I like these. "Enters or leaves the battlefield" would add to the flavor and open up some design space.
EDIT: Here's a few remnants from a color matters theme that morphed into something else. I won't be using them but thought they might be of use to you. (One or two of them aren't my designs.)
Samite Missionary 3W
Creature – Human Cleric
2/3
When Samite Missionary enters the battlefield, target creature becomes white for as long as it is on the battlefield.
Dwarven Diplomat 2R
Creature – Dwarf Advisor
2/3 T: Target creature becomes colorless until end of turn.
Rainbow Elemental 4U
Creature – Elemental
2/3
Flying
Rainbow Elemental is all colors.
Shimmering Eel 1U
Creature – Fish
2/1 U: Shimmering Eel becomes the color of your choice until end of turn.
Shadow Caster B
Creature - Human Wizard
1/1 B: Target creature becomes black until end of turn.
Spellshyft 4U
Creature – Shapeshifter
4/2
Flash
When Spellshyft enters the battlefield, exile target spell. Spellshyft becomes the colors of that spell.
Spellshyft has lifelink as long as it’s white, trample as long as it’s green, first strike as long as it’s red, deathtouch as long as it’s black, and flying as long as it’s blue.
Eldritch Summoning 2B
Sorcery
Until end of turn, you may cast target creature card from your graveyard. It costs WUBRG less to cast this turn.
Color Blind 3UU
Instant
Counter target spell. At the beginning of your next main phase, add WUBRG to your mana pool.
Rainbomancer 3B
Creature – Human Wizard
3/3
Rainbomancer is the colors of each card in your graveyard.
Rainbow Zombie 5B
Creature – Zombie Dancer
1/1
Rainbow Zombie gets +1/+1 for each color of cards in your graveyard.
Double Rainbow WUBRG
Sorcery
Add WWUUBBRRGG to your mana pool.
The lingering spells are fine, though I agree with Legend that they would be more interesting if they also triggered when, not necessarily leaving the battlefield (that way exiling them could be an option to not trigger) but, entering the graveyard from the battlefield.
Samite Missionary is confusing. Is the targeted creature to stay white until it dies, or Samite Missionary? The wording implies the former, but I don't see why you wouldn't just not put a timestamp on it in that case (since as soon as it leaves the battlefield it will reset anyway).
Dwarven Diplomat is interesting and, especially with the Kaldarjar leaning toward colorless, the flavor fits. Always nice to have some more dwarves.
Spellshyft appeals to me. I would be tempted to exile a five-color spell on this, especially if I didn't have the mana to cast it. Did you mean for it to lose its original color?
I'm less a fan of Eldritch Summoning. I would be okay with it if it included Edgewalker's clause of "This effect reduces only the amount of colored mana you pay."
I'm also not a fan of Colorblind, but mostly because I don't like tacking on "Add mana to your mana pool," without lots of flavor. I'd rather see something like "Counter target multicolored spell. At the beginning of your next main phase, add mana equal to that spell's mana cost to your mana pool. (Mana cost includes color. If a mana symbol has multiple colors, choose one.)" This does restrict it, but I can more easily see the flavor.
Double Rainbow seems more green to me, but I could see it as is. I'd be interested to see the art of that card.
"From this point, you can sometimes see their tips when the tides are low, the winds are soft, and the sun illuminates them from the horizon," says Vothias, "Which is to say, almost never. They are very far out to sea."
The three apprentices stand on the rocky point facing both Vothias and the sunrise. The Talas winds blow fiercely across the stones, whipping Jendu's brown hair across his face. Next to him, Alseth pulls the hood of her blue cloak tighter around her neck, scowling at the cold. Miltao folds his arms stoically as windblown tears fly from his face, occasionally lifting a hand to wipe the moisture away. The dawning sun silhouettes a fifth figure, standing to the side among the coastal brambles, his black locks tied tightly into a bun, his hands folded neatly in the small of his back.
"Magus Sestian has studied Madara and the Talon Gates since he was an apprentice at the Academy," says Vothias, "He has spent the last decade collecting and analyzing physical remnants of the old Madaran time rift. It has been a lonely task, to be sure. Magus Sestian's hypothesis, which excites the Academy very much, is that the orphan time signatures we recorded during the Mending were a product of the Talons' unique construction. His research seeks to determine whether the Talons were, in fact, a dual rift constructed to allow simultaneous travel between Dominaria and both aspects of the twin planes of Kamigawa. It is exciting research, and the first with the potential to explain the orphan time signatures entirely. But I will allow Magus Sestian to explain it himself."
Sestian steps up from the brambles, then bows deeply to Vothias. In response, the archmage grumbles and waves his hand towards the students. Without hesitation, Sestian pivots to face them, his hands still folded behind his meticulously-tailored robes. Then, with a single sweeping gesture, Sestian calls forth a thousand dreams from the past. From atop the high rock, the students' eyes widen as phantom ships appear along the coast beneath them. They turn to see the image of a bustling seaside village, and a towering castle nestled in the wooded hills beyond. Illusions of merchants, mages, and swordsmen fill the unreal streets. Every brick, beam, and scrap of cloth is of a style unseen anywhere in Dominaria, a style emulated by Sestian and his fitted robes.
"People often speak of Madara as an empire," says Sestian, "And technically, it was. But it was a very small one. We believe that it thrived for less than 250 years. When the early Jamuraans landed here, any vestige of Madaran civilization was long gone. But, some riddles remained. My work as a magus of the Academy has been to bring these Madaran riddles once again into the scrutiny of the present, and solve some of those that eluded our predecessors. You are here to help me solve one of the most infamous enigmas of old Madara. If we are lucky... perhaps two."
Alseth shifts her eyes towards Miltao's, and the two apprentices each struggle to raise a smirk as the cold wind drives into them. The young Spice Islander unfolds his fallow arms, tucks them into his cloak, and shudders. A strange amulet hangs from the woman's neck, carved in the shape of a beast that is half a cat and half a dragon. Vothias's gaze passes over this amulet briefly as he squares his shoulders towards the trio of apprentices.
"Lest you take a wrong turn at this crossroads, students," says Vothias, "Do not allow rumors of lost Umezawa heirlooms color your understanding of the tasks you are to complete here. You will chase such shadows during your personal time only."
"Our chances of unearthing the Umezawa cache during this expedition are slim," says Sestian, "The Academy stopped its sponsorship of digs here centuries ago, because it is quite probable that there is nothing left to dig. So, rather than looking for artifacts, our primary task is to look for... algae."
The students blink their eyes and sigh, nearly in unison. Jendu scratches his wind-whipped hair and rubs his reddened cheeks, scowling as he does. With another wave of his hand, Sestian makes the illusions disappear, then creates three new ones in the air between himself and the students. Each of the images is that of a different algal blob, magnified thousands of times so that each organelle is visible. The blobs wriggle and twist as if alive.
"The coasts of the Talas Ocean are home to three unique species of algae. Aberrant blooms of these algae have been recorded by Talas fishermen since before the Mirage War. What my research discovered is that these algae blooms followed like clockwork from known transit of the Talon Gates. Two of the algae species reacted differently to certain transit events. Our expedition is going to simulate the interplanar conditions of these events. We hope to prove that they could have only occurred as a result of a dual rift at Madara."
"Didn't some of the Madarans return to Kamigawa?" asks Jendu, "Could we just ask them?"
"There is an enduring fantasy that they returned to Kamigawa, but that is very likely not true. If they had, it's possible that some of them would even be alive today. We know very little about Kamigawa, for obvious reasons, but what little we do know does not suggest a Madaran homecoming."
"But Nicol Bolas opened the Talons and brought the Madarans to Dominaria," says Jendu, "Couldn't he have taken them to another plane after the Empire's fall?"
"The Talons were the location of the first great time rift, that is a fact," says Sestian, "But I wouldn't give much credence to the tall tales about their origin. Dragons tend to be unreliable witnesses. The facts are in conflict about how the Talons were created. Equally so, they are in conflict about how the Madarans disappeared. We simply don't know, so others have created myths in place of facts. I don't believe them."
"But, this is..."
"Jendu, you shall hold your questions until after Magus Sestian has finished," says Vothias.
"It's quite alright," says Sestian, "In fact, I think this discussion would be better served if we took a walk to my field laboratory and took shelter from this cold. I have a number of specimens there, and I have a demonstration prepared for you that should serve as a good material lesson about the effects of interplanar transit on these species' biology. We can discuss whatever matters you wish on our way to the lab."
The walk from the stony point is brisk. As the group descends out of the gale and towards the sea, the apprentice of Urborg loosens her blue hood from her short, blonde hair and begins whispering with the Spice Islander. Ahead of them, Jendu walks beside Sestian and Vothias, a look of exasperation creeping over his face.
"None of this makes sense to me," says Jendu, "I mean... we don't know when Dominaria entered the Nexus, why it did, or how. And, we don't know what Dominaria was like before it entered the Nexus, because anybody who might know is either lying like Bolas, or dead like every other elder dragon. But, we know it wasn't easy to travel to Dominaria before it entered the Nexus. Because if it was, we would have found evidence of other interplanar civilizations. But, the Talon Gates were the first portal to allow mass interplanar transit to Dominaria. The Madarans moved through it."
"Correct," says Vothias, "On all counts."
"So, Madara was the first colony here?"
"That was the view of the Academy for many years. But after the Mending, we discovered a number of Thran relics and Ghitu burial sites that predate the opening of the Talons. So, Madara was not the first foreign civilization to reach Dominaria's shores."
"But, how could the Ghitu and the Thran have traveled here before the opening of the rift?"
