[Closed] Spellwork in the Dark

[Athrym Bruthgrave]

9th Roalis, 2720
CHURCH OF THE MOON | MIDNIGHT

Rainfall in Brunnhold was so much different to Qrieth, or at least it felt like it. The petrichor was noticeable, thick and rich with the greener smells of the University grounds. It wasn’t that the mountain lacked that smell, but it was vastly different. The cold rock kept the Giorans hidden from the rain and sun and scents of the outside world, but in the rainy season they emerged on the mountain summit to celebrate and to perform Ba Brieth. And the thinner, colder air smelt crisper. Less earthy. Bland in comparison.

“Did I ever tell you Giorans consider rain to be a sign of good luck?”

Athrym looked up at one of the large stained glass windows of the Church of the Moon, watching the rain fall in great sheets across it’s multicolored face, hands clasped lightly in front of her as her summer gaze marveled at flashes of bright lightning that lit up the outside world. It was a wonder that she had rarely seen in Gior, any storm wild enough to cause lightning far too dangerous to be standing either on a summit or on the side of a mountain.

In some ways, the Church of the Moon's impressive size almost gave it a similar feeling to being in the underground temple city. Under a dome of clear glass, when the clocks struck midnight on clearer nights the moon could be clearly seen. Circles dominated the designs of the cathedral - in the severe and simple design of the building itself, in the repeating patterns on the stained glass windows and in the marble altar that dominated the back of the nave. Even the fan-vaulted ceiling was designed with the spheres in mind. The entire interior of the church was glowing gently with a pure white light, cleverly radiating from concealed naphtha lamps in moon-shaped sconces on the walls. The low voices of the Everine usually raised together in chorus, echoing around the walls, was drowned out by the downpour outside.

“By the Ten did you see—” The pale woman yelped and jumped in surprise as a violently loud crack of thunder split the air, like great boulders crashing down a cliff face. Athrym quickly turned from the window, standing between the pews of the Church with the edges of her ears bright red and heart pounding in her chest.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that sound.” The galdor muttered just loud enough to be heard over the deluge that pounded the glass dome in wind forced waves, fiddling with the buttons on her rich blue summer coat, loosening them so she could remove it should that be required. Her blouse was charcoal underneath with long sleeves, fastened up to her throat with silver buttons, properly tucked into a similarly colored long skirt. Since returning to Brunnhold, the blonde had let her hair grow out again, pulling it up and away from her face in a high functional ponytail.

“So, Anaxi spell writing. Definitely not as simple as writing an echo spell. Really that’s just a harder syllable here, a repeated stanza there. Not writing a spell at all really, just adjusting it.” The Gioran’s green eyes drifted to the face of her husband-by-legal-union, one brow arching slightly as she finished undoing the buttons.

“And you believe the Crypt library would be a more conducive place for this activity than say, the comfort of our sitting room. Or lounge. Or bed?” The slight cool tone in her voice, and suggestions of places that were not at all appropriate for study, quite possibly giving away all the things the pale creature would rather be doing at this time of evening on such a wild and stormy night. Wouldn’t that be what any other normal married couple would be doing?

Of course there was a passive child to be aware of. And a broody Huane outcast. But…honestly with this type of bluster going about…it would be a cake walk.

But of course, they weren’t really a normal married couple. They’d seen things, awful things, and somewhere in the wide world of Vita being in the Church of the Moon at midnight to work on Nauleth’s spell writing was the most normal thing in the world compared to all of that. It's not like they both didn't have trouble sleeping even now, after seasons back in Anaxas.

Athrym could forgive him for the distraction this provided…just. Even if there were other distractions she could propose.

“Shall we, Professor Siordanti?”

[Nauleth Siordanti]

Midnight on the 9th of Roalis, 2720
Church of the Moon

Nauleth had honestly never been particularly sentimental about the rain, though he did enjoy a good thunderstorm—for purely academic reasons, of course.

