HHE11: Interlude 2 - Tue 22/12/15 14:17 UTC
The City of Wonders, Horizon. The sun rose, shedding golden light across waters of Pocket Bay and illuminating the marvellous city. Each of its many districts were formed floating platters, slowly revolving, climbing and descending according to a system of interlinked calendars. The ornate buildings were of the finest and most improbable architecture, built with only beauty and ingenuity in mind. Horizon was defended by much more than walls. It was built on the largest magical power node in the Empire, a confluence of ley lines once exploited by the Wizard King himself, and for centuries had been the home of the greatest archmage the world had ever known, Ar.
Streams of water flowed between the districts, sometimes carried on aquaducts, sometimes falling from outlets, from one to the other lower down. Morning mist lingered over the city, creating rainbows of light as they were touched by the sun.
Upwards through the City of Wonders shot a richly woven carpet. Sat upon it was a gnome, his long nose quivering in the wind and his moustaches, that grew from each nostril, billowing behind him. He was wrapped, literally head to toe, in a long woollen scarf, which was also tied around his point hat and kept it from blowing off.
The gnome on the flying carpet zig-zagged and spiralled around this and that, on his way to Horizon's highest tier. The carpet was joined by an escort of squawking, four-winged arrowhawks, some longer than twenty feet.
The buildings of the highest tier looked almost like giant crystal vases, etched and filigreed. Around the perimeter, at intervals, sat lammasus, watching all who passed but they seemed to recognise the gnome.
Swooping down, a curtain of water drew aside for the gnome and he entered through an archway into a large solarium where he finally alighted.
The Archmage's solarium was crowded with globes, orreries, banks of crystal balls, and several floor to ceiling maps drawn from magical, animated inks.
There were other bizarre, bird-like creatures, similar to the arrowhawks, perched around the room. They celebrated the morning glory with cheerful song.
Updrafts of cool, fresh air blew into the room from pepperpot holes in the floor but there were plenty of grimy surfaces, some splattered with droppings, some tinted green with lichen. The Archmage did not have time for housework.
In fact, he stood with his back to the gnome, stooped over a scrying glass as large as the gnome's flying carpet. His robe was irridescent purple and turqoise. Alongside him was a short, six-legged construct made from many different coppery alloys.
It carried a bucket, from which sprouted long, tall straws that the Archmage occasionally leaned over to and sucked noisily on. The Archmage had a taste for iced coffee.
"Something from the Overworld has definitely touched down," He mumbled, perhaps to himself, "but I see that the village of Greenhill has been saved...."
The gnome cleared his throat but it was muffled by the scarf. He yanked it down under his chin and tried again with the throat clearing.
"What is it, Snood?" Asked the Archmage without turning, "I thought you were on vacation in that pocket dimension of yours."
"It's not really mine, Your Grace, I just loan it from a genie... but as always, you're absolutely right, I am off any moment now." Replied the gnome with a glug of pendantry and a dash of sycophancy.
"And yet here you stand," Said the Archmage, "with urgent news on the tip of your tongue. So speak Snood and then for goodness sake, be about your fishing."
Snood straightened up. This was official unofficial business, and the Archmage was a busy man!
"I've come directly from the Crucible, Your Grace, where they've been testing river samples sent from Rosencliff, a town on the Sword Point, not far from here.
"The water is poisoned. Pyrite, lead and um... dragon's blood."
If the Archmage was concerned, he didn't show it. Snood reasoned he was probably working on far greater problems. Preventing the Iron Sea from disgorging giant, city-stomping monsters into the Empire, or ensuring the summer harvest wasn't blighted and the Empire didn't starve to death. That sort of thing.
The gnome sniffed and wiped his nose, deciding to continue onto the 'best bit'.
"Obviously there is more to the story, Your Grace. The potency of the dragon's blood was beyond any in our records. We think it's from a Primeval, a dragon older than the Dragon Empire, perhaps as old as the Primals themselves.
"If its body parts could be collected before they immolate... well, they'd be priceless. Of course, by rights we should have reported these findings to Axis, but I'm not convinced that would be best for Rosencliff or the arcane arts.
"Nope, I thought we should recruit someone who knows what they're doing, does things for the right reasons, but doesn't mind making some money on the side."
"And who might that be?" Asked the Archmage.
"Well, apparently Rosencliff have already despatched a party upriver. Amongst them Jexric the Jester of Drakkenhall. Jex Dragon-spoor. Jex---"
"I am aware of the bard and his unique qualities. But no."
"No, Your Grace? Not Jexric?"
"Not anyone. The sample was probably exposed to raw magic while we had it on the workbench. That would elevate the reading, and it wouldn't be the first time we'd made such a mistake." Sighed the Archmage, sliding a finger over the scrying glass.
The scarved gnome frowned, then nodded. That seemed a likely explanation, now that he thought about it.
Drawing in a long-suffering breath, the Archmage looked over his shoulder at Snood.
"A good thing you didn't contact Axis, eh. Could have been embarrassing! But don't worry about it, Snood. Leave it with me. Go, take your vacation. Catch a whopper for me!"
The gnome looked rueful, shuffling from one foot to the other, reluctant to lumber the Archmage with such a trivial thing. Faced with the Archmage's unyielding back and much needed time away from Horizon, Snood decided not to argue. With a glad smile, he shrugged and tugged up his scarf. Who was he to second guess the Archmage? And frankly, departing on vacation without a moment's delay sounded like very sage counsel to Snood. He leapt excitedly back onto his flying carpet and off he went.
