ACT II

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NATHAIR

 

Nathair awoke to a palate of plum and honey. The air was heavy with sweet, acrid aromas, and as his surroundings came into view, he noticed that the pain throughout his body had almost entirely subsided. He looked upon his wounds, now bound and treated. A wooden bowl of teal dew idled beside him. Beneath him, cool moss cushioned his back. 

 

Several yards from the patch of foliage upon which Salamatu slumbered stood a mystical pool. It emitted a warm, teal light that infused the encircling greenery with supernatural vitality and grace. Torches dimly illuminated sandstone walls and an ornate archway through which a tall figure emerged. 

 

She was middle-aged and copper-skinned, with a disfiguring scar across her shaved head that resembled a serpent. Talismans of various sizes adorned her worn leather armor. The woman paced toward Nathair, a flask of green fluid in one hand, a wet knife in the other, and poured a single drop of the emerald concoction into the wooden bowl. She raised the brew and offered it to Nathair. 

 

“Drink. The waters of the Ghost Spring heal all wounds of the flesh,” the woman advised, wiping dry the dagger in her hand. Nathair hesitated. Even if the concoction wasn’t poisonous, in his experience, rarely did people offer aid with altruistic intentions. On the other hand, if the woman desired to murder the skinthief and his companion, why hadn’t she already done so?

 

“You needn’t fear me, godling. My name is Fatima Aziz, once a great Lorekeeper of the Circle of Roses, and I am no stranger to the occult. You’re fortunate I discovered you when I did. The obsidian wilderness outside this colossal sphere is marred by ghouls: creatures of shadow conjured from the void. Men do not last long in this desolate terrain. It is by the light of the Ghost Spring that we may take shelter here, though for how much longer, I cannot say. Tell me, what is your name, Weave Born?” the scholar asked, urging her brew toward the skinthief once more. 

 

Nathair had encountered an agent of the Circle of Roses many years ago in his youth. He considered their neutrality amid planar conflict and their commitment to the mere observation and recording of supernatural phenomena to be a poor guise for apathy if not cowardice. What use was knowledge of the esoteric unless put to some use? While he detested otherworldly intervention in earthly affairs, he thought it the sacred duty of mortals to participate in the protection of their humble but majestic world. Against his better judgment, he accepted the brew and touched it to his lips. The taste of plum and honey returned, sending a surge of warmth through every inch of his body. Waves of euphoria followed as his eyes welled with tears.

“My name is Nathair. My comrade and I were en route to Aydhab when our vessel was assaulted. We…lost someone dear to us. Tell me Fatima, why do you offer us aid?” the skinthief asked, still collecting his thoughts. 

 

“I have spent the last two months studying the sphere we now reside in. It is a magical artifact of incredible power, crafted two hundred years ago by Serakh the Conjurer. The sphere can manipulate time and space, even permeating the barriers that divide Celestia, Terra, and the infinite planes of Infernum’s abyss. I…hope to find my son; he was taken from me many years ago. As Weave Born, I believe you may be able to help me,” Fatima explained, lighting her pipe and inhaling slowly.  

 

His thoughts turned to the fallen Suleiman. The memory of his master’s sacrifice assailed him like a knife to the belly, nearly knocking him from his feet. Tears streamed down his face even as the waters of the Ghost Spring soothed his insides. He could scarcely believe the archmagus was truly deceased: that he and Salamatu had not perished alongside Suleiman and now languished in some post-mortem nightmare.  

 

He turned to Salamatu, awake and visibly startled.

 

“I am glad to see you well, Salamatu. This is Fatima, Lorekeeper of the Circle of Roses. She has healed our wounds and offered us sanctuary within this strange sphere,” Nathair explained as he placed his hand on the shoulder of his longtime companion. 

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SALAMATU

 

Salamatu awoke to a world suffused with hues of emerald and azure, a stark contrast to the chaotic darkness that had swallowed her consciousness. She found herself lying on a bed of soft moss, the pain in her body eased, though not entirely gone. Her eyes focused on Nathair, who spoke with a woman of striking appearance, introducing her as Fatima, a Lorekeeper of the Circle of Roses. Salamatu listened, her mind still grappling with the surreal nature of their situation.

 

"Thank you, Fatima, for your aid," Salamatu began, her voice tinged with a wariness born of years of hardship and betrayal. Her gaze shifted between Nathair and Fatima, searching for an underlying intent behind the Lorekeeper's actions. "But forgive my caution; the wounds of betrayal are not so easily healed as those of the flesh."