"I mean, I somewhat assumed rain held some sort of cultural meaning, considering Ba Brieth." The ginger professor smiled blithely as if to reveal that he had, in fact, been paying attention for all that time they'd been in Gior. He'd perhaps not been paying attention to every detail of the culture, however, mostly because there'd been far more distracting, pressing matters while there, and, honestly, any anecdotes about rain outside the cavernous halls of Qrieth didn't leave the same kind of mark on his memory as, say, hatcher teeth had left in his body.

Lightning danced through stain-glassed windows, casting sudden bold colors across the pale features of his wife and his smile became a grin at her being startled by the reverberation of sound that echoed through the cavernous halls of the place of worship for the Circle. He did so love the way heat could produce sound, the way the air could be used in such a way,

"I like it—the thunder—though I admit I'm perhaps a bit more biased toward the electricity of lightning." Athrym knew the physical sorcerer's focus, the physicist's preferences in academic disciplines. As tempting as it was to reach to help her remove her coat, he simply ran freckled fingers along the hem.

"You mean spell writing in general—not just the Anaxi version. While we've been accused of being quite pompous in our unnecessary stanzas, most Anaxi spellwrits are efficient enough. Logically, an echo spell is a completely different affair, considering—" She had more to say and her mention of staying home, of specifically staying in bed, brought a flush of color to his cheeks. He scoffed at her, mocking impatience, but stepped closer and turned to offer her his arm,

"At home there are too many distractions: yourself included, Mrs. Siordanti." He leaned to whisper in her ear by means of explanation, bending his taller frame just enough and brushing his lips gently along pale skin, "The Crypt libraries are many and focused, and, well, usually less full of students than the usual campus library. It's quite private, really."

He laughed, the warm sound louder in the excellent acoustics of the Church despite the soft constant tones of singing Everine that filled the spaces between the torrential downpour and rumble of distant thunder,

"Have you not been exploring the Crypts yourself yet? I have a few favorite places to study." Naul led them through the stonework and candles, past a quiet pair of veiled clergy, bobbing his head in a bowed greeting, and to the main stairs that led below. There were warning signs, mostly mentioning ghosts and possession risks, as well as a little tourist guide-like map that highlighted important political figures, generals, magisters, and other Brunnhold staff.

Thankfully, there were also several remaining lanterns—it looked as though there weren't many students in the Crypts tonight.

"What are your thoughts on ghosts, hmm?"

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Athrym Bruthgrave]

9th Roalis, 2720
CHURCH OF THE MOON | MIDNIGHT

Athrym tsked, a brow dangerously arched even if the hint of a smile caught her lips as the Anaxi half whispered ridiculous excuses as to why they’d chosen to work in a cold damp crypt rather than a warm soft bed, slipping her arm in his anyway. She couldn't hold the aloof expression long though, breaking into a ticklish giggle as autumn lips brushed against her alabaster skin.
​​
​​ “You are incorrigible Nauleth.” She whispered at his too loud laugh, slapping the red heads arm playfully as they moved towards the entrance to the crypts.
​​
​​ “No I haven't. I had intended to but—” The Gioran nodded at the Everine as they descended, her mouth down turned in a slight pout.
​​
​​ “It felt too much like the Deep. I couldn’t stomach taking these stairs alone.” As they continued down, her hand gripped a little tighter on Naul’s arm, verdant gaze wide in the low light. As they reached the landing chamber, she released her husbands arm and took up a lantern.
​​
​​ “Ghosts? Fades of the Phasmosia’s, echoes of the past. Only children would fear them. Truly. I highly doubt ghosts are a real concern here. Mostly all of this,” The blonde tapped a sign.
​​
​​ “Is poppycock to keep Anaxi youngsters from exploring their biological differences.” She said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, holding her lantern up to look around. In the center of the small chamber was a circular table with a candelabra and a collection of lanterns . This particular room was really very small. On the wall opposite of the exit, shelves were built in and completely filled with books, framing the next doorway into the crypts proper. On one wall was a small writing desk with a chair.
​​
​​Approaching one of the bookshelves, the Gioran refugee ran a hand along the spines, walking slowly along it as she focused her field and read the labels.
​​
​​ "There are sections here on Conversations. Some of them may go into further study of Monite and Mona, or discuss the uses of magic in instrumentation." She stopped in this section and looked around, momentarily glancing back at Nauleth.
​​
​​ "These books are nothing like whats in the library. They are," Closing her eyes the petite creature breathed deeply.
​​
​​ "They are almost alive with the spells written within." Opening her eyes, she smiled.
​​
​​ “Is this where we should set up then? Or will the ghosts come and eat us?” Athrym teased with a soft laugh, the orange glow of the lantern catching against the white highlights in her hair.
​​

