Stories from Ashen
A Swordsman, A Witch
The swordsman knelt in front of his son, the boy holding himself together through choked sobs and labored breath. He patted the boys head and looked him in the eyes. The swordsman nodded. The boy tried to smile. The attempt drew a smile from the swordsman. A small one, quiet and soft.
There wasn’t anything the swordsman could do to comfort him. Only to stay or bring the boy with him. But despite promises to return, the swordsman knew this journey ended in one way.
Rising to his feet, the swordsman looked to the Professor, who he entrusted his son to. The professor nodded to him as well. There were some words exchanged. Words of encouragement or perhaps they were of foolishness. In either case, the two shook hands and brokered a silent agreement.
With his farewells completed, the swordsman turned to go. He walked on cobblestone streets. The cobblestone turned to a smooth, sooty marble, then to dirt as he began to leave the city.
Refugees limped into the city as he walked out. Each of them were worn by their travels, but the sight of a new home lifted their heads. Just as the swordsman and his son raised their heads when they saw the city of miracles for the first time.
The swordsman passed by without incident, without warning.
He traveled west. Between movement and memory, he stepped off the well-worn road. His steps took him through the forest, past thick-trunks and heavy canopies. Every so often, the swordsman stopped by a tree. He studied it, looking for something that lived in memory. He wouldn’t find it, no matter how many studied. Then he kept going.
His travels took him south, through jagged mountains and stark cliffs. These were called the Dragon Spines when he knew them. The locals now call them Spineshatter Ranges. True to the name, the way was perilous and unsure. Each step was fraught with crumbling stones and long falls were the least of his worries. From this height, he could see a storm roll over the land. Its path was strange and unnatural, more similar to a predator looking its prey.
The swordsman traveled up and down the mountains for a while, perhaps longer than he should have. When he could not find what he was looking for, the swordsman continued east, towards the desert.
The Desert of Yawn were the biggest surprise. The swordsman remembered much more green. Of titanic beasts walked or burrowed through a lush savanna. But now, nothing but sand as far as the eyes can see. And so the swordsman kept going.
When night came, he arrived at an unfamiliar beach. He wandered up and down the coastline for a moment before starring at the starlit sky. The blue moon of Ewa and the red moon of Pala were in their same spots still. Framing them with his fingers, the swordsman studied the stars. Once again, the swordsman did not find what he was looking for. When the first embers of dawn appeared over the waters, the swordsman began the slow, arduous journey north.
It was not long before the sands turned to dirt. The burning heat of the desert became frigid winds and the sky was laden with tumultuous clouds. It didn’t surprise him when the first hints of snowfall came. The winds whipped harder, snow piling higher. Soon, the swordsman found himself trudging through a full blown blizzard.
Despite the biting cold, he continued onward. It was comforting, familiar even. He found his memories in this cold. The snow gave way to ice and when the blizzard cleared, a grand castle of frost greeted him.
The spires seemed to pierce azure skies, the weather giving it a wide berth. His steps took him closer, to the big frozen gates that he strained to push open. The sound of footsteps echoed through frozen blue halls, the swordsman walking through suffocating corridors and grand ballrooms at random. Every once in a while, he’d find a window to outside and saw himself climb higher. The blizzard raged onward, flashes of lightning in the far distance.
The rooms were empty and cold. Some were half finished, like a kitchen that had half a stove or a forge with no kiln. Even the finished rooms were repeated in random spots with no rhyme or reason.
At the very top of the castle, the swordsman stepped into a room unlike the other rooms. To his left, a cracked mirror the size of the wall. In front of him, an open doorway to a balcony. Curtains framed the door, billowing in soft winds.
A king-sized canopy bed was to his right, bordered by a dresser. A thick layer of dust caked the top of the dresser, several trinkets scattered upon it. One trinket, a face-down picture frame, had no dust on it. Without much thought, the swordsman righted it.
