than the skeletons outside and it carries a mace that must be ceremonial because it's made out of precious metals and inlaid with gemstones. Instead of wearing a colored cape, this skeleton has a intricately designed cuirass. The cuirass has seen better days, but oh in those better days it must have been magnificent! It's on the dull side now, as if nobody had polished it in ages, but it still shows sign of elaborate etching of intricate patterns. It was clearly designed for a human or demihuman, not a skeleton, so it fits loosely on its current host. The cuirass jangles and rattles as the skeleton descends the stairs.

"KQHWR!" the skeleton says in some horrible, guttural tongue that sounds like bones scraping on bones. It sweeps its hand from you toward it, indicating that you should follow it upstairs. "QWRTYPSFHJKL, ZXCVBNM!" it adds helpfully. It turns to lead the way.

Cithrel admires the large hall taking up the entirety of the ground floor of the tower. It was simple in design, lacking any sort of architectural flourishes, but in some cultures it could be seen as elegant. There were no hints as to its purpose. Properly furnished, it would make for a grand reception hall, and Cithrel can imagine groups of people dancing as an orchestra plays. Or, perhaps, it was just used to house supplies. If it used to hold any furniture, it had rotten away long ago.

The young elf looks hopefully to the approaching skeleton, thinking it might provide them with some answers. When it speaks however, those hopes are dashed. Cithrel hurries to catch up to it when it starts back up the stairs. "Excuse me," they say, apologetically. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't quite make that out. Would you happen to speak any other languages? Trade Cant? Recurrent, perhaps? Vothian? I only speak the Modern form fluently, but I'm sure we could find a way to understand each other if you speak the Old or even Ancient variants. Thurian? I know it's a reach, but not impossible, I suppose..."

"MNBVCXZ," the skeleton replies, once again bidding you to follow. "LKJHGFDS, PTRWQ," it adds, apparently lacking access to any vowels.

It turns and continues to ascend the stairs. It's a sign of trust, you suppose, as it has turned its back to you and is vulnerable to being attacked from behind.

Having no soft tissue, it is a wonder that they can make perceptible sounds, let alone phonemes. Curious, as no doubt many things here will be.

Drace steps in front of Cithrel, blocking their way forward and looking intently at the elf. "You are brilliant and eager to learn. I admire that and so I would like to not have to repeat myself: There will be more here than you can learn or document without placing some or all of us in jeopardy." He nods, signaling that the subject has been resolved to his satisfaction, and steps aside to allow Cithrel to lead the ascent should they wish.

You climb... and climb and climb and climb and climb. The staircase is comically tall and you're reasonably sure you're climbing to the top of the tower. Or beyond? Is the space inside greater than the space outside? It's hard to tell.

Drace, with his magical endurance, has no issues with this. Cithrel and Draern are definitely feeling the burn in their quads, calves, and glutes. They sweat with exertion and grow tired and thirsty. Your skeleton guide doesn't seem to mind, of course.

Finally you get to the top (?) where there's a thick wooden door. The skeleton pushes it open to reveal a sumptuous library inside, with dense bookshelves lining the walls and thick carpets spread across the floor. On one side of the room there's a crackling fireplace. In the middle of the room there's a heavy wooden desk. There's a man sitting in a regal chair behind the desk. He's wearing purple robes (Draern guesses velvet) and has his feet up on the desk. He's reading a piece of paper and drinking from a crystal goblet when you walk in.

His surprise is obvious. He sprays his drink - wine, from the smell of things - into a cloud and practically tips his chair over backward in his haste to get his feet off the desk.

"Guests!" he says in Recurrent. He chokes, some wine having gone down the wrong pipe. Then, "Guests!" in Modern Vothian. He coughs some more. "Guests!" he continues to gasp in Thurian before finally saying it again in Brass Speech.

He coughs again then wipes his hands on his robe. At least the purple robe hides the wine. He's pretty tall and built like a rectangle, with squared shoulders. His hair is black and his skin is intensely pale, almost to the point of being an albino. He smiles and his teeth are nice. You would guess his age to be late 40s or early 50s.