[Nauleth Siordanti]

The mention of The Deep drew a wary look from the Anaxi professor, and he swallowed thickly. He'd not thought about that association before planning this trip, his otherwise comfortable thoughts on the Crypts and its memories from his school days overshadowing the hard truth that narrow, confusing corridors in the darkness were now tainted with his own blood and terror.

"Ah, I—" There at the top of the stairs, Nauleth blanched and hesitated, teeth sinking into his lower lip. Maybe this was a terrible idea and it'd not even dawned on him until right now. Maybe he wasn't ready for being in such an enclosed space, no matter how safe he'd decided it was long ago (regardless of the warnings of how haunted it was).

He was already haunted, honestly, even if it was by creatures who weren't ghosts.

"—I didn't think about that. I'm sorry. We don't have to—I can—we can, er—" The redhead fumbled for a moment, heart caught against the back of his throat, before he stopped and shook his head. Turning his attention on the lantern, his expression hardened into something like determination, right side before the left, but his voice wavered just a little when he spoke quietly, "—no. It'll be fine. We're far from Gior, after all."

It was time to move on from those things, to gain strength from them.

He said nothing else for several moments, regathering his composure while a smirk slowly spread across his features, listening to Athrym announce her opinions on ghosts and how Brunnhold faculty perpetuated their mystical existence in order to frighten children.

Like hatchers, right?

Those were real, though.

Did that mean ghosts were, too?

"Even the temperature down here is noticeably warmer. See?" The tall sorcerer cleared his throat, clearly struggling with a great many things all at once, leaning a little closer to his pale wife as she spoke of biological differences with some half-hearted mockery of a scoff, mostly chuckling. She was capable of calming the storm of his usual thoughts when she chose to, to bring a cold moment of focus, though she was also tempestuous enough to be the source of a great many storms in her own right—not that Naul could object to any of them when they were together.

Wandering the narrow catacomb halls with their bodies pressed near was a greater comfort than he could articulate, anyway, and he didn't realize the dark, confined space would at all affect him until he was actually down here. When the Crypts opened into wider, darker, more cavernous spaces and the lantern cast flickering shadows about them, his ears rang and his mouth was very dry in the stale air. He ignored the dizziness, the thrill of pure terror that something would lope out of the darkness, smooth like molten metal, ready to press teeth into his freckled flesh all over again.

Once or twice, his hand slipped from hers, fussing with the lapel of his coat closest to his scars, pretending his clothing bothered him when really he wanted to feel the knots of gnarled skin left behind as a reminder of just how real everything had been that wasn't supposed to be. Tricks of the flame, he told himself, even when a few of the shadows definitely left trails in his vision—

Not the first time, though he'd not spoken of such things out loud, not even to his Gioran wife.

Trauma, he dismissed it all as.

Surely nothing more.