"Jendu, that is a thesis worthy of the chancellorship, if you were the one to find the answer."
The sun descends over Madara's barren shores more warmly than it rose. The three apprentices stand aside a bonfire on the beach, arguing over the lessons of the day as the low tide laps at their feet. As the hour ages, the stars emerge above them, and the residual lights of Nexus travel wash across the cosmos, faint yet frequent. Further down the beach, Sestian and Vothias walk, their footprints washed away soon after they step. The defunct Talon Gates are invisible beyond the waves, but the elderly archmage looks towards them all the same, contemplating the night.
"He asks some uncomfortable questions, Vothias," says Sestian, "Are you sure about this?"
"Jendu is bright," says Vothias, "Among this class's brightest. But, he lacks both application and discipline. No promise of future accolades will possess him to work at the level of which he is capable. He will never be so much as a task mage. Alseth and Miltao are easy to assess. They are less perceptive, prone to gossip, and easily swayed by material things. You will have to tempt them with riches and privilege, Sestian. If you can play to their vices, they will stay loyal, they will work hard, and they will get you the results that the Academy needs."
"This is why you asked me to mention the fictitious Umezawa cache, I assume?"
"The cache is most likely a fiction, but not definitely. And it is a compelling one."
"We are going to forfeit these apprentices' careers, and potentially their lives," says Sestian, "And unlike me, they will not be told why they were forced to make this sacrifice. The Academy will become a bitter tonic to them, Vothias. The Academy can't speak of enlightenment or progress in its halls when it is reduced to wasting these apprentices' futures on tactical maneuvers like this."
"My conscience agrees with you, Sestian," says Vothias, "But my judgment would like to remind you of the stakes involved. Bolas has already planted his agents in the Academy, and we may not discover who they are until it is too late. But, we know who they are not. They are not Jendu, Alseth, nor Miltao. Bolas is watching us as we do this. If we were to send our own mages to search the location of the final rift, he would know, and he would beat us to it. We have to make him accept this Madaran fiction while our Ghitu friend does the real work."
Pitch blackness swallows the interplanar negotiating room, except for the light emitting from the lines and curves of the two mystic circles on the floor. A tall, spindly man with gray hair stands in the first circle, his silk mantle clasped by the pierced, silver griffin of the Balshan Bay Company. In the second circle sits the image of an obese, wheezing prelate, wearing vestments adorned with the eclipsed sun of the Orzhov Syndicate. The gray-haired man thrusts out his hands towards the cleric’s projection in a gesture of disbelief, each wrinkle on the tall man's face a hardened statement of reproach towards his Orzhov counterpart.
“Where else in the multiverse are you going to find four Thran powerstones with identical mana signatures?” asks the Otarian, his voice deep and rumbling, “Hold on, I’ll tell you. Nowhere.”
“Let me ask you a question,” says the prelate, “Where else do you plan to find a buyer who can afford to take all four stones at once, with no inquiries into their provenance? I’m offering quite a premium for the set. And importantly, no… trouble, after the deal is done.”
“You say you’re offering a premium, but I don’t remember the part where we agreed to an initial price,” says the Otarian, “So, how about you take your talk about trouble and jam it up your ass. Here’s my advice to you, Borka. Do you want some advice?”
“What I want is…”
“I advise you to get serious, you goon. I have other parties lined up. In fact, I’m going to go talk to one of them now, and I think I’m really going to cherish the improvement in odor. It has been a pleasure chatting with you, you curdled sack of pus.”
“No, wait, I…”
The Otarian kicks his circle of dust on the floor, and the images of the prelate and the room-outside-of-space hurtle sideways from existence, replaced by the rafters of a dim and mildewy chamber. The negotiator claps his hands, and within seconds, another silk-draped figure lights a candle and emerges out of the shadows. The candle-holder is short and unremarkable, with thin, greasy hair and a patchy moustache. Continuing to hold the candle in one hand, he retrieves a broom from an alcove with the other, and begins to sweep up the dust of the magic circle as the tall man watches.
“I don’t know,” says the short man, “That Syndicate pig can afford to double the best price we’ve heard from our buyers on Segovia, Zendikar, and Rath. The Beggars are sitting on a mountain of these things over in the old Aphetto coffers, right next to that big pile of thrull scat, or whatever it is. So, why get worked up over these stupid rocks? Make a deal, already.”
“Neeyo, every time you speak, I get a clearer idea of how truly stupid you are,” says the tall man, “The Syndicate could pay ten times the best price we’ve heard. A hundred. They have the money. What they don’t have is any notion of our stockpile. Nobody else in a thousand planes is selling these things. We can demand any price we want. But it’s more than that. What would a group of fat-fingered clerics want with a matched set of Thran batteries? Ever think about that? Wait... of course you haven’t thought about it. That would be utterly unlike you.”
“Maybe they’re building something.”
“A Thran weapon? No. The Orzhov Syndicate isn’t in that racket. They wouldn’t even know how to build one. The Syndicate obviously has an anonymous buyer on the back end. That’s how they do business. And, whatever this nameless buyer is willing to pay, it will be at least fifty percent higher than the Syndicate’s best offer to us. We need to locate the real buyer. See what the real offer is.”
Neeyo opens the door to the chamber, and a peal of light and sound tumbles into it. The gray-haired man pushes past his mousy associate and out into the vast, sheltered docks of the Balshan Bay Company warehouse. Along the planks of the dock, hundreds of hireling goblins squawk as they load barrels of Benalish wine, or unload crates of Suq’Atan incense from the Talas clipper ship bobbing in the warm, Corondoran seawater. The two men pass by the goblins and climb a water-worn set of steps to a quieter observation point, as a rat scuttles by their feet.
“So, Morba, why won’t the buyer come to us directly?” asks Neeyo, “It’s not like we’ve made a secret out of selling these powerstones.”
“Again, you amaze me with your idiocy,” says Morba, withdrawing an oiled pipe from the folds of his cloak, “Think of what you just said.”
Neeyo turns his eyes towards Morba as the tall man puts a flint to the bowl of his pipe and takes two long puffs. Morba looks down at his greasy partner. The small man just smacks his lips and looks around up and down wordlessly.
“Truly, repeat what you just said,” says Morba, “Say it slow so your flabby brain can process it.”
“I said it’s no secret that we’re selling these,” says Neeyo, “Everybody knows.”
“And?”
“And, so... why doesn’t the buyer just buy them from us? It would be cheaper.”
“Because the real buyer doesn’t want anybody to know that he bought the stones, least of all us. The real buyer doesn’t trust us. But he trusts the Syndicate. That's because the Syndicate butters its bread with the fat of idiots who try to snitch on them. They keep things quiet. That’s their reputation. That’s their competitive advantage. That's what we have to surpass if we're going to get our best value on this transaction.”
“Well, how do we compete with that? I wouldn’t trust us, would you?”
“Trust is not our central business. But you’re missing the entire point once again, Neeyo. The Balshan Bay Company did not get a monopoly on Thran artifacts by selling off Thran artifacts. We aren’t selling these things to anybody. Not to the Orzhovans, not to their secret buyer. Nobody. Not one.”
“Yeah, sure. Then what are you talking to them for, anyway?”
“Because first, we’re going to figure out who this nameless buyer is. Then we’re going to figure out what he plans to pay the Syndicate. Then we’re going to figure out what he’s building with them, and what other valuables he has already acquired to build it. Then we send out the Extractor. He brings us everything.”
“What do you mean, ‘everything?’ And who is the Extractor?”
“Everything. The buyer, his payment, everything he owns. You seem to have some wrong ideas about our central business. The Balshan Bay Company didn’t get to be the second-biggest power in the Coalition by selling magic baubles to strangers on distant planes. All that’s just cover. We’re deeper into the pockets of the multiverse than you could ever dream. The Extractor is our hand in those pockets.”
Saryll and Cresta squeeze together on a wooden bench, legs touching, each woman holding one corner of Cresta’s small study tome in her hands. Cresta traces the lines of Khonian script with her finger as Saryll reads the words out loud. The Telemar gallery in which they sit hums as hundreds of motley legates search for their designated seats before the start of the convocation. Saryll lifts her voice to cut through the din.
“Bharsok arad ni lenihalo,” says Saryll, “Te cama… so, literally, make an O-shape with your lips and yell… and, don’t worry if you look like a fool. Or maybe that means speak forcefully, not yell. That shouldn’t actually matter in Khonian, right?”
“I have no idea,” says Cresta, “If it was Classical Aretan, it would matter. Sibilate a cantrip in Old Aretan instead of whispering it, and your face might slag off.”
A band of tattooed kor bravos shuffles through the rows of the gallery towards the women. Saryll shifts her eyes towards them, then takes the book and stands up to let them pass. Cresta remains sitting but swings her feet onto the bench as the brawny men sidle by her. The ash-caked warriors take their seats just on the other side of the women. Saryll sits back down and slides towards Cresta, putting her finger right back on the page.
“I didn’t realize that Aretan was so unforgiving,” says Saryll, “I’m relieved that I was apprenticed to Professor Eugon before anybody made me take it.”
“Reconstructed Aretan is ten times easier than Classical,” says Cresta, “And about twenty times as practical. But Reconstructed can be translated. I only have time to study dead languages that are untranslatable and utterly useless outside of the scroll room. There’s no space in the syllabus for any language that can be emulated by one of the living tongues. That would be… task work. Can you believe the arrogance? It drives me mad sometimes.”