"Welcome!" he says in Llaigisan. "Welcome to my home!" he adds, back in Trade Cant. He walks toward you with a wide smile and his hand extended for a greeting.

As the man was speaking  and thus not in immediate danger of choking, Drace takes a moment to listen to the quality of his breathing and his coughing, ignoring the man's single word exclamations in what seemed to be different languages.   It sounded like he was successfully clearing his airway, and unlikely to be dysphagic Possibly anemic, notes the Healer, taking in the man's pallor.

When he approaches, Drace raises a hand to forestall him."Meaning you no disrespect, we require a moment to catch our breath from the many flights of stairs, after which introductions would be welcome."  Drace steps a little to the side so that the man can better see his companions and the remaining perceptible signs of their recent exertion.

The man looks momentarily disappointed, and then perhaps confused - as Drace shows no signs of exertion - but the moment passes.

"Yes, of course," he nods, responding in kind to Drace's Trade Cant. Then a thought occurs to him: "May I offer you refreshment? Something to drink?" He gestures behind him to the decanter of wine, although you don't see any additional goblets or glasses.

Cithrel had spent most of their days hiking since coming to the Wilderness. During their formative years, they had trained both their mind and body. Still, none of it had prepared them for climbing this damnable wondrous tower. Perhaps it was something to do with the height or depth of the steps. Yes, that must have been it. Drace didn't seem to have any trouble with them. Maybe they were sized for some like him. Then again, maybe it was the Healer's magic keeping hale and hearty. At that thought, Cithrel feels a pang of jealousy. Their Arts kept them from getting sweaty, but did nothing for their endurance.

When the young elf finally reaches the top landing, they sink to the ground, silently blessing the large flat expanse. They are startled by the sound of steps and voices, and look up to see their presumed host approaching them. Cithrel suppresses a groan, a futile maneuver since it could never have escaped their panting lips, and try to rally to meet their host. Thankfully, Drace steps in first and Cithrel, for once, is more than happy to let someone else do the talking.

When the stranger offers them a drink. Cithrel raises head. "Water, if possible," they croak. "Whatever is in there otherwise," they add, gesturing at the carafe.

Cithrel stretches out their legs and take some long, deep breaths. As their heart starts to slow and the soreness of their muscles go from aching to a more manageable throb, they survey their new surroundings. Their eyes grow wide as the bookshelves finally register. They peruse the collection from afar, mentally making a list of the tomes they'd like to consult.

When their eyes complete their sweep and land, once again, on their host, the young scholar pulls their legs under themselves and stand back up. They bow to the stranger. "I am Cithrel Vennoryn, fellow of the Library of Cykii. I apologize for my sorry state and thank you for welcoming us into your magnificent demesne. I have never seen such a large scale implementation of the Abrogation of Terrestrial Continuity. I am most impressed."

"Water?" he asks, seemingly perplexed. "Oh, water! Water, yes, hmm..."

He turns to the skeleton.

"Mr. Vackle, some water if you please and... three?" He looks questioningly at the group. "Three glasses, please."

"QSXWDC," Mr. Vackle responds before lumbering off. It's entirely unclear where he's going to get those from, as you saw no obvious source during your journey up the stairs.

"He, ah, may be gone a while," your host admits.

Then Cithrel compliments him on their surroundings.

"The Abrogation of the what now?" he asks, clearly confused. "Oh! The tower! Yes, of course." He seems to examine his fingernails for a moment, not appearing very interesting. "It's very wonderful, is it not. I cannot claim credit for it. I merely, ah, found it. It was here long before I was. There's a record here, somewhere, of the previous inhabitants." He gestures blithely toward the bookshelves.

Cithrel does their best to hide their disappointment. "Ah, I see. Quite a find."

They look around. The books call to them, but it would be too soon to excuse themselves from their host's presence. "Are the skeletons yours or did they come with the tower, Mister...? I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name. I must have been distracted by our unusual surroundings after giving you mine," they say, momentarily channeling the judgmental prick.

"My name!" the man exclaims. He grabs his head in astonishment. "My name is... I'm so sorry I haven't used it in ages!"

He seems to concentrate for a few longs moments. "Omirius!" he declares at last, looking victorious and a little bit relieved. He holds his arms up in a V, as if celebrating.