The eldest Siordanti had a vague idea of where he wanted to lead them, and so he did, attempting to focus on his intentions instead of the fluttering of his pulse. It was Athrym who chose the chamber to pause in, however, and he smiled as he lit the candelabra and lanterns slowly, resisting the temptation to do so magically while feeling so flighty and weird. Watching the petite woman run fingers over the spines of old, nearly forgotten books, he leaned his palms on the cold, smooth marble of the table, chest tight for no reason, distracting himself with a brief glance downward at the ring on his finger,

"Hmm? No, none of these are probably even in the library catalogues, Athrym. If I remember correctly, this is the monic theorist quarter—a smaller section here in Anaxas, unfortunately. We tend to think we already know everything—"

Naul managed a laugh, but when the young woman turned, he was quite sure her shadow moved differently. Or he was hallucinating.

"That one there, I, uh—oh. Ghosts—" He rolled his eyes, wanting to smile back at her, wanting to play along with her teasing, but the way the ruddy glow of all the fires he'd lit in the room danced off her features made his breath catch. What should have been a lovely sight filled him with a foreboding sensation, something like dread, and Athrym was instead forced to watch him bring his hands up over his face, rubbing furiously at his eyes,

"Gods, clocking forget about the ghosts—they can sod off, honestly—I probably should've eaten something before coming down here—I feel strange. It's nothing, though—this is an excellent selection of interesting reads. That one—"

He pointed with one hand toward a thick, very old book with peeling leather and no more gilding left on the spine while his other hand fished around in his vest pocket for his spectacles, telling himself he'd see less weird, blurry stuff if he had them on.

"—that one I used in one of my final theoretical research papers in tenth form."

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Athrym Bruthgrave]

9th Roalis, 2720
CHURCH OF THE MOON | MIDNIGHT

“M​mm yes, definitely warmer.” The younger galdor said with a smirk, purposefully brushing against the man with a false ignorance. As they walked, she felt the tension in his field, unspoken though visible. Gior had left deep scars on them both, though Naul perhaps more so. Athrym had a lifetime of emotional stunting and training to pull on, to find her way back to a sense of mild simmering anger at it all, most of the time. She'd been horrified, but she’d been uninjured. Physically at least.
​​
​​Nauleth had nearly died.
​​
​​Her hand was readily there when the red head reached for it, and her field mingled with his in an effort to share comfort. The unmatched Monic particles in their shared aura moved like dancers careful to avoid the others toes.
​​
​​As they entered the room, and she released his hand to approach the books, Athrym mused in magical distraction.
​​
​​ “Maybe it's the ghost of some dusty magister trying to keep you from his favourite Limerick.” Her teasing had been an attempt at lightening the mood after the claustrophobic walk down here, but watching her husband at the table, hands rubbing at his face, the blonde couldn't help but frown.
​​
​​ “uh, this one?” She confirmed, pointing to the book in question and slipping it from the shelf. Coming over to the table, she placed it down before removing her cloak and hanging it on the back of a chair.
​​
​​ “Nauleth, if—” The Gioran began, pursing her lips and reaching for his hands, squeezing them.
​​
​​ “If you need we can go back. This could wait another day.” Concern colored her field, and her summer gaze looked at him under a creased brow.
​​
​​ “Or we can…” Turning her eyes to the shelves, she looked over the tomes.
​​
​​ "We could probably find something in here to help figure out that book.” Her gaze returned to his, searching. That book, stolen from Lomenak along with Nauleth’s notes. The one from the body in the underground mausoleum, the one before the doors had opened. Filled with old dialect Gioran and strange monite. Etchings of—of things unknown. Strange things.
​​
​​ “But uh—” The blonde cleared her throat, trying another train of thought.
​​
​​ “I’m really interested in seeing how we could work echo casting into a spell, just saying. Perhaps we just need to dig in and focus on something other than our memories.” The Gioran smiled, or at least, it was the ghost of a smile.
​​

[Nauleth Siordanti]

"I don't need to go back. I'm fine." Naul frowned at Athrym's concern, desperate to just find some sense of normalcy after months of pain, venom-induced illness, and political imprisonment. He knew that such things were theoretically impossible, somewhere in the back of his over-analytical mind he knew the truth, but all the young professor wanted was to feel as though he was standing on his own two feet on solid ground instead of being swept away by magical and historical madness. He didn't like the way the rest of his life had begun to feel slowly pulled apart like the way that Rift had felt in the dark of the Deep.

