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42nd of Ashan 720
Break 10-15:
Once the heat came on, when it came to hiding away from what he had done to Sywena, there was only so much he could do.
The thought of erasing the memory of himself from everyone in Ne'haer occurred to him. At least the people he'd introduced himself to. This would do for all the common rabble he interracted with. The farmer who'd sold his land to him. The waitress in the tavern, several innkeepers. And as he got down the list, he came to the realization that there were far too many he'd have to subtract before he could get away clear. And even then, there were people who'd known he was in Ne'haer that were simply out of reach. Faith and her Knight friend Vivian. The council members he'd met in person.
Yet, Fleaface did what he could to help Woe retrace his steps. With a hastily scrawled note of people and persons, Fleaface guided a dazed and confused Woe around the city. There they went about the slow, methodical task of erasing the memory of Woe from the few he'd had direct interractions with. Woe for certain couldn't allow his name to remain on Innkeepers' lips and their waitresses. In particular, he had to forget the one present on the night of Sywena's murder. So as those first lights went out, he moved onto the next.
There were a few who'd employed him at the Stone Dungeons, hiring out for a torturer. For these he turned, twisted and threw away the key to his memory. Then there were the holy men, when he'd been investigating Anton's murder. These were swiftly removed as soon as they greeted him on returning to those temples.
That left... nobody that Woe could remember. Much better. But the taste of Sywena's soul lingered on his memory, and Woe hungered for more, try as he might to suppress the thirst.
18th Break
Woe had an uneasy feeling as the two departed, making their way to the smuggler's harbor. A place from whence they'd purchased discrete passage from the shores of Ne'haer. They were bound for Quacia. Why Quacia? Woe was troubled still by dreams of that place, that place that was the old haunt of his initiate, Magpie. It wasn't only curiosity that dictated that he seek out his maybe friend Magpie's childhood home. For some time he'd received visions of the city, visions sometimes of the future, whether near or distant. Yet always, something was happening, and references to a thing called the Creep.
He wanted to know more. He would have summoned Magpie but, well, he was just as likely to wipe his memory on next sighting as anyone else he'd ever met. That his mother had refused to remove the brand, only to preserve her own ambitions, it infuriated him.
Nevertheless, it seemed for the moment that Magpie had forgotten him. Perhaps if he settled in the place with so many terrible memories, Magpie would be reluctant to interfere with his affairs.
At any rate, they were leaving out of the eastern Gate of Ne'haer. The road to Treth was heaviily guarded, but there was a split that occurred some miles ahead, which would lead them where they intended to go. They travelled in silence, for the most part. Woe felt a dull ache where he'd wiped so many memories of so many people. He almost couldn't remember if he'd actually lived in Ne'haer, or if that was yet another dream.
The uneasiness did not abate as they went along, and then took the bend south. Woe kept his omnivision up around him, with plenty of ether to spare from Sywena's soul. He used what was left of her to power it. Yet with every spell, it seemed his spark hungered for more. He would have more, he'd determined, but only when the opportune moment presented itself. "Yes you will dine again, my sweets." Woe had taken to speaking to his sparks. They didn't answer his words. It appeared they could no more communicate through that method than they could form a body and begin acting on their own. That was why they needed him, he supposed.
The loss of complete autonomy was worth the trade-off in power and pleasure, on balance. It was worth that taste of exquisite sublimity that he'd only sampled with Sywena's death.
A motion to the side caught Woe's attention consistently, every few seconds. Fleaface was acting more fidgety than usual. Woe shrugged it off, yet kept an arcane bead on his servant, surveying his tapestry. The tapestry revealed something rather cryptic, as Woe walked along. He saw a pair of footprints imbedded under a great eye. Strange that. Did Fleaface feel they were being watched?
For another half break they walked the windy path toward the smuggler's camp. Woe thought he could hear footsteps at several points himself. he turned his head, "Fargis, did you hear that?" Yet when he turned his head, he didn't find Fleaface anywhere.
"Fleaface?" He backtracked a few meters, but stopped dead in his tracks before taking two steps. His omnivision was signalling something strange. A conflux of ether centered around the path behind him. A magic that it knew, from firsthand experience. It was...
""ello 'ello." Came the dour, grating voice of the one who'd gifted him the art of Hone. "Didn't think ye'd see me again didja?"
Woe furrowed his brow beneath his cowl. He didn't turn to face the torturer. But his hand drifted toward his side, reaching for the metal whip that hung from his waist...