Two neatly-dressed men of nearly identical appearance claim seats to the right side of the women. One of the men leans past the other and smiles towards Saryll, the wavy locks of his black hair accentuating his marble-chiseled features. Both of the men wear the stark gold of their Avenant suzerainty, are lightly scented by herbal oils, and bear the roguish bristle of a week’s journey by sea. Saryll smiles politely to the man and turns back to Cresta.
“I don’t know how you do it,” says Saryll, “I hated my Khonian and Phasic B classes more than anything else I took my probationary year. We would joke about it, like, you’d better study hard, or they’re going to track you into a scrollkeeping apprenticeship and stick you in a musty tower with Professor Glum.”
“I think it’s actually the most popular apprenticeship now,” says Cresta, “As long as the Coalition keeps digging up ancient scrolls from across the multiverse, we’ll have new work to do. Also, it’s exciting to be the first person to cast a spell in… thousands of years, sometimes. Even if it’s just a cantrip for washing mud off your boots. Did I tell you about that one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That was the one where Jendu…”
“Oh wait, was this Jendu’s thirty-six day project?”
“Gosh, the thing couldn’t have been longer than a cord-and-a-half! I mean, a cord-and-a-half isn’t the shortest Nephilic scroll the Academy has ever seen, but it’s fairly close. And Nephilic isn’t that hard, all things considered. Oh, but he just took forever to finish it! He made all sorts of promises about the lost secrets of the scroll. It was just a boot washing spell!”
The crack of a gavel sounds from the podium at the front of the convocation hall. Director Morba of the Balshan Bay Company stands on the dais, glowering over the assembly with a sharpened eyes, and drops the gavel again. The din of the crowd winds down as the final few dozen legates find their seats. Cresta takes the study tome from Saryll’s hands and closes it softly, then slips it into the side pocket of her satchel and sits forward. Saryll taps Cresta gently on the thigh.
“Do you really want to sit through this?” asks Saryll.
“Nope,” says Cresta, “Do you think we can cut out?”
“If we go right now,” says Saryll, “If not, we’re stuck.”
The two apprentices leap to their feet and hurriedly squeeze by the two Avenant brothers. At the end of the row, the women take each other by the hand and walk quickly up the carpeted aisle to the doors of the gallery. The women slide past the usher just as he begins to ward the doors with a simple spell. They emerge into the baroque canopy of the Telemar main concourse. The bridge city stretches for nearly a mile in either direction, an artery of culture spanning the Golthonor Sea between the Corondoran mainland and its resurgent satellite Isle. The concourse runs its length.
Every route into or out of the concourse is monitored by red-sashed Corondoran guards, except for the narrow, precipitous stairs to the balcony level of the gallery. Cresta pulls Saryll behind her as the two women fly up the stairs, tripping on each other’s robes as they ascend. The vestibule outside the balcony level is empty, the doors to the gallery barred, and the lights dim. A soft chair sits in one corner of the vestibule, and Saryll runs to it. The Llanowar apprentice barely manages to sit down before Cresta climbs on top of her and caresses the elf’s face in her hands.
“I don’t want to listen to them drone about crucibles and trade charters,” asks Cresta, “Do you?”
“No, but I do hope they take their time with it,” says Saryll, “Because I have some plans for you.”
Cresta slowly lowers her lips towards those of her lover. As they are about to meet, hundreds of voices shriek in unison from behind the balcony doors. Cresta bolts upright and turns to towards the sound, then climbs off of Saryll as the elf also sits up. The cacophony continues, and the two women look to one another with glances of worry and confusion. From the concourse below, the flash of a fireball erupts, and a blast of residual force washes up the steps and blows the women backwards. Shaking off the blast, Saryll turns and puts her hands on Cresta’s shoulders, looking into her eyes. Cresta nods in reassurance, and the two women stand up together.
The concourse is a bloodbath. An enormous, vine-covered elemental swings the headless body of a Corondoran guardsman menacingly at dozens of other red-sashed soldiers. Another peal of fire streaks across the concourse, blasting weapons and limbs from even more guards. The two women lurk at the edge of the stair, Cresta’s eyes wide and Saryll’s eyes narrow and discerning. The elemental reaches for a stunned spearman and drops him into its acidic gullet.
“It’s a nollymadder,” whispers Saryll, “what in the nine gales is a nollymadder doing in Telemar?”
“A what?” hisses Cresta.
“They live in the forests at home,” says Saryll, “The deep, deep forests. They aren’t aggressive by nature, just hungry. This one is scared half to death. Somebody called it here against its will.”
“What should we do?” asks Cresta.
“Probably stay up here until we know what’s happening,” says Saryll, “There is some dangerous magic being cast down…”
The doors to the balcony crash open, and a huge, blood-drenched troll tumbles out of the gallery, a dozen kor harpoons lodged into its flesh. Two of the kor bravos struggle against it, but the troll tugs on one of the tow lines and sends both warriors careening into a column, where they impact with a sickening snap of bones. Cresta screams, and Saryll pushes her behind with one hand as she thrusts her other hand towards the furious troll. Bellowing two fluid syllables in the untranslatable language of Phasic B, Saryll sends the monster crashing back into the gallery as a tidal wave of saltwater surges from her fingers. Saryll turns, and the two women run.
The elemental has pushed the Corondoran guards further down the great concourse by the time Cresta and Saryll descend the stairs. The shouts and pounding fists of the trapped legates ring out from behind the doors, each door glowing with its warding spell. The two women rush over to the doors, and Cresta reaches into her satchel. From inside, the shouts intensify, as do the screams of a wounded, wet, and angry troll. Cresta withdraws a small scrap of metal.
“This ward should be easy to break,” says Cresta, “It doesn’t look complex. I just need a second or two with this shard. Can you cover me?”
“Hurry,” says Saryll, “For the legates’ sake.”
No sooner does Saryll turn around than a bonfire erupts from the æther. Saryll steps back, places one hand on Cresta, and whispers five melodic syllables in Rakshasan. As the fire rages towards them, the two women suddenly sink into a circle of water manifesting below them in the floor. For a moment, the women grasp each other, gurgling in the darkness of an in-between space that is both empty, yet full like the ocean. Then the women splash out, soaking wet, into a sub-level below the concourse. They land on piles of ballast sand and old, broken furniture.
“I almost had it!” says Cresta, gasping for air.
“This is too much,” says Saryll, catching her breath, “We will be killed if we stay here. I have no idea what is happening up there, but two apprentices from the Academy are not going to stop it.”
“And, why would they want to?” asks a voice.
Saryll and Cresta turn to see a leather-armored woman sitting on a pile of straw in the corner of the room, whittling on an ivory spearpoint in the dim lantern light. Two more figures stand behind her in the darkness, staring at the apprentices with ferocity in their eyes. Each hunter wears his or her hair in the cut of a different clan, though each is shaved on both sides, with the tattoos of lineage streaking across his or her scalp. Unfazed, Saryll picks herself up and steps forward.
“Cousins, what is this?” asks Saryll, “Tell me.”
“This is our freedom, cousin,” says one of the standing elves, “Freedom from the grasp of Brylberon and Ruadach, and all others who would have the true voice of Llanowar enslaved to this Coalition. Those who Llanowar appointed to represent her have, in fact, betrayed her. The elfhame legates fatten themselves on Balshan eels and Femeref honey while the people of Llanowar waste away in servitude. This is the dawn of our revolution, cousin. That is, if your Academy masters have not made you forget who you really are. If so, then this may be your death.”
The second thrust of the sword bites more deeply than the first. As it slides out of the monster’s viscera, a fountain of blood and bile follows it. The pearls of sweat on Kunguru’s brow spin off in a cascade as the swordsman lunges in towards the troll for a third successive strike. The blade penetrates the breast of the creature this time, close to its heart. Kunguru reinforces the hilt and jams the thrust deeper, the muscles of his exposed shoulder rippling as the tip of his blade exits from the creature’s back. He slashes sideways as he pulls the blade loose, dragging out chunks of the monster’s heart this time. Then he stands back and watches as, yet again, the wounds of the creature slowly close, and the rage of its screams grow louder as it rights itself.
“God will take you soon enough, monster,” says Kunguru as he raises his blade for another pass from the rampaging foe.
No less than nine legates lie dead, including two princes of Llanowar and most of their respective retinues. Another thirty cling to the jagged precipice of life, including Director Morba and three of Kunguru’s kifalme guard. Two of the gallery’s towering windows stand broken, one where two wizards of Urborg leapt into the sea below, and another where a Ghitu staff fighter was hurled through it by the troll. The remaining legates cower at the edges of the room, dozens of them frantically tugging at the doors to the concourse. Water runs from the balcony above as the muffled roar of flames grows louder beyond the doors. Kunguru listens closely, then steps towards the troll and begins to pray.
The monster lunges towards Kunguru’s blade. The Femeref Commander draws the sword away and sidesteps the troll’s charge. He continues the prayer, closing his eyes as the troll turns back to him. Kunguru waves the sword as bait, and the troll grasps at it. But Kunguru moves quickly to the monster’s flank, and places one black hand upon its haunch. The troll grunts in surprise, then relaxes its muscles. Kunguru finishes the prayer and opens his eyes. He is greeted with the view of the troll lazily scratching its head, scanning the room with deep, yet calm confusion.
“Move, people,” shouts Kunguru, “Its master may counteract my spell at any time. Are the doors still barred by that magic?”
“Yes,” says one of the Avenant brothers, “And it’s getting hotter beyond the doors every second.”
“Then we will not exit through the concourse,” says Kunguru, “Not through the balcony nor these windows. There must be another way out of this gallery!”