It didn't help that he saw things sometimes—that he'd seen things waking as much as he had sleeping. It didn't help that he felt strange, disconnected, and often too easily distracted by thoughts he didn't entirely believe to be his own.

Auditory hallucinations. Visual ones, too. Perhaps merely mental scars left behind from trauma. Perhaps something else entirely.

To be fair, the redheaded Anaxi hadn't made much attempt to seek help or to speak out loud of the little quirks he'd brought home with him like so much luggage from Gior. Who would understand? Would Athrym even believe him, despite all they'd been through together?

"We can push on to some of the linguist crypts if you'd rather pursue better translation tools for that book, Athrym." He pinched the bridge of his nose before sliding on his spectacles, the double vision that had begun to creep into his sight not fading even when he'd balanced the glasses so perfectly. Something strange was happening and yet Naul didn't want to give it life. He tried to resist the rising panic that fluttered in his chest, the weird sensation of the room beginning to tilt as if it was floating down the Arova on a leaf.

Hear me.

"I—I want to understand it more, too, and I'm not entirely sure—"

Here in the veins of Vita, beneath the skin, I know you can hear me.

Nauleth blinked and set a palm down on the small carved stone table, a wave of nausea washing through him, shuddering at the weird sensation of a voice. He'd heard it before in his nightmares, in his sleep, in venom-induced fever dreams while his injuries were treated with calculated slowness.

"—I'm not entirely sure that we should be looking at monic theory so much as digging deeper into what, exactly is written." He literally tried to ignore what rang in his mind, what seemed to reverberate through his ley lines like someone had tapped a tuning fork next to his ear. He paused, inhaling sharply. The darkness beneath the crypts felt thicker. It felt like it was breathing. It felt like he could feel it brushing against his pale, freckled skin.

"But I can't guarantee any Anaxi intellectual ever put too much effort into learning ancient Gioran. I'd much rather spend some time planning some echo casting practice than thinking about anything else, but we both know that—" The tall professor wasn't hiding things well, unable to disguise the disturbing expression from creeping into his face, one side before the other. He bit his lip,

"—we both know that—"

I am tired of this darkness, of this grave. Bring light to me.

"—I need to sit down." The redhead slid to the floor without any gracefulness, bringing one hand upward to press two firm fingers against his temple where it'd begun to ache. Still, stubbornly, he continued to pretend things were normal. When he looked up at the pale, petite figure of his lovely wife, she seemed to be glowing in the dim light, the radiance that curled off her lithe figure dancing against a thick, living darkness that seemed to have poured into the room from the crypt hall they'd wandered so casually,

"Just a little weak all of a sudden. That's all. Perhaps it's the stale air." He waved a hand, gritting his teeth, "Clocking hell, I'm so tired of this, Athrym. I do just want to move on, to focus back on my studies—on our studies and our life together here. Godsdamnit. Aim for magister. Coach some dueling league. Just forget ... everything. But we can't, can we?"

He opened his mouth to say something, to tell her the truth, but snapped it shut again. How did he even describe this without sounding clocking crazy?

Set me free.

