To Save a World Ch. 05

It seemed to gleam under the darkening sky, taunting her.

She never expected crafting from stones to be so difficult, but she never thought that she would feel so useless, either. Trasnu's work became a constant reminder that it is indeed possible she just can't do it, for some stupid up reason.

Lydia hit the larger rock with the smaller one on her hands, and the larger rock split into two.

"Ugh! " Before she knew it, Lydia was throwing both pieces of rock away, smashing them to the ground.

"And that is going to be enough for the day, I think." Trasnu smoothly interjected. He rose from his position as he carefully ran his fingers through a newly formed leaf-shaped blade. Aaron and Lydia's eyes stuck disbelievingly at the weapon, practically glowing with envy.

"You've got to make them as thin as you can," he said conversationally as they began their leisurely trek back to the camp, "Or else you won't be able to make it as sharp as you want. The leaf shape structure is important so that -". The beastman prattled on and on. Lydia and Aaron tried their best to politely give perfunctory responses, but the jovial elder barely seemed to notice anyway.

She didn't know about Aaron, but Lydia was sulking. Her brewing resentment sat heavy in her chest, small but unpleasantly noticeable, though she tried to ignore it. Why couldn't she do something so seemingly simple? She couldn't even begin to try to do it - she always broke her slab of rock soon after starting. Does this mean she was incapable? She was already the weakest link in the group - she did not want to be the burden. And here was her chance to learn, but she had no idea what she was doing!

Lydia snuck a glance towards Trasnu, his bushy wolf tail swaying languidly as he walked ahead of them. 'And him,' she thought, the uncomfortable feeling of being made fun of swirling heavily in her chest. Why couldn't he just teach them properly? He never struck Lydia as the boastful, contemptuous type - but then everybody has got to have their weakness.

'He wants to feed his ego yet leave you unprepared. ' A small, ugly voice in her mind whispered. 'He reserves his knowledge so that he may be the hero when the time comes, because he felt humbled that he had to be saved from the slavers by hapless humans.'

The voice nagged at the very back of her mind. It always disappears like a wisp of smoke, but she could feel its vile smell clinging to her thoughts, tainting her opinion of the fatherly beastman ever so little.

"And here we are," Trasnu sighed. "It is good to be home, eh? Even if this is all we have for a moment, it is home."

"Yes," Lydia agreed, guilt immediately blossoming in her chest.

"How was it?" Serche asked, greeting them with a wave. She shared a meaningful look with Trasnu that went unnoticed by the sulking youths.

"It went exactly as I thought it would." Lydia looked at the ground in embarrassment. "Do you have what I asked you?" Trasnu asked the Shaman.

Serche nodded, giving Trasnu two long, straight sticks. Lydia supposed that they would soon house the perfectly crafted spearheads that the hunter was carrying, and she was right. Trasnu carefully inserted the spearheads into a ready split in the stick, and was carefully tied off by strings that Serche seemingly produced out of nowhere. The lengthy strings of tough fiber wound around and around the split in the stick, forcing it together, tightly securing the deadly-sharp piece of rock on its end. The final result was a real, straightforward spear; a long, strong shaft with a razor-edged spearhead.

Trasnu hefted the weapon in his hands, testing its weight, lightly tossing it up in the air a few times. Lydia thought that the spear was a little bit too short for him - after all, shouldn't spears be just as long as your own body? But then again, what did she know? She can't even make the smallest, pointy bit of it. Finally, Trasnu nodded and carefully placed the spear on the ground. He leisurely repeated the same process with the other wooden shaft of stick.

The silence that ensued as Trasnu worked was palpable to Lydia, lending the event an atmosphere of ceremony. Lydia has never had a god to worship, and her experience with ceremonies were only limited to the Searle's annual festivals, but she could sense something close to religiousness in the way that the hunter slowly and carefully wound the fiber around the split in the shaft. His left hand firmly grasped the spear's shaft, as his right pulled the fiber with just enough tension, winding it mindfully around the split where the spearhead was housed. Eventually, he finished securing the spearhead, finishing it in some magical knot that Lydia couldn't quite catch, and Trasnu held before him his second weapon of the day.

