Sigma
VampiretwilightNorthern Mycae
“Rain, again..” a deep, commanding voice said, gazing out of a massive stained glass window. He could see for miles, miles of land that both lived and died under his thumb. Bursts of lightning illuminated the trees and villages in his domain, but this sight was nothing in comparison to what to the power this man sought.
“I know it’s here.” the man said before motioning towards one of the large set of doors. “Come Aristal, Have you brought the books I asked for?”
A frail yet once athletic framed woman stood by the door holding a massive tome, only the light of the hallways and a single lantern upon a great desk illuminating the book covered room before her. His question would seem odd to anyone unfamiliar with the man, for he was Cornwalkis, the mighty general, but much more diligent scholar of the mystical.
Taking careful steps into the room, careful not to ruffle the thin yet fine linen carpets, nor step on a loose leaflet of paper, covered in strange writings, Aristal approached the man. The study smelt of old paper, and fresh ink, the iron stinging her nose as she got closer and closer to the writing booth by the window, where her eyes met the powerful frame of the man, outlined by the dark blue light of the rainstorm outside. Lightning struck, pressing his image in her mind, and his negative in her sight.
Aristal laid the book down carefully onto the booth, albeit even the slightest bump of its landing was enough to make her shiver, unsure on how her new master was to react to any trespassing sound, or even the slightest smudge of error.
In a dull tone, “Excellent.” was all Cornwalkis could muster as he slowly ran his gloved fingers across the cover. “This.. Aristal, this has to be it. Years of searching.” he said, now with an almost desperate excitement.
For a few moments, the slave girl, Aristal could do nothing but watch her master carefully thumb through the pages in what was a mix of frustration and delight. “Aristal, Long ago I had asked about your people and their ideals regarding oh what was it, spirituality?” He began tapping a strange symbol on one of the still dusty pages of the ancient tome, “Tell me, what does this mean to you?”
“It is the mark often used in one of the children’s tales,” Aristal answered obediently, more out of fear than respect, “a whimsical conclusion to a tale of a scared baby.” In truth she wanted to trace the half circle mark with her finger to show him the trick, but she was far too nervous to even move from her statuesque like stance by the booth.
“A scared baby.” Cornwalkis said, clearly unimpressed with her answer. “Then tell me, Aristal, what would scare a baby enough to be worthy of print?” He shook his head slightly as he looked into her eyes, “Tell me Aristal, what is it.”
Aristal placed her finger roughly onto the symbol, clearly a little frightened, her finger shaking. Tracing it as it was, it almost resembled a frown, tracing it backwards she muttered, “a frown upside down is a smile, that was the punchline, I swear!”
She frantically traced it again and again, her finger jumping from one end of the crescent, which pointed to the word “Handia,” while when her finger raced to the other end it spelt “indarra.” The longer she did this, the more her eyes widened as she read the words she kept pointing to and fro. Slowly she looked over to her master, surprised, “the title of another story,” she murmured.
Cornwalkis rose his voice, and his figure itself, “Another story?”. As his frustration seemed to swell, a burst of lightning illuminated him, covering her in his shadow. He took a deep breath before calming, “Let us talk of a story then, something to perhaps loosen your lips. Your people were quite removed from this world, yes? And yet valued by the natives of that land for your heathen ways. Do you even realize how expensive you were to procu-” He paused, and forced an apologetic tone, “I suppose that is besides the point.”
“We are obviously at an impasse’ at this point. Your stories of children's nightmares seem to bring no clear answer.” Cornwalkis turned his attention back towards the book and sighed heavily, “So what is the title of this next book. And know that if you’re misleading me, I’ll have your head.”
“Handia-indarra is not a book,” Aristal straightened her pose, trying her best to force confidence into her truths. She shook her head, “our people do not write such stories down, they are too problematic. Only a select few know of its plot and conclusion. Our scholar being one of them, and any at his bedside during his passing.”
“It is a tale for fools to follow, the title a subtle trap if you ask me,” She leaned in to try and punctuate her point. Saying the words slowly she attempted to cast any further questions away by expressing the title with as much sarcasm as possible, “a conclusion that promises power beyond imagination to be summoned at the will of the finder.”
Straightening once again she crossed her arms “, It’s pure madness.”
It was almost as if he had stars in his eyes as the word power deafened everything she had said afterwards, “Perhaps there is more to this than I realized, perhaps there is more to you.” he said confidently, “Traps are only traps when fools spring them.” He turned away from her to stare out of the window. “Aristal, pack my things. I believe a trip to your ancestral home may shed some light on this riddle you’ve placed before us.”
“But,” She went to say his name but stuttered, not knowing what exactly she should call him while maintaining her dignity, “L-L-L...Lord! I told you, this is insane. It was kept away because it was deemed too powerful, that it was too dangerous for one person to wield!”
“I am not sure as to which part of ‘pack my things’ you do not understand.” Cornwalkis said, lazily waving her away. He never made eye contact as he purposely shoved her aside as he made his way to the doors, slamming them behind him.
Propelled slightly by the shove, Aristal sat into Cornwalkis’ chair, as broken and dispirited as the moment of her capture. Though they dressed her malnourished body in silks, she felt of rags. She let her head hang, and sucked in her breath to savor the last few minutes of innocence before she betrayed her family's secret to the world. Her breath escaped her lungs and her eyes closed, frightened and forced into treason, she stood back up. To her homelands she was to return, but not the fit hunter she left as, but a frail slave, a traitor.