"Yes," he says with a little flourish, "Omirius at your service." He bows.

Studying him, Cithrel can see magic flowing in and around him. The pattern of it reminds Cithrel of the magics which sustain Drace and allow him to go without food and drink. The magic around the skeletons seems to bear the same fingerprints.

"The skeletons? Oh, yes, those are mine!" He has the proud look of a father. "Thank you so much for your patience with them. I get so few visitors; I think, perhaps, potential guests are turned off by my servants. Given your presence, have, ah, attitudes changed on that matter, hmm?" He looks to you hopefully.

Cithrel relaxes as the man searches for his name. What they'd taken for rude manners was merely forgetfulness. Besides, confusion about one's identity was something the elf could deeply relate to.

"I'm afraid Necromancy is still maligned in most of the world. There are a few who practice it where I come from. I, myself, have dabbled in it in other incarnations, but I'm afraid I've forgotten what I knew."

With their mild annoyance gone, Cithrel's inquisitive nature was making a comeback. "I couldn't make heads or tails of what your servants were saying. What language to they speak? It doesn't sound familiar to me. Also, I'd be curious to know how long you've been here. Do you know where I may find the record of the previous inhabitants? I could look for it myself if you don't remember and don't mind me perusing the shelves..." they say hopefully. A chance to poke around this repository of knowledge would be an incredible opportunity. Who knew what sort of treasure was squirreled away in this collection.

"A fellow practitioner!" Omirius looks delighted. "Welcome, welcome! Please, you must stay! Peruse the shelves!"

He rushes around to make sure Drace and Draern are welcomed as well.

"You are all most welcome. I see you are a diverse group, but all touched with the Gift."

In response to Cithrel's question about the record of previous inhabitants, he gestures toward one of the bookshelves. "That one, I believe. On one of the bottom two shelves. As I am tall, I put my most-referenced volumes up high. I do not consult the histories so much.

"How long have I been here? By your time or by mine? Ha! I suppose the answer is the same either way: very long indeed. Long enough to forget my own name!" He laughs at himself.

"Mr. Vackle's language? Oh, I am uncertain of its name. I never knew him during his previous life; he rose from the ground speaking gutturally. It is one of the languages of Hell, most likely." This last point tossed off casually to the point where it's unclear if he's joking or serious.

"How does your time relate to ours?" Drace is acutely aware of how little they know about the time within this space. As curious as he is about what there is to discover - though not so much as Cithrel obviously, the degree of their ignorance put him ill at ease.

"I believe the tower matches the lunar cycle, so a day inside is 29.5 days outside. Or 29.530575, if we're being precise." He laughs. Evidently this is a good, scholarly joke.

"But I will note that this Abrogation of Terrestrial Continuity..." he speaks slowly, and then looks to Cithrel to see if he has the name right, "... is not consistent. It's destination is unpredictable, I am afraid. I am never quite sure if the old bones and I are going to land in the desert or on a mountaintop or an island offshore or..." He waves his hands airly to suggest 'and so on'.

The instant they had gotten leave to do so, Cithrel had drifted to the shelves. They start by finding the record of the previous inhabitants, then start pulling tomes they urgently want to consult. Choosing proves to be difficult. There is a lot of choice and so little time! Cithrel chuckles at Omirius' quip. "As Rector Broumduil always said: it's with decimals that you make integers!"

When their host looks askance to them to confirm the proper name of the spell enchanting the tower, Cithrel nods confirmation.

"This Work, colloquially known as Hendrix's Hex, was created to avoid the Outsiders. It made sense at the time to have the tower jump around randomly. It would make it harder to track. Now that they are gone, it's a superfluous feature." Cithrel pulls a book from of the shelves and adds it the the growing pile they carry. "We may be able to adjust it. Either making the cycle predictable, severing it, or perhaps even intentional!"

Drace stared into the distance for a few minutes considering what Omirius had said.  By the ratio given, one day on the outside was less than an hour within the tower. Which in turn meant that in the time that it had taken them to climb the stairs, the sun will have already risen.

"Omirius, is time moving at that ratio even now?"