"I thought I were clear. Bring me 'er scalp, don't fucking eat 'er soul?" Stoll shook his head, his white hair visible in the darkness as Woe turned to face him. "Now ye've gone and become a monster. Should've known not to initiate a Spinner. But... Live'n learn."
Woe shook his head at the sad gaoler ahead of him. He was going to make a speech, appeal to some sense of mage-comradery. But in the end, no that wouldn't do. "Who're you again?"
But before he could fix his eyes on Stoll's the area went dark. Fuck, the trap... or a rune. Woe nevertheless unfurled his whip, letting it crack this way and that, trying if not to strike the mage, to trip him up.
Stoll was good enough at shadowing Woe, but he couldn't not silence his footfalls. Woe's lack of sight accentuated his hearing, slightly, and so he focused on what he could hear aided by omnivision. The whip's cracking interfered slightly with that. But he thought he could hear his footfalls against the dried leaves of yesterarc's autumn.
His arms moved in flowing, circular motions trying to fend off any potential attack. But it was all for nothing. Stoll tackled him to the ground, and pushed him down.
Woe, in losing his balance from Stoll's jailyard rush, lost his whip as well as it went flying, timed perfectly for full extension. Stoll knew his business when it came to tackling blind men, at least.
"And ner... I think it fitting, since I don't intend to make any more mages..." He muttered his words, as he began tracing a finger along Woe's chest, as if drawing. "Ter destroy yer, with an initiation. Now this spark, it ain't friendly to mages, or magic. So it's fittin, see?" Stoll hacked and laughed. Woe was about to talk back, with the full intention of unleashing his Empathy spark, when a sudden, chill feeling sank into his throat.
He felt the voice flee him. He couldn't talk, and had been silenced with rune magic. "Know all about yer little tricks. Part of our bond, y'see."
So there Woe lay, helpless to defend as he attacked him with another rune, one of fatigue, and then one of strength. What was he doing, another initiation, or?
Then it penetraded the shell of his soul. Like a hollow, etheric bullet it invaded the confines of where Woe's sparks resided. He felt such pain and conflux, as the sparks battled among each other, and with the newcomer. The three existing ones coming to blows it seemed, hone was especially virulent, fearing the loss of its host. As it was infused with so much Umbral power, it felt it's potential slipping away. Yet the Abrogation spark only seemed to draw strength from that. It fed on these panicked sparks' fear and dread and their full attempts to dispel the invader.
The new spark fought them off handily, like a true warrior. Until Woe was exhausted, and he thought his sparks would tear him apart. With every struggle, their ether ran low. Every flail of their power seeming to whip against the void, as if against nothing at all.
Then Woe heard a voice calling him back to present, and a heap of a body falling down on him. "Master! Master! He's down, he's on yer, drink master! Do whatcher did ter the lass! Before he..." Another crack of Fleaface's club against what Woe could only presume was Stoll's cranium. Then Woe felt the strength fleeing his mentor.
He felt their lips touch, the mishapen mage's lips against his own, and he breathed in his dying soul. With every inhalation, a new revelation of ecstasy, far beyond what he'd experienced even with Sywena. Mage as compared to mortal souls... They were as ambrosia to rice. Every fiber of his being sang with glory at the influx of soul energy, of sweet ether. His sparks began recovering. The attunement spark weaved its web, the Empathy spark assigned itself as vicar among his magics. Abrogation remained in a cell of its own making, an arcane gaoler. Then there was Hone, the fledgling, the one that had decided itself above even Woe's mighty Empathy spark. It crowned itself, as the chief among Woe's magics.
Woe's eyes fluttered open, and the darkness fell away, as did the fatigue and silence. He coughed, recovering a bit, and threw off Stoll's dried up skeleton from his form. Out of Stoll's belongings and clothing, fell another tome. A grimoire. When Woe recovered later, he would flip through the book, and discover a far more advanced grimoire than the one he possessed.
This he stowed away for safe keeping in his satchel. Fleaface picked up the man's satchel and things Woe hadn't the presence of mind to pick up at the time. Later when he'd come to his senses, Woe would let him keep a few of the nels he'd purloined from Stoll.
And so, as Fleaface helped Woe up, and kept him walking through his newfound stupor, the two made their way out of Ne'haer territory, via smuggler's boat, bound for Quacia.
