//------------------------------// // Glenda II // Story: A Journey in Griffonstone // by RangerOfRhudaur //------------------------------// The twincloaks, so named for their habits of deception, shapechanging, and treachery, were one of Groveria's deadliest enemies of old. Crawling up out of the water by night, they would steal away small children and replace them with their own, weaving enchantments about them so that they could not be distinguished. While the deceived parents raised the twincloak child as their own, the twincloak thieves would raise the Homan child to be a slave, laboring in their undersea fields and workshops until they died. This the twincloaks sought to postpone, not out of any kindness, which their cruel hearts appeared to lack, but because it was one of two ways the enchantment woven on their own child could break, the other requiring them to be submerged in water for one hour or longer. While the enchantment held, the twincloaks used their children as spies and saboteurs, sowing mistrust and discord among the community so as to weaken the response to twincloak incursions. The children would learn of these incursions through one of two ways; in the first, they would return to the Sea from whence they came every moon to exchange news and orders with their kin. In the second, when they came of age, their parent would give them a talisman set with various magical gemstones. One of these, lapis lazuli, allowed the bearer to control their dreams, and communicate with others who likewise slept with the stone on their person. This allowed the twincloaks to communicate more covertly, though at the risk of another bearer trained in the art overhearing them... Flip. ...The last reported sighting of the twincloaks was about eighty years ago, in the Year of Grover 1653, during the illustrious reign of... "Another dead end," Glenda sighed as she shut the tome, rubbing the bridge of her nose in exasperation. She'd run into several of those over the past weeks, trying to figure out who was behind the kidnappings. She lacked the authority (and the embassy lacked the numbers) to help with the search for the victims, but she could help inform those coordinating the search, either with Homestrian-gathered information or by scouring Groverian sources herself. Sadly, none of those sources had led anywhere. Newspapers, books, visual media, not even the archives of messages Sir Cloudfloor had provided had held even a hint to the kidnappers' identity or inspiration. In desperation, she'd even turned to the Runery and other repositories of the occult, thinking that maybe the "return of magic" Castellot had messaged her about would give her a link. It had not. The kidnappers didn't replace their victims like twincloaks, they didn't wreck ships like sirens, they didn't only target coastlines like Beckoners; they behaved almost like lots of things, but there was always one small detail that refused to fit. All she'd gotten out of her search of esoterica was a headache, some quite-possibly fables, and a few worried glances. She rubbed her weary eyes, then took out a piece of paper and set it on the table. The facts of the case that were known stared back at her: 1. Kidnappings started on 7/15/532 (Guilden of the Runery: Possible outlier? Unrelated?) 2. All kidnappings have occurred within 20 strides of the sea 3. No common thread among victims, though kidnappings primarily geographically clustered around Groveria and Mount Aris (No reports from Labrador or east-of: why?) 4. No follow-up on kidnappings (i.e., ransom, discovery of body, etc.) 5. No visual confirmation of kidnappers That was it. Everything that they knew about the kidnappings, everything they'd learned in the past month, compressed into five bullet points. It was almost enough to make her cry. But she wouldn't. She had a duty to her homeland, to her employer across the sea, to her kinsfolk on both shores, she couldn't give in to despair. She had to go on, with or without hope. If only she knew where to go... Many kinds of animated dead are there, chief among them geists, wights, and revenants. Geists are the uncloaked spirits of those who have died, bodiless though still able to manipulate the world around them, chained to this world through sheer strength of will. The most infamous example, the spirit of Lee Jun, was reputedly strong enough in will to overpower the wills of the living, using their bodies as his puppets, before eventually being forcibly sent to the next world by a strike from a deepstone blade, the stone supposedly possessing qualities that render it more effective against the dead as well as sorcery. While some seek out geists to obtain counsel from them, countless priests and scholars caution heavily against doing so; the frequent malevolence of geists that are encountered, as well as the imperfections of the humans they were before, make them no more effective at counseling than any other advisor, and much more perilous to speak with. While geists are spirit uncloaked, wights are uninhabited flesh, animated by a spark of foul sorcery. Thoughtless slaves, they behave only according to their master's orders, attempting to do exactly what is told to them even if circumstances render the order unwise or impossible. As the body they possess is already dead, a blow that would kill a Man will only slow a wight, while the sorcery which gives them their foul mockery of life also grants that body enhanced strength. Two ways there are to defeat them; either to destroy the body which the foul animating spell inhabits, or to find and disrupt that spell, possibly through