9:32, 21st of Haring
Nevarra City Alienage
The snow was carved from moonlight, dusting the streets of the Alienage. Lanterns flickered, shadows dancing across the unseeing faces of statues and tapestries alike. The streets were nearly empty. The stillness was complete but for the occasional scurrying of rats and the distant hum of the city. The wind whispered through the twists and turns of the streets, conducting the great branches of the Vhenadahl to play a song lovelier than even the Chant. Even in the shadows of the night, a thousand colours gleamed along the base of their great oak. Incense burned in copper dishes at its base, curls of smoke twining around prayer flags and ribbons.
Emaruil would never tire of studying the Vhenadahl. Hundreds of years of wishes and dreams and stories had been carved and painted into its bark. As a child, she had attempted to climb the tree whenever she found a spare moment. It had been nearly ten name-days since she had last scrambled up its sides. In the stillness of the night, she had the mad impulse to clamber up into its branches, to climb until she could touch the stars. Her palm flattened against a griffon painted along its sloping sides. It would be easier now, nearly a foot and a half taller than she had been as a child—but there was no time to indulge her flight of fancy. A shiver trailed down her spine as she broke away from the Vhenadahl. Drawing the black and grey robes of her station tighter about her frame, she quickened her steps towards the gates.
The guard posted tensed as she approached. Emaruil raised her hands, better displaying the sigil of the Mortalitasi woven into her robes. The guard relaxed. He began the laborious task of unlocking the gates. Emaruil watched warily, trying to shake the feeling of doing something wrong. Even after nearly two years of working long nights in the Grand Necropolis, she found leaving the Alienage after curfew troubling. It was a right denied to almost every other elf in the Alienage. Those who did linger among the humans after dark were either easy prey or thugs themselves.
As an Aide, Emaruil could walk among the humans in the moonlight without fear. The star and skull embroidered on her chest was a shield stronger than steel. Four years ago she had heard of an elven Aide being butchered by a drunken Winters mercenary—the Mortalitasi had his head on a pike within the week. Yet, even armed with this knowledge, she couldn’t quite bite back the anxiety that plagued her footsteps beyond the Alienage.
Emaruil kept her footsteps light and her senses alert as she made for the main road. The Mortalitasi would undoubtedly avenge her death, but that would be of little use to her. Better to hurry. The sooner she was underground, the sooner she could breathe again. Dusky hands adjusted her headscarf, tucking her ears deeper into black silk.
The walk took nearly half an hour. It was blissfully quiet, the road patrolled frequently by a full guard. Emaruil was hardly comforted by the presence of shem in armor. If her robes had not borne the star and skull, the guards would be more a threat than the thugs they were meant to deter. Emaruil kept her head down and her pace quick. Her nerves only eased when she caught sight of the sweeping gates of the Grand Necropolis. As a child, she had found the sight unnerving, a reminder of the other world buried beneath their feet. It had belonged more to the fade than the world of flesh, a story to keep children in line. She had never thought to know its halls. But life had taken a strange turn, and she found herself intimately familiar with the mysteries of the catacombs.
The gates stood open wide, a stream of people passing underneath arches of beautifully posed skeletons. Common laborers departed for the night, covered in dust and weary. Judging by the sheer quantity of workers, Emaruil supposed the latest Pentaghast tomb annex had finally been approved. She raised a hand in greeting to those she recognized, wishing them well. She made for the stairs extending deep into the bowels of the earth. Silver mage fire danced in lanterns along the walls. Emaruil cast a final glance at the surface, the rare dusting of snow and the infinite blackness of the night, and began the long walk into the catacombs.
Tonight they were to begin the mummification of a Senior Enchanter of the Circle. Emaruil had heard of the man’s death earlier in the week—he’d fallen ill earlier in the winter, and never managed to recover. His family had wealth and the clout to preserve his flesh, and had embarked upon negotiations for his entry into the Necropolis. Emaruil prepared for a long night; it was imperative to remove all the organs tonight to properly prepare his body for entombment. She stifled a yawn.
The hallways dwarfed her. Emaruil could never have fathomed the sheer enormity of the tombs before working here. There were whispers that the catacombs had first been carved by enslaved dwarves, but Emaruil was uncertain if there were any truths in the legends. Regardless of who had carved out these tunnels, she could not help but be at peace here. Statues and tapestries and skeletons lined every surface, glittering gold and marble and gems the size of oranges placed into eye sockets. At first, she had thought the pervasive decoration of bones to be strange, but over the years she had grown almost fond of them.
The chamber was still. A large dais awaited the arrival of the body and the Mortalitasi. Emaruil strode towards the marble platform and the several baskets beside it, rolling her grey sleeves. There were only a few hours before the body was brought to clean the chamber, and she was already running late.