 

Her thoughts turned to Archmagus Suleiman, the mentor who had sacrificed himself so they might live. A pang of grief gripped her heart, the memory of his final act a haunting specter that lingered in her mind. "We have lost much," she said, her voice heavy with sorrow. "Our path has been one of sacrifice and pain. We must tread carefully, for the cost of trust can be high."

 

Addressing Fatima, Salamatu's tone shifted to one of cautious inquiry. "You speak of aiding us, and in turn, seek our help. I would hear more of this. How might Nathair and I assist you in your quest? And in what ways do you propose to aid us in return?"

 

Her eyes, sharp and discerning, fixed upon Fatima, searching for the truth behind the Lorekeeper's words. Salamatu knew all too well the dangers of aligning oneself with unknown allies, especially in a realm as strange and foreboding as this. Yet, she also understood the necessity of forming alliances in times of dire need. The balance between trust and caution was delicate, and Salamatu treaded it with the skill of one who had survived the darkest depths of human cruelty.

 

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NATHAIR

 

Nathair was grateful for Salamatu’s skepticism. History had afforded her ample reason to suspect the stranger’s motives. If they were to emerge from this bizarre dimension in one piece, they’d need to outwit the myriad, hidden forces intent on thwarting their course.

 

“I understand your suspicions, Salamatu. Deceit and betrayal riddle my past as well. Keep me at a distance if you must. But trust me, none of us shall escape this sphere unless we aid one another,” Fatima said, lowering her pipe. She pulled a small, lioness-shaped amulet from her pocket and strung it around her neck. “The crystalline obelisk that operates this sphere taps directly into the Weave of the Old Gods. Regrettably, It’s also become home to some inhuman spirit hellbent on claiming the sphere as its own. I…cannot approach the obelisk. Last I tried, I nearly perished by hellfire. I still bear the scar of my last attempt,” she said, touching the serpentine scar upon her scalp. 

 

Fatima pulled several pieces of salted pork from her rucksack and offered them to the Weave Born. “You must be hungry. Please, eat,” Fatima said, the hint of a friendly smile upon her lips. Nathair glanced at Salamatu as they both begrudgingly accepted the morsels. His mouth watered with each bite. He hadn’t eaten in days; a realization that donned on Nathair the moment he laid eyes upon Fatima’s rations. 

 

“I cannot be certain, but if my research is correct, as Weave Born, the two of you should be able to approach the obelisk unassailed. The Weave will answer to the commands of those who once called it home… Cast the aberration from the obelisk, and we shall slay it together!” Fatima’s gaze burned with determination. “I have spent nearly half my life studying the mysteries of this sphere. Aid me, and I will use my knowledge to help you reach Aydhab. To aid in your quest, I shall provide you with some of the most powerful arms available to my order.” She retrieved an ornate, jade cube from a pile of her belongings and offered it to Nathair, the top lid opening with a sudden click. Within, resided a small clump of metallic, green substance that burned his nose and eyes, even from a distance. “The preserved flesh of Serahk himself. He was as talented an alchemist as he was a conjurer: a true master of the Verbis Imperium. Feed it to your wasps, skinthief, and their stings shall be imbued with the chill of the grave,” Fatima explained. She proceeded to retrieve a small vial of black fluid from her belt. “And for you, Salamatu: enchanted oils prepared by the most skilled Vodun sorceresses. Coat your weapons, and they shall become not only unbreakable but light as straw.” Fatima regained her confident posture. “I implore you, Weave Born, please aid me… My child languishes in purgatory, terrified, and beyond my reach. I will stop at nothing until I bring him home.”

 

Nathair pondered the scholar’s words. “Give Salamatu and me a moment, Fatima,” Nathair said, huddling toward his companion. “Speak your mind, my friend. We know not this scholar's intentions, nor why the Leviathan banished us to this accursed plane. Still, it seems we have little choice but to trust her,” Nathair whispered under his breath. 

 

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SALAMATU

 

Salamatu listened intently to Fatima's impassioned plea, her eyes betraying a hint of empathy amidst her guarded demeanor. The mention of the Weave of the Old Gods, the obelisk, and the promise of aid to reach Aydhab weighed heavily on her mind. The prospects of a power that could perhaps sway their dire circumstances were alluring yet fraught with unseen dangers.