Draern leads Wolf into the tower and in light of the stairs tells him to stay down in main hall. Social etiquette had never been his strong suit and what little he acquired once was mostly lost during his years in the Wilderness, where these kind of formalities were a hindrance in best case, lethal in worst. So, it does not feel weird for him, to take his horse inside and leave it waiting in the hallway.

The march upstairs is taxing. Being used to walk long distances on a somewhat even plain he is not worried about ascending the seemingly endless stairs. But the further he gets the more muscles in his legs start hurting, muscles he forgot he had. Something about lifting his legs up and up and up most be a movement he does not do often.
Already during the climb, Draern keeps his eyes open for windows that he can look out through, but they don't pass any.
At the top landing Draern bends over and holds his thighs, panting. It is only when he starts talking, that Draern realises their host. Immediately all pain is forgotten, Draern straightens and is ready to pull out his bow in moments notice. But as soon as he realises the hosts bears no ill will he relaxes. When Omirius and Cithrel start talking about magic, Draern zones out. Not understanding what they are talking about, Draern starts walking around in search for that window. He wants to see how high they are and what is around.

"Hmm?" Omirius hums to Drace, perhaps surprised that someone other than Cithrel is speaking. "Oh, no, the passage of time is not at a continuous rate. This structure seems to leap forward in time all at once. The tower remain 'here' for the remainder of the night and into the next day. At some point it will fade from the outside world and leap forth one lunar cycle in 'their' timeline. Inside, a single day will have passed. And so the tower's time leaps to and fro like a flea or a grasshopper, rather than running along like a bunny at a novemvigintuple rate!"

Omirius seems to detect Draern's lack of interest and/or discomfort.

"No windows, I'm afraid," he tells Draern. "They interfere with the magical envelope that transports the building. The doors must closed too. I understand; you look like the sort who might not be comfortable indoors. I trust you are housebroken?"

He says it with a smile, then - unable to control himself - breaks into a merry laugh. He titters at his own joke, perhaps bemused that time has not dulled his wit.

"Forgive me," he says, still amused. "I get so few visitors and Mr. Vackle does not share my sense of humor."

The aforementioned Mr. Vackle is still gone, off to retrieve your refreshments.

Cithrel finds a great number of fascinating books. Some of them are histories; some of them are surveys of ancient or distant lands or both. Some pertain to the tower itself. Reviewing what's been recorded, she doesn't think that this tower was created by Hendrix but it's unclear who precisely created it. Some of the occupants were invited into residency by prior occupants, while others - like Omirius - seem to have found it vacant and unoccupied.

Cithrel is confident that they understand the theory and the mechanics of Hendrix's Hex to the point where they could tailor how it works. The challenge is that Cithrel may not have the magical juice to do so on their own. The elf may have the know-how but would need to leverage the abilities of others to make any changes a reality.

"Does your art require intimate knowledge of anatomy? Or do bodies and body parts retain a sense of their positionality?" Drace asks, curious about this art that might well sit at the cusp of his two primary areas of interest. He curses silently to himself for indulging said curiosity before getting more practical information - Cithrel was a bad influence. "What perils within the tower should we be aware of?"

"Anatomy? Oh, no, the bones know quite where to go," Omirius answers. "One might call be an expert in osteology but I certainly have no sense of musculature or the major organs or any of that. I dare say your familiarity greatly exceeds my own."

Omirius might be speculating a bit, as Drace has not announced nor described his specialty, but it seems he has guessed correctly.

"Perils?" Perhaps he is hard of hearing, as he seems to answer questions with the same question before answering. Or maybe it's just a device to allow his brain more time to formulate a response.

"Heights!" he declares after a moment of thought, jutting a finger up as he recalls the danger. "The tower is rather tall, is it not? But, no, no material threats beyond the mundane. There are no pressure traps triggering spikes from the ceiling. The walls will not try to eat you." He laughs again.

Cithrel is pretty sure that these could be added.

Cithrel frowns when Omirius seems to ignore their offer to help adjust the tower's Hex, but then again, they'd moved away to peruse the shelves and this may have been the most conversation the Necromancer had had in a long time. It must have all been rather overwhelming.