the use of fire, deepstone, or counter-sorcery. In addition, salt and iron have been observed to be unusually effective against wights, salt slicing through them like a sword through a scroll, iron seeming to form an impassable wall. Revenants... Someone knocked on her office door. "Come in," she called, turning away from the occult text. To her surprise, Crypsis walked in, grey cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes glinted as he saw the book on her desk. "Pardon me," he whispered, bowing his head. "Am I interrupting anything?" "No, don't worry," Glenda smiled at him. "It can wait. What brings you here? And what made you knock? Usually, I only know you want to talk when you start whispering in my ear." A small grin appeared on his face. "I'm very good at not being noticed," he demurely replied, "and I prefer not to disturb others unnecessarily. As for what brings me here," the smile disappeared, "I'm afraid that something's come up in my research. I need to leave, as soon as I can." "Oh?" she frowned. "Where to?" "I'd rather not say," he replied, looking cautiously over his shoulder. "I can't risk anyone overhearing. Just know that I'll be back as soon as I can." "Okay," she hesitantly nodded. "Are you sure you'll be okay? We can't spare anyone to keep you safe, and with the kidnappings..." He smiled, thinly and dangerously. He flared his cloak, revealing mail armor underneath, and twin daggers at his side. "I can see to my own safety," he whispered, confidence thick in his voice. She nodded, then paused; she'd seen the clasp of his cloak countless times before, but something about it struck her now. A silver, star-shaped brooch, set with small gemstones; little enough, an ancient gift or trophy turned into an heirloom perhaps... But the small, smoky flecks of blue studding it gave her a different idea. "Where did you get that pin, by the way?" she asked, gesturing to his cloak. His face shrouded. "It belonged to my granduncle," he cautiously replied. "He planned to use it himself, but the others changed his mind and it ended up buried in a drawer somewhere, until it came to me." "Really?" she tilted her head. "I never knew you had a granduncle. What was he like?" "A distant relative," Crypsis sighed. "I never really knew him personally; the most I learned was a few stories from my mother, his niece. And, of course, the story of his brooch. It was actually what got me interested in my research." "Really?" she blinked, genuinely confused. "What does a pin have to do with spycraft?" Crypsis chuckled. "No, my personal research. Spycraft - listening to the unheard, seeing the unseen - that's my work. My research, though, my research is more in line," he nodded at the book on her desk, "with your current choice in reading material. Auroleus may spin a tale or two, but there are still some truths in those tales, as there are truths in many things most consider tales. Auroleus' Homuli, Voy Nich's manuscripts, Coleoptera's Almawtaatum..." "I know," Glenda nodded. "Castellot told us that, a few days ago. Magic's coming back, so some of the old stories might turn out not to be stories after all. Is that how it inspired your research? Your granduncle told you the story of that pin, who it belonged to before, and now you know it's not just a story?" A shadow crossed Crypsis' face. "I don't know that now," he replied, every syllable seemingly causing the lights to flicker. "I knew it from the first moment I held it in my hands. Magic wasn't completely gone before, and however diminished it might have been back then, I could feel it in my granduncle's talisman. You recognize the stones he used, yes?" Glenda startled, and Crypsis humorlessly chuckled. "You weren't as subtle with your gaze as you thought," he said, "Don't worry, I'm not offended, but I would appreciate an answer." "It's lapis," Glenda replied, looking down in embarrassment. "Auroleus mentioned it in his writings about the twincloaks. I was wondering if..." "If I was actually a twincloak?" Crypsis laughed, lightly for the first time in Glenda's memory. "I'm flattered that you think so highly of my acting abilities, but no, I'm not one. I'm a Man, nothing more. And," he sighed, his face growing somber once more, "made by the hand of Man was my granduncle's talisman. Yes, the stones are lapis, what my old home called lazuli, dreamstone. Even before magic's return, it worked like the legends said, though only somewhat; any communication between dreamers was hazy, distorted, easily able to dismiss as 'just a dream.'" He shivered, then muttered under his breath, "If only I could still dismiss them so." Her ears perked up. "You've been able to communicate with people using it?" she asked, voice thick with awe. Crypsis' fist went white. "Those words weren't for you," he hissed, "and the things I've seen aren't for anyone." Whirling around on his heel, he curtly said, "I have to go; I've wasted too much time already." "Wait," Glenda pleaded, getting up to go after him. "Crypsis, please, wait. Why are you so upset? What has you so-" Her tongue clove to the floor of her mouth as Crypsis turned to glare at her, lip curled in a snarl. His daggers jostled beneath his cloak, while the flickering light glinted harshly off his cloak's pin. He seemed to grow in the dimming light, looming over her; beneath his hood, his eyes burned, hot enough to consume her. Suddenly, she was looking Death in the face, not her friend. But then that face softened back into her friend's, and the light returned. "I can't tell you anymore, Glenda," he sadly shook his head. "This burden is mine and mine