There was a soft rustling from the bed. Resting on the bed was a woman. He hoped beyond hope she was more than a memory. Her blond hair was longer than he remembered, but he could imagine ice blue eyes and an annoyed scowl.
The air changed. Very slight, as if the shadow of a cloud brought death with it. With a heavy sigh, the swordsman turned to the balcony. No time for memories. Only a steady journey onward.
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The witch stirred from her long slumber. How long has it been since her dreams have forced her awake? One hundred years, two hundred? However long it has been, it has not been long enough. She sat up and raised her hand as if to snap her fingers.
Strength left her, the witch opting to wave her hand as if shooing a fly as the sheets were thrown off the bed and circled around her. As the witch stood and reacquainted herself with a room long neglected, smooth blankets folded and knitted into each other, changing color into a extravagant dress. Yet even as the dress draped itself on her, a cracked picture frame caught her eyes.
The witch approached the photo. Her hands trembled as she picked it up in her hands, grimacing at the beautiful man with raven hair in it. He held her in the frame, the witch remembering the fake scowl she put on as she also held a young child in her arms.
It has been many years since she saw them last and though the pain welling in her chest had dulled, it never seemed to go away. Anger flashed in her eyes. The witch raised the picture to smash it into pieces, the castle trembling under her rage. Though she made the motion to throw it onto the dresser, the picture landed face down with the delicacy of a feather. The witch drummed her fingers and tore herself away.
The witch stepped out onto the balcony, feeling the gentle warmth of the sun mixed with the cool winds of her domain. With each breath, she picked apart each individual thought in her mind. With each inhale, the blizzard bordering her castle calmed. With each exhale, the wind stilled. The taste of magic in the air was of something familiar, but just as quickly it faded.
From parts of the world unknown, dissonant whispers wormed their way into her. Shadows tugged at the edge of her vision.
Thoughts sorted and mind cleared, the witch held her arm towards the sun. She grasped the sun in her palm and with a flick of her wrist, a simple wooden staff appeared. The witch scowled, hoping for something better. Nevertheless, she twirled the staff in the air and felt magic empower her body.
The witch closed her eyes to cast a spell. Her body felt weightless, though she knew it remained in place. In her mind’s eye, she flew upon the land she named Maghastt. Though she lamented over the loss of the world she knew, she focused on the world she had. One by one, she spotted anomaly after anomaly. Her mind split and vision fractured for each one she found.
Her search took her to Ashen, the so-called City of Miracles. Hundreds of anomalies in Ashen alone. She bored deeper into the city and found a repulsive one. It resisted her, blocked her sight. But just being in proximity of it unsettled her.
An eye found her and stopped her spell.
Back into her body, the witch scowled. There were many mages who could hold candles in her storm throughout history. She used to know them by name, could even have called them acquaintances. That was a long time ago. Her pride longed to know who defied her, longed to uncover the mystery that which unsettles her.
She breathed deep and raised her staff. A grand spell. Yes, that is what she will do to show that mage true magic. Even as she conceptualized the spell in her mind, her heart slowed. Before she could even summon her tempest, her winds stilled. The witch dropped her staff into nothingness, her clothes slipped off her shoulders as she hobbled back to her bed.
There was nothing for the witch to do. There was nothing she could do.
The Professor - 01
The spirit of Ashen is to burn bright and burn fast. Whether it was due to the heat of the caldera the it was built around or the ashes of the city it was built upon, it’s people knew fiery passions, steadfast faith, and lost sleep.
Seldom do the people embody these principles as much as the Professor. Exhaustion clung to him like ash, followed him wherever he went. Yet his body took him from school to school, lab to lab, his work being rewarded with more work.
Once upon a time, he had peers, even friends. Right until they burned into a hollow husk of themselves or the weight crushed them into irrelevancy. Even now, as he dozed off in a small, candlelit office, his closed eyes imagined himself going through the giant stack of papers. The glyph is wrong in this spot. The proposed binding is ineffective in that context. This paper doesn’t have a name to grade.