“The attackers appeared out of nowhere,” says a Gathan legate, “There is probably a trapdoor in the dais or somewhere near the front.”
“Did anybody see it?” asks Kunguru, “Everybody, look for it now. Unless you know healing words. Then come and save your peers with me.”
Kunguru walks straight to Director Morba, whose tall, bony frame lies crumpled in a twisted knot on the dais. The other legates spread out and begin searching the gallery for latches and panels, or tend to the casualties. Kunguru reaches into his belt pouch and withdraws a small, green leaf from it. He crushes the leaf gently between his thumb and forefinger, then smears a streak of oil from the plant underneath Morba’s nose. The Company man coughs twice and cries out, his frame still broken and bleeding. Kunguru puts his hands on Morba’s shoulders and brings his face close in.
“Tell me why I should let you live,” whispers Kunguru, “Tell me why the Awene would invite a thief like you into their house again. Make me believe the lie that you are about to tell me. If I don’t, then this is where your wretched life will end.”
The Director turns his head slowly, his eyes swimming back and forth as they search the gallery for any person other than the man who revived him. Kunguru grasps the Director’s chin firmly in one hand and turns it back to face him. Two drops of sweat trickle off of Kunguru’s forehead and into Morba’s eyes. The old man shudders and blinks. Unrelenting in his gaze, Kunguru crushes a second leaf in his other hand, then opens Morba’s jaw and sprinkles the dust and oil inside.
“I can pay you in gold! Gah!” coughs Morba, “I can pay you in whatever you want! I can make you the richest man in Femeref, you idiot! Ugh!”
“Insufficient,” whispers Kunguru, as he grips tighter, and moves his face closer, “You are going to reveal everything to me, or you will die here. Every secret trade. Every backroom deal. I want to meet the people to whom you pawned my family’s legacy. You will tell me every name. When we leave here, you will take me to meet them, no matter what rat hole of a plane they call home. Do not refuse me in anything I ask. Or. You. Will. Die. Here.”
“Alright, I will do whatever you want. Names, places, everything. Ugh! Just give me more of that medicine, now. Quickly.”
“No. First, you will tell me a name. Tell me now. Who has the crown, and how much did they pay you? No more excuses.”
“You want the crown? Ha! Just ask the Beggars. It’s still sitting in their collection. It never left the plane. I will get it for you.”
A distant gleam arises behind Kunguru’s eyes, and his stern face slowly widens into an uncanny smile. Morba huffs and looks into the abyss of the Commander’s pupils. He waits in puzzlement as the man’s grip tightens. Then his face turns white with dawning realization, and he squirms in resistance to the soldier’s grasp. Morba opens his mouth to scream, but Kunguru drops more of the crushed herb into it before he can, then covers the Director’s mouth with his meaty hand and leans in close to his ear. One clammy breath washes over Morba’s prickled skin.
“We all suspected you would be easy to break, Director,” a dead voice whispers from Kunguru’s lips, “But never this easy. Clearly, you are too great a risk to the Company.”
Kunguru holds Morba still as the old man writhes and shudders, the poison leaf coaxing his heart towards its final slumber. When Kunguru stands a minute later, the room is still gripped by panic, and the Director lays lifeless on the dais. Kunguru waves to one of the d’Avenant men, who runs across the room to join him. Smoke begins to pour through the wood frames around the gallery’s sealed doors, as another group of desperate legates gathers around the broken windows looking out over the wild Golthonor Sea.
“My greatest magic could not save him,” says Kunguru, “This will be remembered as a bleak day for the Coalition. How many other wounded have the legates been able to revive?”
“Only three or four,” says the man of Avenant, “It’s bad.”
“If we do not leave now, there will only be more death,” says Kunguru, “Help me move this body.”
The two men drag the corpse of Director Morba from the dais, and lay it unceremoniously on the gallery floor. Around the room, dozens of legates crawl on their hands and knees searching for a switch or secret panel that could mark an exit. Kunguru returns to the dais and searches with his hand beneath the lip of the speaker’s podium. One of the Shivan legates shouts as Kunguru trips the lever, opening a trap door at the corner of the gallery. Kunguru strides forth from the dais and swings his white cape over his mailed shoulder.
“Everyone, to the exit,” says Kunguru, “Be alert, the enemy is likely still afoot.”
I am working on Telemar, Part Two right now, but I'm needing to do some major revisions to it because I don't like how my first draft handles Saryll's character. As my portal to all things Llanowar, I really need to nail Saryll's outlook and motivations, here. I don't plan for the wait to be anywhere near as long as between my last two Kheva chapters.
(And why would a vampire have to stop to take a piss?)
Asking the important question!
Honestly, I don't remember. I'm sure I had a thought process there. If / when I revise this story, I'll probably add vampire piss to the list of "things I'll let go because they create more confusion than they're worth."
As for Saryll, Ayldred, and Cresta, I haven't fully fleshed out that triangle, yet. (Or is it a quadrangle?) At the risk of telling vs. showing, the idea is that Saryll and Ayldred are old childhood friends, they're very comfortable with one another (even OK with platonic physical affection), but "Aydreld" is expressing some romantic interest in Saryll that is never going to be requited because Saryll doesn't go that way. Why does this romantic entanglement matter? That has something to do with what's taking place in Telemar. (And I have an idea for how to get over my characterization hump, so I'm hoping I'll have part 2 up before too long).
Hope that explains a few things. I'm happy to get the critique... feel free to give me more!
I̟̥͍̠ͅn̩͉̣͍̬͚ͅ ̬̬͖t̯̹̞̺͖͓̯̤h̘͍̬e͙̯͈̖̼̮ ̭̬f̺̲̲̪i͙͉̟̩̰r̪̝͚͈̝̥͍̝̲s̼̻͇̘̳͔ͅt̲̺̳̗̜̪̙ ̳̺̥̻͚̗ͅm̜̜̟̰͈͓͎͇o̝̖̮̝͇m̯̻̞̼̫̗͓̤e̩̯̬̮̩n͎̱̪̲̹͖t͇̖s̰̮ͅ,̤̲͙̻̭̻̯̹̰ ̖t̫̙̺̯͖͚̯ͅh͙̯̦̳̗̰̟e͖̪͉̼̯ ̪͕g̞̣͔a̗̦t̬̬͓͙̫̖̭̻e̩̻̯ ̜̖̦̖̤̭͙̬t̞̹̥̪͎͉ͅo͕͚͍͇̲͇͓̺ ̭̬͙͈̣̻t͈͍͙͓̫̖͙̩h̪̬̖̙e̗͈ ̗̬̟̞̺̤͉̯ͅa̦̯͚̙̜̮f͉͙̲̣̞̼t̪̤̞̣͚e̲͉̳̥r͇̪̙͚͓l̥̞̞͎̹̯̹ͅi͓̬f̮̥̬̞͈ͅe͎ ̟̩̤̳̠̯̩̯o̮̘̲p̟͚̣̞͉͓e͍̩̣n͔̼͕͚̜e̬̱d̼̘͎̖̹͍̮̠,͖̺̭̱̮ ̣̲͖̬̪̭̥a̪͚n̟̲̝̤̤̞̗d̘̱̗͇̮͕̳͕͔ ͖̞͉͎t̹̙͎h̰̱͉̗e̪̞̱̝̹̩ͅ ̠̱̩̭̦p̯̙e͓o̳͚̰̯̺̱̰͔̘p̬͎̱̣̼̩͇l̗̟̖͚̠e̱͉͔̱̦̬̟̙ ̖͚̪͔̼̦w̺̖̤̱e͖̗̻̦͓̖̘̜r̭̥e͔̹̫̱͕̦̰͕ ̗͔̠p̠̗͍͍̱̳̠r̰͔͎̰o͉̥͓̰͚̥s̟͚̹̱͔̣t͉̙̳̖͖̪̮r̥̘̥͙̹a͉̟̫̟̳̠̟̭t͈̜̰͈͎e̞̣̭̲̬ ͚̗̯̟͙i͍͖̰̘̦͖͉ṇ̮̻̯̦̲̩͍ ̦̮͚̫̤t͉͖̫͕ͅͅh͙̮̻̘̣̮̼e͕̺ ͙l͕̠͎̰̥i̲͓͉̲g̫̳̟͈͇̖h̠̦̖t͓̯͎̗ ̳̪̘̟̙̩̦o̫̲f̙͔̰̙̠ ̹̪̗͇̯t͖̼̼͉͖̬h̹͇̩e͚̖̺̤͉̹͕̪ ͚͓̭̝̺G͎̗̯̩o̫̯̮̟̮̳̘d̜̲͙̠-̩̳̯̲̗̜P̹̘̥͉̝h͍͈̗̖̝ͅa͍̗̮̼̗r̜̖͇̙̺a̭̺͔̞̳͈o̪̣͓̯̬͙̯̰̗h̖̦͈̥̯͔.͇̣̙̝
Enchantment [C]
When Lingering Courage enters the battlefield, creatures you control get +1/+1 until end of turn.
Enchantment [C]
When Lingering Dreams enters the battlefield, draw two cards.
Enchantment [C]
When Lingering Trauma enters the battlefield, target opponent loses 2 life and you gain 2 life.
Enchantment [C]
When Lingering Ruin enters the battlefield, destroy target artifact or land.
Enchantment [C]
When Lingering Rebirth enters the battlefield, return target creature card from your graveyard to your hand.
EDIT: Here's a few remnants from a color matters theme that morphed into something else. I won't be using them but thought they might be of use to you. (One or two of them aren't my designs.)