He picked up the shorter spear from the ground, and handed it to Lydia. "Here. This is yours now."

"W- what?" Lydia stared wide-eyed at the offering as if it was a wriggling, poisonous snake. "Why? You made it, it's yours."

The beastman shrugged. "I made it for a lesson. Unfortunately, I cannot keep it for myself. The haft is very short."

Lydia accepted the offer almost reverently, holding the spear with both hands. She didn't know the first thing about spears, nor what to do with them - but this one had a reassuring weight about it, and its smooth surface felt like an old friend. "Thank you." She said in wide-eyed wonder.

Trasnu grinned at her, turned to Aaron and tossed the other spear at him. "Master," The hunter nodded his assent to the young man. Aaron and Lydia stared at each other with surprise in their eyes.

"For the record, I have no idea what's happening." Aaron admitted drily. "But you said something about making these for a lesson. What was the lesson, then?"

"I don't know," Trasnu responded, moving away from the bewildered group to sit by the fire. "Withered your tail, didn't it? I wouldn't tell you, though. You young'uns think about it; lessons aren't lessons if they're just words."

* * *

"How did she do it?" Metrael hadn't been writing for some time now, sitting at his desk in his darkened room. He probably even wasn't aware that it had turned dark long ago, as of now his world consisted of the small wizard light hovering perfectly still in front of him, and the writing stick that he was furiously tapping on the table.

It was a very clever invention, the writing stick. Instead of dipping his quill to ink again and again, the ink was contained in a narrow, vertical container that naturally fed down to a microscopic hole that allowed the ink to trickle into the paper. He was still finding a way to keep all the ink inside the tube, though - meanwhile the whole thing was being held up by his magic so the liquid doesn't flow too freely. The magic required him to keep his mind on it at all times during its use, but he didn't mind. Metrael quite enjoyed it as is; multi-tasking was his most favorite thing in the world.

"Of course, that's just because you're crazy in the head." Metril snickered his opinion on that idea. His head was secretively buried in his knees as he hugged in legs on the chair. His tattered brown robe hung limply around his frame like dripping liquid smudge.

"Shut up, Metril!" Metral scolded, glancing with disgust at the emaciated frame of his brethren. "If you cannot contribute anything worthwhile to the discussion, then shut your flaps and hold your peace. The intelligent ones are trying to have a discussion."

"Intelligent, Metral?" Metril snickered again, "When you're nothing but a shallow representation of what Metrael considers to be normality? Good, old, boring Metral. Better than Metril! Better than every-"

"Oh, for the sake of shit, people. We're trying to think here!" Groaned Metroal. He was slumped over in his place at the round table, his head in his hands. His distress was evident in how he would rub small, deep circles on his temples. "Sometimes I wonder if all of us are really part of one mind."

"Yes, we all are! And that's because we're insane!" Metril crowed once again, raising both of his fist to the air carelessly. He now slouched lazily on the comfortable chair that he occupied at Metroal's right. Metral gave him a glare that could melt rocks from right across him, but stayed silent.

"How did she know? Maybe she bribed... no, I've thought that through already -"

"I thought that through!" Metroal complained indignantly, receiving a glare from Metrael. The white-haired Talent paced around and around the front of the round table, just behind Metroal. Of course, there really wasn't a 'front' of the round table; it being round and all, but wherever Metrael chose to be - that was where they faced. Sometimes Metrael could be such a sod, but they couldn't do anything about it because he controls the body most of the time.

"Oh, this is still about the writing stick, right? I've got a few ideas -" Metreul suddenly looked up from where he was sitting beside the noisy Metril, seemingly unaffected by the commotion and buried in his stacks of paper filled with his scribbles.

"No, Metreul, this isn't about your stupid inventions again -"

"It's always not about my inventions, but look how far we've gone right now -"

Metreal tuned out his brethren and paced back and forth - inside his mind, of course. In the real world, he was sitting still. Very still. Both his hands laid flat on the table in front of him, with only the metal-on-wood tapping of his writing stick against the fine wooden furniture accompanying his not-solitude. Not-solitude, of course, because his brethren were there in his head. They were always there in his head, and they helped him think. Right now, though, the brethren at the First Chamber were just distracting him. He left the First Chamber and entered the Second.