Eyes in deep, heavy sockets opened to his desk. The lone candle at the side was almost through it’s life, flickering in dusty air. The Professor rolled his chair closer, grabbing one of the many quills strewn about. His hand dashed across the candle with abandon. The inevitable knock came at his door.
“Professor! Do you have some time? We’ve got a small situation.” A shudder rocked it’s way through his office. “Slightly larger situation.”
The Professor slipped out of his chair and out the door, not waiting to see the fate of the wobbling candle. He smoothed his raggedy lab coat as he passed by the fresh faced student at his door. Their robes were still bright and fresh, with eyes still wide-eyed to match. A newer wick, then.
“Hurry, hurry,” The Professor beckoned the student to his side as he broke into a brisk walk. Other students and faculty of their university wandered through the halls on the way to their next task. Many of them greeted the Professor with a curt nod, others clamored for his attention before being waved off. Another shudder racked it’s way through the halls and dust fell from ceiling, everyone pausing for a moment before going about their day. “Where’s this situation of yours?”
The young wick hurried forward and in moments they lead the Professor through a labyrinth of hallways and stairs. Whenever the two passed a window, the Professor spotted large blocks of stone swirling around their building.
“You see, we thought we could enchant a scale model of the Chandlery,” The wick explained as they climbed higher. “A way to construct or demolish rooms as needed. It worked! Maybe a little too well.”
A stray room dashed close against their window. There were a couple of other students inside anchoring themselves whichever way they knew best.
Soon after, they made it to the Observatory at the top. The observatory itself wasn’t very large. It was named such due to the glass dome that offered access to the stars. But truth be told, it was a cramped room that could fit a handful of people on a good day, even less when some enterprising students thought their project needed a birds eye view. It was no different today.
From within the room, a chandelier was laying on it’s side. There were multiple layers of rings that connected candle to candle, with several arms connecting each ring to the main body. Magic pulsed from within it as debris and other parts of it orbited around. The aptly named Chandlery, a scale model of the building they were in. Right below it, a magic circle pulsed with each shudder that went through the halls.
On the opposite side of the room, a floating student, hood up and legs crossed. Their robes were significantly more worn and tattered. The natural colors have long since faded, yet the patches shined and pulsed with the same magic that connected to the model in front of them.
“Litwick Yewl, I’ve brought the Professor.”
The student shook the hood off their head, long teal hair spilling out. Magic lines were scrawled on wooden skin, the Professor recognized the form as Trance, where the magic without is channeled as magic within. Their eyes glowed gold; the Professor did not know what they saw through their eyes, only that the magic was coursing through them.
“Come now, Yewl,” the Professor crossed his arms. On soundless steps, he studied the model in front of him. “I think this is far beyond my help.”
“Moral support is always helpful, Professor,” Yewl’s hands warped the model in front of them. Their hands kept the model together, even as each erstwhile shake shook them, then the model. “I’ve already thought about stilling the room for a brief stopgap, but the feedback has already gotten too far.”
The Professor took another moment to study the model, then beckoned for the young wick. “Do not tell me you are so short-sighted that you did not think of a countermeasure.”
The wick opened their mouth, then thought better of it.
“I only hope this will be a learning for you which your professors have neglected to impart,” the Professor cleared his throat and then rolled his soldiers. “Very well, tell me how you’ve made this.”
The youngest wick then went over the model and explained the workings of it to the Professor. Much of which, he already surmised, but the exact details and matching of the glyphs were still helpful.
“Why haven’t you undone the key-runes individually?” The Professor asked.
“If we did, the link would weaken, causing the demand of aether to increase.”
“And with Litwick Yewl already forced to keep the model together, the demand might overwhelm them,” the Professor already knew how this tale ended. It was not an uncommon occurrence with new wicks. Nor was it uncommon for his pupil to step in when they really shouldn’t.
“It’ll be tough,” Yewl said.
“Unfortunately, it’s also the only viable option” the Professor stroked his chin. “What’s your capacity? I’d wager you’re at half.”