Samite Missionary
3W
Creature – Human Cleric
2/3
When Samite Missionary enters the battlefield, target creature becomes white for as long as it is on the battlefield.
Dwarven Diplomat
2R
Creature – Dwarf Advisor
2/3
T: Target creature becomes colorless until end of turn.
Rainbow Elemental
4U
Creature – Elemental
2/3
Flying
Rainbow Elemental is all colors.
Shimmering Eel
1U
Creature – Fish
2/1
U: Shimmering Eel becomes the color of your choice until end of turn.
Shadow Caster
B
Creature - Human Wizard
1/1
B: Target creature becomes black until end of turn.
Spellshyft
4U
Creature – Shapeshifter
4/2
Flash
When Spellshyft enters the battlefield, exile target spell. Spellshyft becomes the colors of that spell.
Spellshyft has lifelink as long as it’s white, trample as long as it’s green, first strike as long as it’s red, deathtouch as long as it’s black, and flying as long as it’s blue.
Eldritch Summoning
2B
Sorcery
Until end of turn, you may cast target creature card from your graveyard. It costs WUBRG less to cast this turn.
Color Blind
3UU
Instant
Counter target spell. At the beginning of your next main phase, add WUBRG to your mana pool.
Rainbomancer
3B
Creature – Human Wizard
3/3
Rainbomancer is the colors of each card in your graveyard.
Rainbow Zombie
5B
Creature – Zombie Dancer
1/1
Rainbow Zombie gets +1/+1 for each color of cards in your graveyard.
Double Rainbow
WUBRG
Sorcery
Add WWUUBBRRGG to your mana pool.
On Legend's cards, while I think that //gatherer.wizards.com/Pages/Search/Default.aspx?action=advanced&name=+[lace">&set=|[%22Fourth%20Edition%22]"]lacing effects are interesting (and fitting for this block), cards like Rainbow Elemental (that simply 'are all colors') are more of a cop-out here. Especially so with Impossible Refraction in the set.
Samite Missionary is confusing. Is the targeted creature to stay white until it dies, or Samite Missionary? The wording implies the former, but I don't see why you wouldn't just not put a timestamp on it in that case (since as soon as it leaves the battlefield it will reset anyway).
Dwarven Diplomat is interesting and, especially with the Kaldarjar leaning toward colorless, the flavor fits. Always nice to have some more dwarves.
Spellshyft appeals to me. I would be tempted to exile a five-color spell on this, especially if I didn't have the mana to cast it. Did you mean for it to lose its original color?
I'm less a fan of Eldritch Summoning. I would be okay with it if it included Edgewalker's clause of "This effect reduces only the amount of colored mana you pay."
I'm also not a fan of Colorblind, but mostly because I don't like tacking on "Add mana to your mana pool," without lots of flavor. I'd rather see something like "Counter target multicolored spell. At the beginning of your next main phase, add mana equal to that spell's mana cost to your mana pool. (Mana cost includes color. If a mana symbol has multiple colors, choose one.)" This does restrict it, but I can more easily see the flavor.
Double Rainbow seems more green to me, but I could see it as is. I'd be interested to see the art of that card.
Eredith
The Talon Gates
"From this point, you can sometimes see their tips when the tides are low, the winds are soft, and the sun illuminates them from the horizon," says Vothias, "Which is to say, almost never. They are very far out to sea."
The three apprentices stand on the rocky point facing both Vothias and the sunrise. The Talas winds blow fiercely across the stones, whipping Jendu's brown hair across his face. Next to him, Alseth pulls the hood of her blue cloak tighter around her neck, scowling at the cold. Miltao folds his arms stoically as windblown tears fly from his face, occasionally lifting a hand to wipe the moisture away. The dawning sun silhouettes a fifth figure, standing to the side among the coastal brambles, his black locks tied tightly into a bun, his hands folded neatly in the small of his back.
"Magus Sestian has studied Madara and the Talon Gates since he was an apprentice at the Academy," says Vothias, "He has spent the last decade collecting and analyzing physical remnants of the old Madaran time rift. It has been a lonely task, to be sure. Magus Sestian's hypothesis, which excites the Academy very much, is that the orphan time signatures we recorded during the Mending were a product of the Talons' unique construction. His research seeks to determine whether the Talons were, in fact, a dual rift constructed to allow simultaneous travel between Dominaria and both aspects of the twin planes of Kamigawa. It is exciting research, and the first with the potential to explain the orphan time signatures entirely. But I will allow Magus Sestian to explain it himself."
Sestian steps up from the brambles, then bows deeply to Vothias. In response, the archmage grumbles and waves his hand towards the students. Without hesitation, Sestian pivots to face them, his hands still folded behind his meticulously-tailored robes. Then, with a single sweeping gesture, Sestian calls forth a thousand dreams from the past. From atop the high rock, the students' eyes widen as phantom ships appear along the coast beneath them. They turn to see the image of a bustling seaside village, and a towering castle nestled in the wooded hills beyond. Illusions of merchants, mages, and swordsmen fill the unreal streets. Every brick, beam, and scrap of cloth is of a style unseen anywhere in Dominaria, a style emulated by Sestian and his fitted robes.
"People often speak of Madara as an empire," says Sestian, "And technically, it was. But it was a very small one. We believe that it thrived for less than 250 years. When the early Jamuraans landed here, any vestige of Madaran civilization was long gone. But, some riddles remained. My work as a magus of the Academy has been to bring these Madaran riddles once again into the scrutiny of the present, and solve some of those that eluded our predecessors. You are here to help me solve one of the most infamous enigmas of old Madara. If we are lucky... perhaps two."
Alseth shifts her eyes towards Miltao's, and the two apprentices each struggle to raise a smirk as the cold wind drives into them. The young Spice Islander unfolds his fallow arms, tucks them into his cloak, and shudders. A strange amulet hangs from the woman's neck, carved in the shape of a beast that is half a cat and half a dragon. Vothias's gaze passes over this amulet briefly as he squares his shoulders towards the trio of apprentices.
"Lest you take a wrong turn at this crossroads, students," says Vothias, "Do not allow rumors of lost Umezawa heirlooms color your understanding of the tasks you are to complete here. You will chase such shadows during your personal time only."
"Our chances of unearthing the Umezawa cache during this expedition are slim," says Sestian, "The Academy stopped its sponsorship of digs here centuries ago, because it is quite probable that there is nothing left to dig. So, rather than looking for artifacts, our primary task is to look for... algae."
The students blink their eyes and sigh, nearly in unison. Jendu scratches his wind-whipped hair and rubs his reddened cheeks, scowling as he does. With another wave of his hand, Sestian makes the illusions disappear, then creates three new ones in the air between himself and the students. Each of the images is that of a different algal blob, magnified thousands of times so that each organelle is visible. The blobs wriggle and twist as if alive.
"The coasts of the Talas Ocean are home to three unique species of algae. Aberrant blooms of these algae have been recorded by Talas fishermen since before the Mirage War. What my research discovered is that these algae blooms followed like clockwork from known transit of the Talon Gates. Two of the algae species reacted differently to certain transit events. Our expedition is going to simulate the interplanar conditions of these events. We hope to prove that they could have only occurred as a result of a dual rift at Madara."
"Didn't some of the Madarans return to Kamigawa?" asks Jendu, "Could we just ask them?"
"There is an enduring fantasy that they returned to Kamigawa, but that is very likely not true. If they had, it's possible that some of them would even be alive today. We know very little about Kamigawa, for obvious reasons, but what little we do know does not suggest a Madaran homecoming."
"But Nicol Bolas opened the Talons and brought the Madarans to Dominaria," says Jendu, "Couldn't he have taken them to another plane after the Empire's fall?"
"The Talons were the location of the first great time rift, that is a fact," says Sestian, "But I wouldn't give much credence to the tall tales about their origin. Dragons tend to be unreliable witnesses. The facts are in conflict about how the Talons were created. Equally so, they are in conflict about how the Madarans disappeared. We simply don't know, so others have created myths in place of facts. I don't believe them."
"But, this is..."
"Jendu, you shall hold your questions until after Magus Sestian has finished," says Vothias.
"It's quite alright," says Sestian, "In fact, I think this discussion would be better served if we took a walk to my field laboratory and took shelter from this cold. I have a number of specimens there, and I have a demonstration prepared for you that should serve as a good material lesson about the effects of interplanar transit on these species' biology. We can discuss whatever matters you wish on our way to the lab."
The walk from the stony point is brisk. As the group descends out of the gale and towards the sea, the apprentice of Urborg loosens her blue hood from her short, blonde hair and begins whispering with the Spice Islander. Ahead of them, Jendu walks beside Sestian and Vothias, a look of exasperation creeping over his face.
"None of this makes sense to me," says Jendu, "I mean... we don't know when Dominaria entered the Nexus, why it did, or how. And, we don't know what Dominaria was like before it entered the Nexus, because anybody who might know is either lying like Bolas, or dead like every other elder dragon. But, we know it wasn't easy to travel to Dominaria before it entered the Nexus. Because if it was, we would have found evidence of other interplanar civilizations. But, the Talon Gates were the first portal to allow mass interplanar transit to Dominaria. The Madarans moved through it."
"Correct," says Vothias, "On all counts."
"So, Madara was the first colony here?"
"That was the view of the Academy for many years. But after the Mending, we discovered a number of Thran relics and Ghitu burial sites that predate the opening of the Talons. So, Madara was not the first foreign civilization to reach Dominaria's shores."
"But, how could the Ghitu and the Thran have traveled here before the opening of the rift?"