"No—I—"

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Athrym Bruthgrave]

9th Roalis, 2720
CHURCH OF THE MOON | MIDNIGHT

Athrym looked over the man’s face carefully, her brow drawing deeper as she watched his features. His body language was tense, hand reaching to pinch at his freckled nose, and his response to her gentle prompts was more of a distracted automatic reply than a considered one.
​​
​​ “Nauleth, I—” The Gioran reached to stroke ginger hair from his forehead, where it had slipped and lent even more so to the strangeness of the Anaxi’s current state. Gold rimmed eyes seemed glassy, distant, and the petite woman shook her head.
​​
​​ “I think we should go—” She started again, watching the press of his hand on the cool table, stomach turning slightly as a familiar look swept across Naul’s face. It was panic. She wouldn’t ever forget that look, it was etched into her mind. The Deep, it seemed, would forever ensure that.
​​
​​ “Echo casting that’s fine, yes of course. I mean, you’re right. I highly doubt—oh!” Athrym blinked as her taller husband slid to the floor, looking down at him for a moment with a stunned face. Absurdly, the thought ran through her mind that this was the first time she’d seen him at this angle, and wondered if she always looked like this to him. So….
​​
​​So small.
​​
​​Dropping down to a crouch in a pool of skirts, Athrym pressed the back of her hand to his head, field now invasive as she searched his own for signs of perhaps illness or spellwork. He was talking, even as she fluttered over him.
​​
​​ “Lay down, on your back dear, feet up on here.” She reached two fingers and spoke a syllable, one of the chairs at the table scraping sharply in the chamber towards her. The pale galdor nodded, looking into Nauleth’s face with a frown.
​​
​​ “Naul, Nauleth look at me please. I think you’re having a panic attack. I need you to tell me what’s going on, what are you feeling right now? I might be able to stabilise you, and call the priests upstairs for a healer. Just, talk to me.” Athrym said soothingly, not willing to focus on the things in the dark of their minds that she knew were weighing on them.
​​
​​On him, more so.
​​
​​ “I…no we can’t. But, we can move on. You told me that, at your home. You were the one who told me I’m not bound by what Lomenak’s worth of me. And we must speak, we must show the truth to Anaxas, even if they don’t understand it. I’m sure Ophelia will have the ear of the right people soon enough. We’ve just got to be calm. We’re okay. You’re okay.” Thinking the red heads panic to be the grip of painful, terrifying memories, the younger woman tried to talk sense.
​​
​​ “Talk to me, please.” She said again, summer eyes full of worry and empathy.
​​

[Nauleth Siordanti]

"It's not a panic attack, Athrym." Nauleth grit his teeth as he somewhat resisted, somewhat complied. It was clear he didn't want to lay down here on this cold crypt floor and he didn't want to be still, but his gold-rimmed irises were almost hidden from view by dilated pupils and he was hardly seeing anything in the small antechamber they'd paused in. Mostly darkness had filled his vision, swirling with shapes like the ghosts he'd joked about so callously, a particular visage never quite in focus as if it were obscured by a terrifying fog, looming over him while making its bizarre pleas.

"I've been—"

I have waited too long. So long.

"—having these hallucinations ever since—the Deep—the hatcher—and—" The eldest Siordanti struggled with complete sentences, not looking at the Gioran above him in a pool of fabric, closing his eyes instead. He sighed, not wanting to succumb to it all but his heart was beating as if it were going to escape from his chest and his breathing became very erratic—frightened and trapped. He managed to string together syllables, talking through some of it, desperate to talk over the voices that raised in pained cacophony in the soundscape of his mind as if they were right next to him, all around him,

"I blamed it on trauma—and the-the-the hatcher venom—but, now? I think these are real."

His sharp, freckled features drew together in an expression of pain and concentration both, sweat already beginning to gather at his temples, clammy. He curled his hands into fists, attempting to describe what he saw as it all felt like it was trying to drown him in sound and weirdness,

"I hear this voice a lot—telling me things. Calling out to me. Claiming to be trapped in the veins of Vita."

Left for dead. Abandoned.

The dark of the crypts crept closer, began to flow like mists to fill his vision, and Naul groaned like he was half-asleep, having a nightmare. Gasping, he fumbled for Athrym, seeking to hold her hands. He'd clenched his so tightly there were indents on his palms, and for several moments, the tall redhead fell quiet, eyes moving beneath his eyelids as if he were dreaming.