“A little over,” Yewl closed their eyes in focus. “If I deepen my trance, I can double capacity. Maybe triple if we’re lucky.”
“Hope we’re lucky,” the Professor snapped his fingers in attention. “Alright, bring me a knife. Show me the key-runes.”
“Of course Professor, right away Professor,” the wick pointed out the runes which held the most aether and most pathways to other concentrations.
“As you are well aware, each key-rune bears the brunt of a spell. If we break one,” the Professor stabbed into a rune as demonstration. In response, another shudder wracking through. “The spell becomes less efficient, requiring more aether to maintain the spell.” He glanced to Yewl. “How is it?”
Yewl nodded in response.
“Excellent, we’ll continue,” the Professor grabbed the floating room out of the air and held it down to the ground. Outside, he heard the flying room come to a stop. There were other bits still orbiting, but that was the largest and most dangerous. “Hold this.”
“Professor, can we not use a spell to still the Chandlery? Litwick Yewl said they were not able to but maybe you can.” The wick asked as the two marked the key-runes for the Professor to dismantle. “The story say-”
“Then you must hear more stories about me, for the spell is beyond me,” the Professor kept tabs on Yewl. Complete focus and stillness marked their face. Their hands kept moving, shaping the spell through ever-increasing demands. “What about you? Have you tried it yet?”
“No, Professor,” the wick said.
“Why not?”
“The spell is beyond me, I cannot even begin to fathom it.”
“Then you have already failed and we must continue with plan A.”
The young wick asked no more questions. Though their start was smooth, locating and disabling relevant runes began to slow their pace as the obvious candidates were taken care of. For many moments, the room was the tink, tink of the knife, the pulse of magic, and the labored breathing of Yewl, which with each breath became heavier and heavier.
Soon after, the Professor lead both the search and disabling of runes. The young wick could no longer keep up with his pace, nor could the Professor ask that of the wick.
“Professor,” Yewl’s voice strained, light pouring from her mouth - an the first sign of an overdose.
“Almost there,” the Professor continued with unbreakable focus. “Count to three, Yewl.”
“One,” Yewl’s skin began to crack.
“On three, release both the spell and you trance,” The Professor’s hands were a blur over the model.
“Two,” The intermittent shudders turned to full on shakes. The building couldn’t take much more.
“There you are,” the Professor stabbed the last key-rune.
The last number left unspoken, Yewl’s light stopped as the shakes did. They collapsed and slumped over, the Professor quick to support them from hitting the ground. New magic lines were scrawled where the skin cracked in trance.
“Accompany Litwick Yewl to the nurses please,” the Professor called to the young wick. “Tell them I recommend a week of rest and be sure they know I sent you.”
“Of course Professor, right away Professor,” the young wick support Yewl to their feet and walked with the Professor out the door.
Right outside, long robed officials with clean metal staffs marched barred their path.
“A pack of Delles,” the Professor nodded at them. “It’s about time. Investigating a disturbance, are you?”
“Professor,” the leader of the group and the only one with a wooden staff stepped forward. “How did I know it would be you at the center of this mess?”
The Professor shrugged and motioned for the young wick to go on ahead. The wick bowed before assisting Yewl to the nurses.
“And I assume that he is the culprit?”
“Of course not, that would be me,” the Professor began walking, pushing past the group as they followed him.
“Quit the farce,” the head Delles tried to stop the Professor, but the Professor just brushed him off. “That’s the fifth incident this week.”
“And if you’re lucky, it’ll stay at five today in time for the new week,” the Professor continued at a brisk, focused pace. “If you want an incident report, I’ll add it to my list.”
The Professor heard the footsteps behind him stop; he didn’t have to look to feel their frustration roll of them.
“You can’t keep this up.”
The Professor paused at the entrance to a lecture hall. He scanned the seats and found one student much smaller than the others. “And when that day comes, I expect a grand retirement party.”