"Jendu, that is a thesis worthy of the chancellorship, if you were the one to find the answer."
The sun descends over Madara's barren shores more warmly than it rose. The three apprentices stand aside a bonfire on the beach, arguing over the lessons of the day as the low tide laps at their feet. As the hour ages, the stars emerge above them, and the residual lights of Nexus travel wash across the cosmos, faint yet frequent. Further down the beach, Sestian and Vothias walk, their footprints washed away soon after they step. The defunct Talon Gates are invisible beyond the waves, but the elderly archmage looks towards them all the same, contemplating the night.
"He asks some uncomfortable questions, Vothias," says Sestian, "Are you sure about this?"
"Jendu is bright," says Vothias, "Among this class's brightest. But, he lacks both application and discipline. No promise of future accolades will possess him to work at the level of which he is capable. He will never be so much as a task mage. Alseth and Miltao are easy to assess. They are less perceptive, prone to gossip, and easily swayed by material things. You will have to tempt them with riches and privilege, Sestian. If you can play to their vices, they will stay loyal, they will work hard, and they will get you the results that the Academy needs."
"This is why you asked me to mention the fictitious Umezawa cache, I assume?"
"The cache is most likely a fiction, but not definitely. And it is a compelling one."
"We are going to forfeit these apprentices' careers, and potentially their lives," says Sestian, "And unlike me, they will not be told why they were forced to make this sacrifice. The Academy will become a bitter tonic to them, Vothias. The Academy can't speak of enlightenment or progress in its halls when it is reduced to wasting these apprentices' futures on tactical maneuvers like this."
"My conscience agrees with you, Sestian," says Vothias, "But my judgment would like to remind you of the stakes involved. Bolas has already planted his agents in the Academy, and we may not discover who they are until it is too late. But, we know who they are not. They are not Jendu, Alseth, nor Miltao. Bolas is watching us as we do this. If we were to send our own mages to search the location of the final rift, he would know, and he would beat us to it. We have to make him accept this Madaran fiction while our Ghitu friend does the real work."
I̟̥͍̠ͅn̩͉̣͍̬͚ͅ ̬̬͖t̯̹̞̺͖͓̯̤h̘͍̬e͙̯͈̖̼̮ ̭̬f̺̲̲̪i͙͉̟̩̰r̪̝͚͈̝̥͍̝̲s̼̻͇̘̳͔ͅt̲̺̳̗̜̪̙ ̳̺̥̻͚̗ͅm̜̜̟̰͈͓͎͇o̝̖̮̝͇m̯̻̞̼̫̗͓̤e̩̯̬̮̩n͎̱̪̲̹͖t͇̖s̰̮ͅ,̤̲͙̻̭̻̯̹̰ ̖t̫̙̺̯͖͚̯ͅh͙̯̦̳̗̰̟e͖̪͉̼̯ ̪͕g̞̣͔a̗̦t̬̬͓͙̫̖̭̻e̩̻̯ ̜̖̦̖̤̭͙̬t̞̹̥̪͎͉ͅo͕͚͍͇̲͇͓̺ ̭̬͙͈̣̻t͈͍͙͓̫̖͙̩h̪̬̖̙e̗͈ ̗̬̟̞̺̤͉̯ͅa̦̯͚̙̜̮f͉͙̲̣̞̼t̪̤̞̣͚e̲͉̳̥r͇̪̙͚͓l̥̞̞͎̹̯̹ͅi͓̬f̮̥̬̞͈ͅe͎ ̟̩̤̳̠̯̩̯o̮̘̲p̟͚̣̞͉͓e͍̩̣n͔̼͕͚̜e̬̱d̼̘͎̖̹͍̮̠,͖̺̭̱̮ ̣̲͖̬̪̭̥a̪͚n̟̲̝̤̤̞̗d̘̱̗͇̮͕̳͕͔ ͖̞͉͎t̹̙͎h̰̱͉̗e̪̞̱̝̹̩ͅ ̠̱̩̭̦p̯̙e͓o̳͚̰̯̺̱̰͔̘p̬͎̱̣̼̩͇l̗̟̖͚̠e̱͉͔̱̦̬̟̙ ̖͚̪͔̼̦w̺̖̤̱e͖̗̻̦͓̖̘̜r̭̥e͔̹̫̱͕̦̰͕ ̗͔̠p̠̗͍͍̱̳̠r̰͔͎̰o͉̥͓̰͚̥s̟͚̹̱͔̣t͉̙̳̖͖̪̮r̥̘̥͙̹a͉̟̫̟̳̠̟̭t͈̜̰͈͎e̞̣̭̲̬ ͚̗̯̟͙i͍͖̰̘̦͖͉ṇ̮̻̯̦̲̩͍ ̦̮͚̫̤t͉͖̫͕ͅͅh͙̮̻̘̣̮̼e͕̺ ͙l͕̠͎̰̥i̲͓͉̲g̫̳̟͈͇̖h̠̦̖t͓̯͎̗ ̳̪̘̟̙̩̦o̫̲f̙͔̰̙̠ ̹̪̗͇̯t͖̼̼͉͖̬h̹͇̩e͚̖̺̤͉̹͕̪ ͚͓̭̝̺G͎̗̯̩o̫̯̮̟̮̳̘d̜̲͙̠-̩̳̯̲̗̜P̹̘̥͉̝h͍͈̗̖̝ͅa͍̗̮̼̗r̜̖͇̙̺a̭̺͔̞̳͈o̪̣͓̯̬͙̯̰̗h̖̦͈̥̯͔.͇̣̙̝
Avatar by Numotflame96 of Maelstrom Graphics
Sig banner thanks to DarkNightCavalier of Heroes of the Plane Studios!
Raiders of Empire
Pitch blackness swallows the interplanar negotiating room, except for the light emitting from the lines and curves of the two mystic circles on the floor. A tall, spindly man with gray hair stands in the first circle, his silk mantle clasped by the pierced, silver griffin of the Balshan Bay Company. In the second circle sits the image of an obese, wheezing prelate, wearing vestments adorned with the eclipsed sun of the Orzhov Syndicate. The gray-haired man thrusts out his hands towards the cleric’s projection in a gesture of disbelief, each wrinkle on the tall man's face a hardened statement of reproach towards his Orzhov counterpart.
“Where else in the multiverse are you going to find four Thran powerstones with identical mana signatures?” asks the Otarian, his voice deep and rumbling, “Hold on, I’ll tell you. Nowhere.”
“Let me ask you a question,” says the prelate, “Where else do you plan to find a buyer who can afford to take all four stones at once, with no inquiries into their provenance? I’m offering quite a premium for the set. And importantly, no… trouble, after the deal is done.”
“You say you’re offering a premium, but I don’t remember the part where we agreed to an initial price,” says the Otarian, “So, how about you take your talk about trouble and jam it up your ass. Here’s my advice to you, Borka. Do you want some advice?”
“What I want is…”
“I advise you to get serious, you goon. I have other parties lined up. In fact, I’m going to go talk to one of them now, and I think I’m really going to cherish the improvement in odor. It has been a pleasure chatting with you, you curdled sack of pus.”
“No, wait, I…”
The Otarian kicks his circle of dust on the floor, and the images of the prelate and the room-outside-of-space hurtle sideways from existence, replaced by the rafters of a dim and mildewy chamber. The negotiator claps his hands, and within seconds, another silk-draped figure lights a candle and emerges out of the shadows. The candle-holder is short and unremarkable, with thin, greasy hair and a patchy moustache. Continuing to hold the candle in one hand, he retrieves a broom from an alcove with the other, and begins to sweep up the dust of the magic circle as the tall man watches.
“I don’t know,” says the short man, “That Syndicate pig can afford to double the best price we’ve heard from our buyers on Segovia, Zendikar, and Rath. The Beggars are sitting on a mountain of these things over in the old Aphetto coffers, right next to that big pile of thrull scat, or whatever it is. So, why get worked up over these stupid rocks? Make a deal, already.”
“Neeyo, every time you speak, I get a clearer idea of how truly stupid you are,” says the tall man, “The Syndicate could pay ten times the best price we’ve heard. A hundred. They have the money. What they don’t have is any notion of our stockpile. Nobody else in a thousand planes is selling these things. We can demand any price we want. But it’s more than that. What would a group of fat-fingered clerics want with a matched set of Thran batteries? Ever think about that? Wait... of course you haven’t thought about it. That would be utterly unlike you.”
“Maybe they’re building something.”
“A Thran weapon? No. The Orzhov Syndicate isn’t in that racket. They wouldn’t even know how to build one. The Syndicate obviously has an anonymous buyer on the back end. That’s how they do business. And, whatever this nameless buyer is willing to pay, it will be at least fifty percent higher than the Syndicate’s best offer to us. We need to locate the real buyer. See what the real offer is.”
Neeyo opens the door to the chamber, and a peal of light and sound tumbles into it. The gray-haired man pushes past his mousy associate and out into the vast, sheltered docks of the Balshan Bay Company warehouse. Along the planks of the dock, hundreds of hireling goblins squawk as they load barrels of Benalish wine, or unload crates of Suq’Atan incense from the Talas clipper ship bobbing in the warm, Corondoran seawater. The two men pass by the goblins and climb a water-worn set of steps to a quieter observation point, as a rat scuttles by their feet.
“So, Morba, why won’t the buyer come to us directly?” asks Neeyo, “It’s not like we’ve made a secret out of selling these powerstones.”
“Again, you amaze me with your idiocy,” says Morba, withdrawing an oiled pipe from the folds of his cloak, “Think of what you just said.”