"Well," Met's hoarse voice accompanied the strong smell of smoke that greeted Metreal as he entered the threshold of the Second Chamber. "What business does our Metreal have in the Chamber of War?"

"The quiet. They in the Normalcy are driving me mad with their bickering."

Met chuckled. "I really cannot fathom how all the brethren in the Chamber of Normalcy are all insane. It's the Chamber of Normalcy for a reason, you know." Metreal shrugged as he resumed his pacing in the smoke filled atmosphere of the Chamber.

"Well, it certainly ironic how you come to this Chamber in pursuit of peace. But well, you are welcome here, as long as you do not mind the smoke."

The other brethren in the Chamber nodded their assent, puffing smoke of their own. 'Like reverse-fishes,' Metreal thought absently, 'exhaling smoke instead of inhaling water'. His body does not smoke - he has always wondered why the brethren here breathed toxic gasses instead of air; he had a mind it must be because smoke is the smell of war.

Without the noise to distract him, the Talent now wholeheartedly set his formidable mind to the problem at hand; which was how Sarasswena of the Illusions worked. It was a petty thing; but the knowledge that the second to last House had a better intelligence network than his own fourth-ranked House lit a fire under him. Metreal and all his brethren had never anticipated this to be the case; and Metreal and his brethren always anticipated things. It was how they rose to their current considerable position as Overseer of the White Palace and the Heart, as well as ruling the Seat of Judgment of Var Syndal.

"How did she do it?" Metrael murmured to himself. The brethren of the Chamber looked at each other and shrugged, laying back in their comfortable chairs and smoking their time away. They had no stake in this affair - after all, this was yet not a matter of war.

'But maybe it will be, soon'. Met hopefully thought to himself as he took another long drag from his elegant metal pipe. 'After all, Metreal seems determined and frustrated enough.'

"How did she do it?" Metreal thought again to himself, hating the slow crawl of bitter, heavy frustration that began deep in his guts. His paces increased in frequency fractionally. In the real world, the tapping of his writing stick to the wood became just a little faster.

* * *

For her part, Sarasswena was having a wonderful time.

Thrice now in the span of a seven-day has she duped spies from several different Houses into following a copy of her only for them to lose her on such opportune places as dead ends, empty rooms (without any windows, mind), and lonely, random corridors. Oh, they weren't idiots. They never seemed to be looking out for her specifically, always the 'invisible people' of the Palace; guards who just happened to be patrolling an area she was in, cleaners and workers in obscure and unnoticeable garbs that lingered their gaze on her for a little bit too long. Even people she categorized as acquaintances have been bribed, their loyalties towards gold stronger than a passing knowledge of her person. It seems like everyone around her is being brought by all the big Houses in order to keep their eyes on her through any means possible. But she didn't mind. She reveled being the center of attention.

Besides, they would never be able to catch her. Sarasswena wondered, lounging safely in her room amidst her comfortable and expensive sheets, if these people even knew what they were doing. She did, though. The White Palace may be a dangerous place, but she was honed in the underbelly of Var Syndal itself. And you cannot survive in such a horrid environment without guile and cunning, and a few tricks up your sleeves besides. The woman sighed, thinking of memories from long ago; one when she was but another street urchin, yet one again when she rose among the ragged ranks to become the hidden queen of an ignored population, yet again when she set her sights on the White Palace.

Her fangs haven't dulled, ever since then. They needed to be continually sharpened.

There were better, more subtle approaches, of course. She can never be sure, but she had an inkling that the more insidious tactics were employed by the more knowledgeable Houses. The House of the First, certainly. But maybe also the House of Movement? L'Asandre seems like he would be shrewd enough to organize a better effort. Maybe he was the one who tried to bribe one of her Favored - it would certainly align with his image as a businessman. But you didn't become a Favored of any House by becoming a traitor; and her house especially.

The influx of new people seeking employ at her House was immediately suspicious, of course. The moment she caught the gist of what was happening, she immediately inserted some of her people into the mix, and then told the ones handling the employments to only accept their own. She couldn't help but smile, thinking about how the farce must be massively frustrating to those spies' masters. Sarasswena thought maybe that such stupid scheme was Domil's, but then again, maybe not.