The stack of books in Cithrel's arms having reached a unreasonable height, the young scholar makes their way to the table and puts them down. They contemplate which to start with. Time was of the essence, unless Omirius agreed to alter the tower's displacement, so they resolve to extend their offer again. "Excuse me, Omirius," Cithrel says as they approach the other mage, "I'm not sure you heard me, but I believe that if we work together, we can adjust the enchantment on this tower. We should be able to make its movements predictable, rather than random, and maybe even seize full control over them, so that you may decide when and where it translocates!"

Cithrel's eyes stray to their pile of book. "I'm afraid the offer isn't entirely selfless. I would love to be able to consult this library at my leisure and, well, until sunrise is not much time," they say sheepishly.

"What?" Omirius asks, Cithrel catching his attention somewhat belatedly. "Oh? Oh! Oh?"

His face cycles through various expressions, his reactions running a full range of possibilities. His brow furrows, then relaxes. An interesting notion occurs to him, then a distressing thought. He puts his hand up to his chin and seems in deep contemplation for a long while.

"Most interesting," he says at last, although it's not clear if he actually finds it interesting. "I confess that I had never seriously entertained the possibility, nor even considered the prospect.

He makes a vague, dismissive gesture toward the books. "The library is available to you for as long as you wish to stay. I certainly cannot read hundreds of tomes simultaneously and it would be churlish of me to not share things which I acquired by chance. Most of these works were inherited with the tower, and long predate me.

"My chief motivation for hurling myself through time and space was to perhaps find an enlightened future where myself and my friends might be welcomed." He makes a sweeping gesture to indicate people that aren't there. It becomes apparent that he's referring to his skeletons.

"I suspect this may not align neatly with your personal goals." His eyes drift to Drace and Draern, who seem less enchanted with the prospect of spending eternity studying books.

"But perhaps there is some happy middle ground, hmm? Have you, in your journeys or in your studies, heard of kingdoms where my kind are tolerated, even welcomed? If so, I would most like to visit." He brightens at the thought, seemingly ending on a hopeful note.

Cithrel thinks for a moment. "I'm not aware of any kingdom where necromancers are welcomed, unfortunately. There are a few places where they are tolerated, my homeland included. Most of these places have conditions. At the Library of Cykii, necromancers are expected to refrain from using cadavers not voluntarily given to them. There are also some sanitary considerations, which I believe your own creations would meet as all the flesh has been cleared from their bones."

"There are other nations where necromancers are tolerated, as long as they provide their services to the local lord. That, unfortunately, usually means leveraging their knowledge and talents to inflict violence upon that lord's enemies. You seem an amiable fellow, and so I doubt that such an arrangement would be to your liking."

"People do not like to be reminded of the inevitability of their death. Seeing Mr. Vackle and his kin would, in most places, elicit a negative response."

Cithrel smiles sadly. "I suppose I ought to make the best of the time I have here, then." They glance at their pile of books. "Are there, perhaps, some tomes amongst those I have selected which you'd agree to part with?"

Satisfied for the time being that they were not already trapped outside of time and space, Drace begins to peruse the shelves, looking for tomes on healing and necromancy, and keeping an eye out for information relating to Draerngromlaes' art - Cithrel had called him a Llaigisan Beastmaster?

Omirius frowns. "Oh? More of the same, then," he says, looking disappointed about the world.

He considers Cithrel's description of the Library of Cykii, where cadaver donations must be voluntary. "You don't say? A most curious standpoint, informed by the biases of the living. I have yet to find a cadaver that has objected. Most seem to welcome their continued existence and grateful for their sentience. They are enthusiastically loyal; I consider them my close friends."

While perusing the shelves, Drace notes the great number of languages represented. There are books in Llaigisan which might pertain to the Beastmasters, but as Drace does not speak Llaigisan he cannot review them. There are Hegemony-era books written in Brass Speech, clearly meant for the use of the Reaping King’s loyal servants. There are a great number of books in Emedian, many of which are works of literary importance. The collection includes books of poetry and prose, histories and romances, essays and treatises, and many others. Drace notices some that he has only heard of in passing, works thought to have been lost to the sands of time. Here, they are in astonishingly good condition. The collection here would likely be worth a great deal.