Neeyo turns his eyes towards Morba as the tall man puts a flint to the bowl of his pipe and takes two long puffs. Morba looks down at his greasy partner. The small man just smacks his lips and looks around up and down wordlessly.
“Truly, repeat what you just said,” says Morba, “Say it slow so your flabby brain can process it.”
“I said it’s no secret that we’re selling these,” says Neeyo, “Everybody knows.”
“And?”
“And, so... why doesn’t the buyer just buy them from us? It would be cheaper.”
“Because the real buyer doesn’t want anybody to know that he bought the stones, least of all us. The real buyer doesn’t trust us. But he trusts the Syndicate. That's because the Syndicate butters its bread with the fat of idiots who try to snitch on them. They keep things quiet. That’s their reputation. That’s their competitive advantage. That's what we have to surpass if we're going to get our best value on this transaction.”
“Well, how do we compete with that? I wouldn’t trust us, would you?”
“Trust is not our central business. But you’re missing the entire point once again, Neeyo. The Balshan Bay Company did not get a monopoly on Thran artifacts by selling off Thran artifacts. We aren’t selling these things to anybody. Not to the Orzhovans, not to their secret buyer. Nobody. Not one.”
“Yeah, sure. Then what are you talking to them for, anyway?”
“Because first, we’re going to figure out who this nameless buyer is. Then we’re going to figure out what he plans to pay the Syndicate. Then we’re going to figure out what he’s building with them, and what other valuables he has already acquired to build it. Then we send out the Extractor. He brings us everything.”
“What do you mean, ‘everything?’ And who is the Extractor?”
“Everything. The buyer, his payment, everything he owns. You seem to have some wrong ideas about our central business. The Balshan Bay Company didn’t get to be the second-biggest power in the Coalition by selling magic baubles to strangers on distant planes. All that’s just cover. We’re deeper into the pockets of the multiverse than you could ever dream. The Extractor is our hand in those pockets.”
So many blasted questions!
Think we could maybe get a story from the snow side of things?
Avatar by Numotflame96 of Maelstrom Graphics
Sig banner thanks to DarkNightCavalier of Heroes of the Plane Studios!
You will, of course, see the Kaldarjar before then. It will just be through the eyes of the Coalition.
Telemar, Part One
Saryll and Cresta squeeze together on a wooden bench, legs touching, each woman holding one corner of Cresta’s small study tome in her hands. Cresta traces the lines of Khonian script with her finger as Saryll reads the words out loud. The Telemar gallery in which they sit hums as hundreds of motley legates search for their designated seats before the start of the convocation. Saryll lifts her voice to cut through the din.
“Bharsok arad ni lenihalo,” says Saryll, “Te cama… so, literally, make an O-shape with your lips and yell… and, don’t worry if you look like a fool. Or maybe that means speak forcefully, not yell. That shouldn’t actually matter in Khonian, right?”
“I have no idea,” says Cresta, “If it was Classical Aretan, it would matter. Sibilate a cantrip in Old Aretan instead of whispering it, and your face might slag off.”
A band of tattooed kor bravos shuffles through the rows of the gallery towards the women. Saryll shifts her eyes towards them, then takes the book and stands up to let them pass. Cresta remains sitting but swings her feet onto the bench as the brawny men sidle by her. The ash-caked warriors take their seats just on the other side of the women. Saryll sits back down and slides towards Cresta, putting her finger right back on the page.
“I didn’t realize that Aretan was so unforgiving,” says Saryll, “I’m relieved that I was apprenticed to Professor Eugon before anybody made me take it.”
“Reconstructed Aretan is ten times easier than Classical,” says Cresta, “And about twenty times as practical. But Reconstructed can be translated. I only have time to study dead languages that are untranslatable and utterly useless outside of the scroll room. There’s no space in the syllabus for any language that can be emulated by one of the living tongues. That would be… task work. Can you believe the arrogance? It drives me mad sometimes.”
Two neatly-dressed men of nearly identical appearance claim seats to the right side of the women. One of the men leans past the other and smiles towards Saryll, the wavy locks of his black hair accentuating his marble-chiseled features. Both of the men wear the stark gold of their Avenant suzerainty, are lightly scented by herbal oils, and bear the roguish bristle of a week’s journey by sea. Saryll smiles politely to the man and turns back to Cresta.
“I don’t know how you do it,” says Saryll, “I hated my Khonian and Phasic B classes more than anything else I took my probationary year. We would joke about it, like, you’d better study hard, or they’re going to track you into a scrollkeeping apprenticeship and stick you in a musty tower with Professor Glum.”
“I think it’s actually the most popular apprenticeship now,” says Cresta, “As long as the Coalition keeps digging up ancient scrolls from across the multiverse, we’ll have new work to do. Also, it’s exciting to be the first person to cast a spell in… thousands of years, sometimes. Even if it’s just a cantrip for washing mud off your boots. Did I tell you about that one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That was the one where Jendu…”
“Oh wait, was this Jendu’s thirty-six day project?”
“Gosh, the thing couldn’t have been longer than a cord-and-a-half! I mean, a cord-and-a-half isn’t the shortest Nephilic scroll the Academy has ever seen, but it’s fairly close. And Nephilic isn’t that hard, all things considered. Oh, but he just took forever to finish it! He made all sorts of promises about the lost secrets of the scroll. It was just a boot washing spell!”
The crack of a gavel sounds from the podium at the front of the convocation hall. Director Morba of the Balshan Bay Company stands on the dais, glowering over the assembly with a sharpened eyes, and drops the gavel again. The din of the crowd winds down as the final few dozen legates find their seats. Cresta takes the study tome from Saryll’s hands and closes it softly, then slips it into the side pocket of her satchel and sits forward. Saryll taps Cresta gently on the thigh.
“Do you really want to sit through this?” asks Saryll.
“Nope,” says Cresta, “Do you think we can cut out?”
“If we go right now,” says Saryll, “If not, we’re stuck.”
The two apprentices leap to their feet and hurriedly squeeze by the two Avenant brothers. At the end of the row, the women take each other by the hand and walk quickly up the carpeted aisle to the doors of the gallery. The women slide past the usher just as he begins to ward the doors with a simple spell. They emerge into the baroque canopy of the Telemar main concourse. The bridge city stretches for nearly a mile in either direction, an artery of culture spanning the Golthonor Sea between the Corondoran mainland and its resurgent satellite Isle. The concourse runs its length.
Every route into or out of the concourse is monitored by red-sashed Corondoran guards, except for the narrow, precipitous stairs to the balcony level of the gallery. Cresta pulls Saryll behind her as the two women fly up the stairs, tripping on each other’s robes as they ascend. The vestibule outside the balcony level is empty, the doors to the gallery barred, and the lights dim. A soft chair sits in one corner of the vestibule, and Saryll runs to it. The Llanowar apprentice barely manages to sit down before Cresta climbs on top of her and caresses the elf’s face in her hands.
“I don’t want to listen to them drone about crucibles and trade charters,” asks Cresta, “Do you?”
“No, but I do hope they take their time with it,” says Saryll, “Because I have some plans for you.”
Cresta slowly lowers her lips towards those of her lover. As they are about to meet, hundreds of voices shriek in unison from behind the balcony doors. Cresta bolts upright and turns to towards the sound, then climbs off of Saryll as the elf also sits up. The cacophony continues, and the two women look to one another with glances of worry and confusion. From the concourse below, the flash of a fireball erupts, and a blast of residual force washes up the steps and blows the women backwards. Shaking off the blast, Saryll turns and puts her hands on Cresta’s shoulders, looking into her eyes. Cresta nods in reassurance, and the two women stand up together.
The concourse is a bloodbath. An enormous, vine-covered elemental swings the headless body of a Corondoran guardsman menacingly at dozens of other red-sashed soldiers. Another peal of fire streaks across the concourse, blasting weapons and limbs from even more guards. The two women lurk at the edge of the stair, Cresta’s eyes wide and Saryll’s eyes narrow and discerning. The elemental reaches for a stunned spearman and drops him into its acidic gullet.
“It’s a nollymadder,” whispers Saryll, “what in the nine gales is a nollymadder doing in Telemar?”
“A what?” hisses Cresta.
“They live in the forests at home,” says Saryll, “The deep, deep forests. They aren’t aggressive by nature, just hungry. This one is scared half to death. Somebody called it here against its will.”
“What should we do?” asks Cresta.
“Probably stay up here until we know what’s happening,” says Saryll, “There is some dangerous magic being cast down…”
The doors to the balcony crash open, and a huge, blood-drenched troll tumbles out of the gallery, a dozen kor harpoons lodged into its flesh. Two of the kor bravos struggle against it, but the troll tugs on one of the tow lines and sends both warriors careening into a column, where they impact with a sickening snap of bones. Cresta screams, and Saryll pushes her behind with one hand as she thrusts her other hand towards the furious troll. Bellowing two fluid syllables in the untranslatable language of Phasic B, Saryll sends the monster crashing back into the gallery as a tidal wave of saltwater surges from her fingers. Saryll turns, and the two women run.
The elemental has pushed the Corondoran guards further down the great concourse by the time Cresta and Saryll descend the stairs. The shouts and pounding fists of the trapped legates ring out from behind the doors, each door glowing with its warding spell. The two women rush over to the doors, and Cresta reaches into her satchel. From inside, the shouts intensify, as do the screams of a wounded, wet, and angry troll. Cresta withdraws a small scrap of metal.
“This ward should be easy to break,” says Cresta, “It doesn’t look complex. I just need a second or two with this shard. Can you cover me?”