She retaliated in her own way, just to fuck with them. The woman giggled, thinking about how secrets whispered in the right ears are just the same act of war as knives to the heart. Domil - and all the other Talents - would love the scandal that was about to erupt from right under his nose.

Her hidden labor was finally paying off. Sarasswena's magic has never been more useful than in times like this. Muddying the waters. Sowing confusion among the ranks of those who seek malice towards her. Nuggets of golden information hers for the picking, like walking about a ripe, exposed garden. She wondered if her enemies thought her everywhere.

Well, they wouldn't be wrong.

She is everywhere.

And that was why she was here, of all places. The room felt more like an overgrown child's dollhouse than it does an actual room. The furnishings shone under the gentlest of light, as if it had never been touched before except to be cleaned. Books within sturdy shelves showed no sign of being used at all, the carpets and curtains seeming to be chosen for their sheer pretentiousness.

Sarasswena ran a warm, chocolate-colored finger on the polished, wooden surface. She didn't know much about tables, but this one was undoubtedly one of the most expensive money can buy. One could tell that the wood was of the best quality, even at just a glance, and it sat squat on the floor elegantly laden with its glinting, golden furnishings. The chair she was sitting on oozed wealth as well, her ass feeling like it was sitting on solid ego. As if the makers never thought that it would be actually sat upon and only admired in awe from a certain distance. After all, this chair probably doesn't get much use.

Or perhaps it was simply made to be uncomfortable. L'Asandre does seem like someone who would be satisfied at the discomfort of others, even if he was showing such a calm and benevolent face on the other side of the table.

It was a long instance before the silence was broken, but when it did it was L'Asandre who capitulated. "I'm sorry to break this peaceful silence that the both of us have cultivated so diligently for the past half-hour, but what in the name of all humanity are you doing here?"

Sarasswena threw her head back and laughed. It was a hearty, genuine laughter. It was a pleasant sound - and, if L'Asandre would be quite honest, all the more intimidating for it. The young man kept his composure outwardly, even smiling a little at the absurdity of it all, consciously relaxing his posture. But inside he was still shaken, a mixture of shock and fury and not a little fear that threatened to shift his normally untouchable poise.

Most of it, he would admit, was fear of the unknown - specifically, of the unknown that was Sarasswena of the Illusions. He could still remember the sheer, unadulterated shock when he looked up from his work to see her in front of him, seated on his chair as calmly as you please, without having made a single sound and bypassing all of his House's formidable physical and magical defenses.

"Oh, pretty boy," Sarasswena finally managed, "That reaction was just what I was hoping from you. The obvious shock, your solid composure, and that marvelous response!"

"I'm glad that I managed to amuse you, Sarasswena, but if you would be so kind as to stop wasting my time, I would be eternally grateful."

"Would you, really?" the woman relaxed and lounged in her uncomfortable chair as best as she could, now that conversation was beginning to flow. "That would be excellent. Your gratefulness is exactly what I expect from this meeting."

"And that's because?" The young man drew out the last word and cocked his head, trying not to show his impatience.

Sarasswena almost seemed to pout. She played with her curly, raven hair, playing the part of a mildly put-out lady. "Well, you're really not an enjoyable person, are you? No matter. Let's cooperate. My House and yours. Two things specifically." She held up two dark fingers.

"With your connections and my information, we can use our mutual resources to get to the bottom of Tar's mysteries faster than the House of the First and whatnot. Two; the business opportunity to be had from our cooperation is not something to be ignored as well. I have the best information network. You have linkages from the slums of Searle to the backwoods of Timberhouse, all the way to the Eastern Federation. Gold would come pouring in by the buckets if we so choose. For that I want a seventy-thirty split; the larger part to me, of course, as the one risking out her frail little limbs. What say you, Leaguewalker?"

For the second time in their short meeting, L'Asandre Leaguewalker was stunned into silence. However, not one to lose the initiative in a business deal, this time, he recovered significantly faster. "You're an upfront one, aren't you? Very idealistic one, too. While I appreciate the sentiment of you choosing my House for your proposal, I'm afraid I'd have to refuse."