"The books? Well I'm afraid they're not mine to give," Omirius tells Cithrel. "They were here when I got here, so I think of them as the tower's. Now I suppose you could just as easily argue 'well they are not yours to keep' and you would have a valid point in that. But I think of myself as their caretaker for the time when the tower has a new occupant."

Tecumseh wrote:

He considers Cithrel's description of the Library of Cykii, where cadaver donations must be voluntary. "You don't say? A most curious standpoint, informed by the biases of the living. I have yet to find a cadaver that has objected. Most seem to welcome their continued existence and grateful for their sentience. They are enthusiastically loyal; I consider them my close friends."

"I believe it is rooted in the notion of consent and bodily autonomy. One could argue that such concerns ought not apply to cadavers, as they are not persons anymore, but most cultures tend to respect people's bodies after they die. In truth, I believe it is more of a concern for their friends and family, those who might suffer to see the body of their dead loved ones walking around. Do your friends actually have sentience? Do they have their own will or are they limited to tasks you give them?"

Tecumseh wrote:

"The books? Well I'm afraid they're not mine to give," Omirius tells Cithrel. "They were here when I got here, so I think of them as the tower's. Now I suppose you could just as easily argue 'well they are not yours to keep' and you would have a valid point in that. But I think of myself as their caretaker for the time when the tower has a new occupant."

Cithrel nods, looking slightly dejected. "I understand. I will return the books to their shelves before we take our leave."

moarhair wrote:

"Do your friends actually have sentience? Do they have their own will or are they limited to tasks you give them?"

"And do you have a choice as to the degree of sentience and autonomy they have?" Drace adds without looking away from a volume detailing how the infirmaries of the Reaping King’s primary, secondary, and tertiary residences should be outfitted, staffed, and maintained.

"Sentience? Oh, yes, of course. They think, they feel. They would be quite useless if they could not.

"As for their own will, that varies. Some more than others. The guards out front, for example, have little volition of their own. Mr. Vackle, on the other hand, is quite strong-willed! He has the tongue of a sailor and is not afraid to use it! Oh, you should hear him swear, ha ha!"

Omirius laughs gaily at the thought to the point where tears form in his eyes. He wipes them away as his laughter subsides.

"Yes, Mr. Vackle is quite the personality. But he is also ferociously loyal and a trusted companion; I treasure him dearly. I wish I could create more like him but the magical energies are quite demanding. If there is a way to sustain more than one of Mr. Vackle's competence, I either do not know the requisite magicks or I lack the necessary talent." He shakes his head sadly.

In the distance, Draern's fine ears pick up the sounds of Mr. Vackle's rattling. It sounds like he is beginning the long journey up the steps.

"Must you go so soon?" Omirius asks Cithrel. "Cannot you stay and study your heart's content? I daresay one night in here would be as rich in learning as a month out there."

"I'm afraid we must," Cithrel says apologetically. "We still have work to do in this region. Not knowing where we'll end or if we'll ever be back is a very limiting factor." They look at their pile of books and sigh. They turn back to Omirius. "I can forgo my reading and spend this time conversing instead. I'm sure there is much you can teach me about Necromancy and perhaps how the world was before you found this place. If you've been here a while, it might have changed greatly."

When Draern hears the confirmation about his suspicion about the missing windows, the walls seem to close in to him. No windows? Only one door far down? The ceiling seems like it is slowly descending on him. Far away behind the rush of his own blood in his ears, he can hear the others talking about staying or leaving. "We can't stay. We must... I must go. Quickly."
He turns around and starts walking aimlessly in various directions, as if he forgot where the stairs are and the longer he searches, the more erratic and fast he errs around.

Draern's pacing catches the edge of Drace's peripheral vision. He thinks nothing of it at first, but taking note of the odd combination of increased speed and decreased regularity, he eventually raises his eyes. Not entirely unexpected.

Drace returns the book that he was thumbing through and approaches Draern. "Draerngromlaes, I will take you from this place," Drace says in a quiet, firm voice. "First, please take a breath... Breathe slowly, in time with my breath." He intentionally takes a few slow breaths, and watches Draern closely for a sign that his words had registered through the growing fog of panic.