“Hurry,” says Saryll, “For the legates’ sake.”
No sooner does Saryll turn around than a bonfire erupts from the æther. Saryll steps back, places one hand on Cresta, and whispers five melodic syllables in Rakshasan. As the fire rages towards them, the two women suddenly sink into a circle of water manifesting below them in the floor. For a moment, the women grasp each other, gurgling in the darkness of an in-between space that is both empty, yet full like the ocean. Then the women splash out, soaking wet, into a sub-level below the concourse. They land on piles of ballast sand and old, broken furniture.
“I almost had it!” says Cresta, gasping for air.
“This is too much,” says Saryll, catching her breath, “We will be killed if we stay here. I have no idea what is happening up there, but two apprentices from the Academy are not going to stop it.”
“And, why would they want to?” asks a voice.
Saryll and Cresta turn to see a leather-armored woman sitting on a pile of straw in the corner of the room, whittling on an ivory spearpoint in the dim lantern light. Two more figures stand behind her in the darkness, staring at the apprentices with ferocity in their eyes. Each hunter wears his or her hair in the cut of a different clan, though each is shaved on both sides, with the tattoos of lineage streaking across his or her scalp. Unfazed, Saryll picks herself up and steps forward.
“Cousins, what is this?” asks Saryll, “Tell me.”
“This is our freedom, cousin,” says one of the standing elves, “Freedom from the grasp of Brylberon and Ruadach, and all others who would have the true voice of Llanowar enslaved to this Coalition. Those who Llanowar appointed to represent her have, in fact, betrayed her. The elfhame legates fatten themselves on Balshan eels and Femeref honey while the people of Llanowar waste away in servitude. This is the dawn of our revolution, cousin. That is, if your Academy masters have not made you forget who you really are. If so, then this may be your death.”
Kunguru's Orders
The second thrust of the sword bites more deeply than the first. As it slides out of the monster’s viscera, a fountain of blood and bile follows it. The pearls of sweat on Kunguru’s brow spin off in a cascade as the swordsman lunges in towards the troll for a third successive strike. The blade penetrates the breast of the creature this time, close to its heart. Kunguru reinforces the hilt and jams the thrust deeper, the muscles of his exposed shoulder rippling as the tip of his blade exits from the creature’s back. He slashes sideways as he pulls the blade loose, dragging out chunks of the monster’s heart this time. Then he stands back and watches as, yet again, the wounds of the creature slowly close, and the rage of its screams grow louder as it rights itself.
“God will take you soon enough, monster,” says Kunguru as he raises his blade for another pass from the rampaging foe.
No less than nine legates lie dead, including two princes of Llanowar and most of their respective retinues. Another thirty cling to the jagged precipice of life, including Director Morba and three of Kunguru’s kifalme guard. Two of the gallery’s towering windows stand broken, one where two wizards of Urborg leapt into the sea below, and another where a Ghitu staff fighter was hurled through it by the troll. The remaining legates cower at the edges of the room, dozens of them frantically tugging at the doors to the concourse. Water runs from the balcony above as the muffled roar of flames grows louder beyond the doors. Kunguru listens closely, then steps towards the troll and begins to pray.
The monster lunges towards Kunguru’s blade. The Femeref Commander draws the sword away and sidesteps the troll’s charge. He continues the prayer, closing his eyes as the troll turns back to him. Kunguru waves the sword as bait, and the troll grasps at it. But Kunguru moves quickly to the monster’s flank, and places one black hand upon its haunch. The troll grunts in surprise, then relaxes its muscles. Kunguru finishes the prayer and opens his eyes. He is greeted with the view of the troll lazily scratching its head, scanning the room with deep, yet calm confusion.
“Move, people,” shouts Kunguru, “Its master may counteract my spell at any time. Are the doors still barred by that magic?”
“Yes,” says one of the Avenant brothers, “And it’s getting hotter beyond the doors every second.”
“Then we will not exit through the concourse,” says Kunguru, “Not through the balcony nor these windows. There must be another way out of this gallery!”
“The attackers appeared out of nowhere,” says a Gathan legate, “There is probably a trapdoor in the dais or somewhere near the front.”
“Did anybody see it?” asks Kunguru, “Everybody, look for it now. Unless you know healing words. Then come and save your peers with me.”
Kunguru walks straight to Director Morba, whose tall, bony frame lies crumpled in a twisted knot on the dais. The other legates spread out and begin searching the gallery for latches and panels, or tend to the casualties. Kunguru reaches into his belt pouch and withdraws a small, green leaf from it. He crushes the leaf gently between his thumb and forefinger, then smears a streak of oil from the plant underneath Morba’s nose. The Company man coughs twice and cries out, his frame still broken and bleeding. Kunguru puts his hands on Morba’s shoulders and brings his face close in.
“Tell me why I should let you live,” whispers Kunguru, “Tell me why the Awene would invite a thief like you into their house again. Make me believe the lie that you are about to tell me. If I don’t, then this is where your wretched life will end.”
The Director turns his head slowly, his eyes swimming back and forth as they search the gallery for any person other than the man who revived him. Kunguru grasps the Director’s chin firmly in one hand and turns it back to face him. Two drops of sweat trickle off of Kunguru’s forehead and into Morba’s eyes. The old man shudders and blinks. Unrelenting in his gaze, Kunguru crushes a second leaf in his other hand, then opens Morba’s jaw and sprinkles the dust and oil inside.
“I can pay you in gold! Gah!” coughs Morba, “I can pay you in whatever you want! I can make you the richest man in Femeref, you idiot! Ugh!”
“Insufficient,” whispers Kunguru, as he grips tighter, and moves his face closer, “You are going to reveal everything to me, or you will die here. Every secret trade. Every backroom deal. I want to meet the people to whom you pawned my family’s legacy. You will tell me every name. When we leave here, you will take me to meet them, no matter what rat hole of a plane they call home. Do not refuse me in anything I ask. Or. You. Will. Die. Here.”
“Alright, I will do whatever you want. Names, places, everything. Ugh! Just give me more of that medicine, now. Quickly.”
“No. First, you will tell me a name. Tell me now. Who has the crown, and how much did they pay you? No more excuses.”
“You want the crown? Ha! Just ask the Beggars. It’s still sitting in their collection. It never left the plane. I will get it for you.”
A distant gleam arises behind Kunguru’s eyes, and his stern face slowly widens into an uncanny smile. Morba huffs and looks into the abyss of the Commander’s pupils. He waits in puzzlement as the man’s grip tightens. Then his face turns white with dawning realization, and he squirms in resistance to the soldier’s grasp. Morba opens his mouth to scream, but Kunguru drops more of the crushed herb into it before he can, then covers the Director’s mouth with his meaty hand and leans in close to his ear. One clammy breath washes over Morba’s prickled skin.
“We all suspected you would be easy to break, Director,” a dead voice whispers from Kunguru’s lips, “But never this easy. Clearly, you are too great a risk to the Company.”
Kunguru holds Morba still as the old man writhes and shudders, the poison leaf coaxing his heart towards its final slumber. When Kunguru stands a minute later, the room is still gripped by panic, and the Director lays lifeless on the dais. Kunguru waves to one of the d’Avenant men, who runs across the room to join him. Smoke begins to pour through the wood frames around the gallery’s sealed doors, as another group of desperate legates gathers around the broken windows looking out over the wild Golthonor Sea.
“My greatest magic could not save him,” says Kunguru, “This will be remembered as a bleak day for the Coalition. How many other wounded have the legates been able to revive?”
“Only three or four,” says the man of Avenant, “It’s bad.”
“If we do not leave now, there will only be more death,” says Kunguru, “Help me move this body.”
The two men drag the corpse of Director Morba from the dais, and lay it unceremoniously on the gallery floor. Around the room, dozens of legates crawl on their hands and knees searching for a switch or secret panel that could mark an exit. Kunguru returns to the dais and searches with his hand beneath the lip of the speaker’s podium. One of the Shivan legates shouts as Kunguru trips the lever, opening a trap door at the corner of the gallery. Kunguru strides forth from the dais and swings his white cape over his mailed shoulder.
“Everyone, to the exit,” says Kunguru, “Be alert, the enemy is likely still afoot.”
I am working on Telemar, Part Two right now, but I'm needing to do some major revisions to it because I don't like how my first draft handles Saryll's character. As my portal to all things Llanowar, I really need to nail Saryll's outlook and motivations, here. I don't plan for the wait to be anywhere near as long as between my last two Kheva chapters.
Why is Saryll falling asleep with her arms twined around "Ayldred" if she's actually in love with Cresta? Is she bi/closeted?
(And why would a vampire have to stop to take a piss?)
Avatar by Numotflame96 of Maelstrom Graphics
Sig banner thanks to DarkNightCavalier of Heroes of the Plane Studios!
Honestly, I don't remember. I'm sure I had a thought process there. If / when I revise this story, I'll probably add vampire piss to the list of "things I'll let go because they create more confusion than they're worth."
As for Saryll, Ayldred, and Cresta, I haven't fully fleshed out that triangle, yet. (Or is it a quadrangle?) At the risk of telling vs. showing, the idea is that Saryll and Ayldred are old childhood friends, they're very comfortable with one another (even OK with platonic physical affection), but "Aydreld" is expressing some romantic interest in Saryll that is never going to be requited because Saryll doesn't go that way. Why does this romantic entanglement matter? That has something to do with what's taking place in Telemar. (And I have an idea for how to get over my characterization hump, so I'm hoping I'll have part 2 up before too long).
Hope that explains a few things. I'm happy to get the critique... feel free to give me more!