The Archmage's shoulders dropped. His tired eyes looked distant. Rolling up his sleeve, he glanced down at the luminous orium tattoo on his forearm. It was the symbol of the Eternal Alchemists, from which he'd derived his own crest. That was a long time ago when he was younger and more foolish.
"Some footsteps are not meant to be followed." The Archmage muttered to himself, rubbing his hand over the symbol.
Streams of water flowed between the districts, sometimes carried on aquaducts, sometimes falling from outlets, from one to the other lower down. Morning mist lingered over the city, creating rainbows of light as they were touched by the sun.
Upwards through the City of Wonders shot a richly woven carpet. Sat upon it was a gnome, his long nose quivering in the wind and his moustaches, that grew from each nostril, billowing behind him. He was wrapped, literally head to toe, in a long woollen scarf, which was also tied around his point hat and kept it from blowing off.
The gnome on the flying carpet zig-zagged and spiralled around this and that, on his way to Horizon's highest tier. The carpet was joined by an escort of squawking, four-winged arrowhawks, some longer than twenty feet.
The buildings of the highest tier looked almost like giant crystal vases, etched and filigreed. Around the perimeter, at intervals, sat lammasus, watching all who passed but they seemed to recognise the gnome.
Swooping down, a curtain of water drew aside for the gnome and he entered through an archway into a large solarium where he finally alighted.
The Archmage's solarium was crowded with globes, orreries, banks of crystal balls, and several floor to ceiling maps drawn from magical, animated inks.
There were other bizarre, bird-like creatures, similar to the arrowhawks, perched around the room. They celebrated the morning glory with cheerful song.
Updrafts of cool, fresh air blew into the room from pepperpot holes in the floor but there were plenty of grimy surfaces, some splattered with droppings, some tinted green with lichen. The Archmage did not have time for housework.
In fact, he stood with his back to the gnome, stooped over a scrying glass as large as the gnome's flying carpet. His robe was irridescent purple and turqoise. Alongside him was a short, six-legged construct made from many different coppery alloys.
It carried a bucket, from which sprouted long, tall straws that the Archmage occasionally leaned over to and sucked noisily on. The Archmage had a taste for iced coffee.
"Something from the Overworld has definitely touched down," He mumbled, perhaps to himself, "but I see that the village of Greenhill has been saved...."
The gnome cleared his throat but it was muffled by the scarf. He yanked it down under his chin and tried again with the throat clearing.
"What is it, Snood?" Asked the Archmage without turning, "I thought you were on vacation in that pocket dimension of yours."
"It's not really mine, Your Grace, I just loan it from a genie... but as always, you're absolutely right, I am off any moment now." Replied the gnome with a glug of pendantry and a dash of sycophancy.
"And yet here you stand," Said the Archmage, "with urgent news on the tip of your tongue. So speak Snood and then for goodness sake, be about your fishing."
Snood straightened up. This was official unofficial business, and the Archmage was a busy man!
"I've come directly from the Crucible, Your Grace, where they've been testing river samples sent from Rosencliff, a town on the Sword Point, not far from here.
"The water is poisoned. Pyrite, lead and um... dragon's blood."
If the Archmage was concerned, he didn't show it. Snood reasoned he was probably working on far greater problems. Preventing the Iron Sea from disgorging giant, city-stomping monsters into the Empire, or ensuring the summer harvest wasn't blighted and the Empire didn't starve to death. That sort of thing.
The gnome sniffed and wiped his nose, deciding to continue onto the 'best bit'.
"Obviously there is more to the story, Your Grace. The potency of the dragon's blood was beyond any in our records. We think it's from a Primeval, a dragon older than the Dragon Empire, perhaps as old as the Primals themselves.
"If its body parts could be collected before they immolate... well, they'd be priceless. Of course, by rights we should have reported these findings to Axis, but I'm not convinced that would be best for Rosencliff or the arcane arts.
"Nope, I thought we should recruit someone who knows what they're doing, does things for the right reasons, but doesn't mind making some money on the side."
"And who might that be?" Asked the Archmage.
"Well, apparently Rosencliff have already despatched a party upriver. Amongst them Jexric the Jester of Drakkenhall. Jex Dragon-spoor. Jex---"
"I am aware of the bard and his unique qualities. But no."
"No, Your Grace? Not Jexric?"
"Not anyone. The sample was probably exposed to raw magic while we had it on the workbench. That would elevate the reading, and it wouldn't be the first time we'd made such a mistake." Sighed the Archmage, sliding a finger over the scrying glass.
The scarved gnome frowned, then nodded. That seemed a likely explanation, now that he thought about it.
Drawing in a long-suffering breath, the Archmage looked over his shoulder at Snood.
"A good thing you didn't contact Axis, eh. Could have been embarrassing! But don't worry about it, Snood. Leave it with me. Go, take your vacation. Catch a whopper for me!"
The gnome looked rueful, shuffling from one foot to the other, reluctant to lumber the Archmage with such a trivial thing. Faced with the Archmage's unyielding back and much needed time away from Horizon, Snood decided not to argue. With a glad smile, he shrugged and tugged up his scarf. Who was he to second guess the Archmage? And frankly, departing on vacation without a moment's delay sounded like very sage counsel to Snood. He leapt excitedly back onto his flying carpet and off he went.
The Archmage's shoulders dropped. His tired eyes looked distant. Rolling up his sleeve, he glanced down at the luminous orium tattoo on his forearm. It was the symbol of the Eternal Alchemists, from which he'd derived his own crest. That was a long time ago when he was younger and more foolish.
"Some footsteps are not meant to be followed." The Archmage muttered to himself, rubbing his hand over the symbol.