Inhaling sharply, his eyes opened again and he looked desperately for the petite blonde's face, staring at her,

"Somewhere far beyond here, something—someone is reaching out to me. I don't understand how. I don't know how we're connected. It started after ... after the Deep. I can't make them go away—these visions come without warning."

His ragged breathing began to slow a little, the voice in his head suddenly silent and the strange spectral visions of what he'd always thought were like ghostly hatchers faded from his direct vision,

Look for me. Look for my trail of blood in your dustiest of old books and you will find the path to my freedom.

"And just like that—they're gone."

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Athrym Bruthgrave]

9th Roalis, 2720
CHURCH OF THE MOON | MIDNIGHT

The blonde fussed over auburn hair, long delicate fingers stroking it aside from the Anaxi’s forehead with a tender care, absentmindedly shushing to calm the taller man.

“It’s okay. I know what it’s like, you don’t have to—oh.” She paused in her soothing sharing of the panic and dread that had tailed her since they’d left Qrieth, blinking in shock and pausing her hand. Her green eyes looked down at him, brow slightly drawn.

Hallucinations. That wasn’t good.

Athrym listened though, patiently, waiting for Nauleth to fumble through his words with a growing sense of concern. Her lips pouted in a thoughtful frown, unable to quiet piece together what the Anaxi scholar was saying.

“I…I’m sure it’s most likely a side affect of the stress, or trauma. Your mind is…you’re probably thinking about it, even when you don’t think you are. And I mean, you’re the only person in modern history to…Naul?” The hair on the back off her neck stood on end as the red head grasped for her hands, holding them tightly in hers, noting how cold and clammy they were.

“Someone reaching…what…like a, a scrying spell? I don’t understand, Nauleth. You need to breathe. We can talk to one of the healers, maybe there’s a way to…to clear your head.” Concern had seeped into her voice now, unable to help the way her field drew closer to her, fearful of the darkness around them when there was nothing here to fear. He was looking at her, but by Imaan it was with desperation—a face she’d seen once before and had never wanted to see again.

“They’re gone? Are you…are you alright? Do you want some water? I think I could pull a simple Water spell from the stones here, if you need.” The platinum creature didn’t know where to start, knelt on the cold stone floor of the crypts under Brunnhold, contemplating the sudden realization that her husband might not be entirely of sound mind. And frankly, it was not to be unexpected. After the events of the Deep, and their imprisonment in Qrieth, followed by their harrowing escape from the Da Huane matriach….it was a wonder they’d held it together at all.

And yet, it was entirely possible it was something more. They’d seen the unbelievable down in that wretched place. Could it be possible that something was truly speaking to the Anaxi?

Wetting her lips nervously, the young woman squeezed his hands, catching his eyes as a cold shiver ran down her spine.

“We need to speak to a magister Naul, someone who can delve into your mind and your field. It’s possible, maybe, that Lomenak perhaps has wound some sort of spell without us realizing it. A binding spell perhaps, of sorts, to twist with your thoughts and put these strange words into your head.” She shifted, moving a hand again to brush at his face and adjust his glasses, brow drawn again in a more resolute face.

“Or…perhaps it’s the Daegerote, calling for you to seek it out? No one’s ever seen it before, not in our lifetime at least. Perhaps it’s got a message, or a warning?” Shifting suddenly the petite creature offered to help the man to his feet, or at least to a chair, and reached for her pocket to pull out a small note book and a pencil.

“What else do the voices say to you Nauleth? We should write this down. Everything. Perhaps we can find a clue as to who—or what—is behind this.” There was no tone of disbelief or pity in her accented voice, instead a strong desire to help him free of this terrifying experience. A frosty ire curled in her field, angry at the thought that someone—or something—was intent on harming her husband.