alone. I'll be back as soon as I can, but until then, my business is my own." Mutely, still shaking off the moment of terror, she nodded. He nodded back, then closed his eyes. "I have to leave you," he muttered, "but that doesn't mean I have to leave you defenseless." Clasping one hand around his cloak's pin, he raised the other, and began tracing a symbol in the air while murmuring something under his breath, something that sounded almost like a prayer. After he finished, he nodded at her one last time, and murmured, "Farewell, Glenda. Stay safe, stay out of the shadow." "Y," she stuttered, "you, too." Turning back around, he left, twilight cloak trailing behind him as he vanished through her doorway. After he left, she slumped, almost fell, back into her chair. "What," she whispered to herself, "was that?" Only silence answered her. Guyard didn't like losing Crypsis, especially at such a critical point, but with their short staff preventing them from sending anyone after him, their lack of knowledge of where exactly he was going, the informality of his role with the embassy, (and what Glenda had experienced when he'd lost his temper in her office,) there was nothing they could do to stop him from leaving: he was a helpful guest at the embassy, not an employee under Guyard's orders. Guyard had ranted about how irresponsible him leaving was, and about how irresponsible they'd been in trusting him with so much work and information, but in the end he'd been forced to accept that Crypsis was gone and they didn't know when he'd be back. "Until then," he'd sighed, "everyone back to work." Glenda had quickly obeyed, scurrying back to her office to escape the glares of the rest of the staff. She'd been a close friend of Crypsis for the past few months, one of the people responsible for bringing the exile on as their unofficial intelligence officer, and now she'd let him leave, right when they needed him most. Her already-shaky reputation, tainted by her association with the "creepy" exile, was about to fall even further. If she wasn't so sure of her relationship with Guyard, she'd be afraid that her job might follow her reputation into the dust. She flinched as she imagined the judging stares that might have been: the poor judging her for being affluent enough to survive without a job, the rich judging her for not working harder, Groverians judging her for failing her people, Homestrians judging her for meeting their prejudices about her people. Even her parents would judge her, however much their love would soften that judgement. Even though those stares would never be, their weight was enough to send a shiver down her spine. The stares she had received over the years, that had haunted the back of her mind like geists, spilled over to the front. The envious stares of the poor and the dismissive gazes of the rich were the most numerous, but the most striking were the ones from Homestrian travelers, diplomats, traders, or tourists; the suspicious glance that accompanied a hand double-checking the safety of a wallet or phone, the double-take when someone encountered a Groverian representative of the embassy, the shocked stare when a broken greeting in Griffish was met with a polite offer to speak in Common instead. All of them expected her to be something, and they didn't like their expectations being surpassed. She bit back a spike of rage; who were they to know who she was? Who were they to judge the value of kingdoms, civilizations, of peoples? What gave them the right to declare Griffonstone, the Queen of Cities, lesser than Castellot, karye of a city less than a tenth Griffonstone's size? Yes, the Queen of Cities had seen better days, but did that give anyone the right to act like those better days would never come again, had never existed in the first place? Were Grover, Guto the Great, and Garis the Giver all just supposed to be ignored? Were coffee and algebra supposed to have magically crossed the Celestial Sea? What about when Castellot was in trouble? Would they turn on it like they'd turned on Griffonstone? She inhaled deeply, held it deeply, then released the breath. "Don't let them be right," her father warned her across the years, "If they expect you to be something, prove them wrong; be better. It's not what they think that matters, it's what you do." Her rage roared back that what she wanted to do was make them see that they were wrong, make them see what she was trying to show them, but her mind soothed it, reminding it that you couldn't make people see what they didn't want to; you had to convince them to see it, and it was a lot easier to do that through good examples rather than force. And a lot slower. "A lot slower to live," she sighed deeply, "a lot slower to die." Grover and Guto, leading by example, built a city that lasted over a thousand years; Guto the Usurper, leading by force, built an empire that lasted months. If she wanted to truly change things, change people's minds for good, she needed to lay down good example's roots. One last deep breath, a brushing off of the stares, and then she took up her book again, getting back to work planting good example's roots. Sadly, it turned out to be shallow soil; in the hour before a knock came at her door, the book had only yielded more almost-fits, no good matches. Privately welcoming the interruption, she turned to the door, not even bothering to mark her page, and asked, "Yes, who is it?" To her surprise, Captain Celaeno came through the door. To her greater surprise, she slammed a severed finger on Glenda's desk and asked, "Do you know where I can get someone to analyze this?"