 

After Nathair pulled her aside for a private counsel, Salamatu took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, her decision crystallizing amidst the swirling uncertainties. "Fatima, we will aid you," she said, her voice steady yet tinged with caution. "But know this: we proceed with wary hearts. Our trust is not given lightly, nor without due vigilance."

 

She turned to Nathair, nodding in agreement. "Before we embark on this perilous endeavor, I must prepare. The art of potion-making is not to be rushed, especially when faced with the unknown." Salamatu's gaze drifted to the materials and herbs scattered around Serahk's ancient laboratory. The room was filled with the potential for potent concoctions, a reminder of the vast knowledge that had once resided within its walls.

 

With deliberate movements, Salamatu began her work, the air filling with the scent of bubbling cauldrons and the soft glow of arcane energies. She meticulously combined herbs, vials of blood, and other alchemical reagents, each ingredient chosen for its magical properties and potency. The creation of healing potions was a familiar task, yet the crafting of the explosive tonic, imbued with witch-fire, demanded her utmost concentration. This formidable concoction was among her most powerful creations, capable of mending the wounds of her allies while engulfing her foes in searing flames.

 

As she worked, Salamatu chanted softly, her voice weaving spells of protection and enhancement into each potion. The air shimmered with magic, the bottles on her workbench glowing with inner light as the potions came to life. The witch-fire tonic bubbled ominously, its contents a volatile mix of healing and destruction.

 

Once her preparations were complete, Salamatu turned her attention to her weapons. She carefully applied the enchanted oils given to her by Fatima, watching as her scimitar, bow, and arrows took on a new sheen, becoming lighter and more durable. The weapons seemed to hum with a newfound power, ready to strike down whatever foe lay ahead.

 

Exhausted from her labors, Salamatu retired to the mossy patch near the Ghost Spring. She uncorked a small bottle of wine from her rucksack, the rich aroma mingling with the sweet, acrid scents of the surrounding foliage. As she drank, a profound sense of loss washed over her. The death of Archmagus Suleiman had left a void in her heart, a sense of directionlessness that she struggled to overcome. The emotional numbness that had taken hold since his sacrifice was a testament to the impact he had made on her life.

 

Laying down, Salamatu gazed up at the dimly lit canopy above. The world of the sphere seemed distant and dreamlike, a strange interlude in the relentless pursuit of their mission. As sleep claimed her, her last thoughts were of the journey ahead, the risks they would face, and the hope that their actions might lead to a brighter future. With the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon her, she surrendered to the darkness, her mind adrift in a sea of unresolved emotions and unspoken fears.

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NATHAIR

 

The skinthief would make good use of their moment to recuperate and prepare for the coming conflict. He raised the jade box he’d accepted from Fatima and clicked it open. The stench that proceeded was undeniably rank, even after all these years, but he persevered nonetheless, retrieving the small chunk of enchanted flesh. It was cold and hard as if touched by permafrost. He pulled the cork from his gourd and fed the morsel to the ravenous wasps. A cool, ethereal mist washed over them as they ingested the rotten flesh, a trace of Serakh’s icy power now coursing through the insects. Nathair was most eager to don the enchanted creatures in combat. 

 

He sat upon a patch of moss and cupped a handful of water from the Ghost Spring. Warmth surged through him once more. With a bit of rest, the nagging aches across his body would fade entirely. But before he could retire, he too would need to make preparations for the coming battle. 

 

Nathair pulled a cloth doll from his rucksack. A series of symbols were dyed upon its surface, with bits of rope and leather forming a handle atop its head. Pins and needles scattered the tattered effigy. He whispered in the Verbis Imperium as his nimble fingers furiously sewed bits of turquoise into its eye sockets. The gems radiated an ethereal mist that flowed across the surrounding greenery, leaving behind a shimmering, fleeting mirage. If the opportunity presented itself, Nathair hoped to ensnare whatever corrupted the obelisk in a nightmarish phantasm of his own, magical design. The bejeweled effigy would be crucial for doing so. Among Nathair’s most powerful incantations, such sorcery would take preparation and tremendous focus in actual combat. 

 

With a quick hand gesture, his long, slim wand emerged from his rucksack and raced toward his hand. Blood stained the sharpened bone column at its end. The wand had been laboriously attuned to Nathair’s most primal essence through hours of meditation. With a quick but precise wave of the magical implement, he could briefly materialize hungry revenants from the astral plane, blighting his foes with bolts of entropy and decay. Such a spell was taxing but especially deadly when wielded against creatures from beyond.

 

After many hours of tedious spellcasting and preparation, an exhausted Nathair rested. He laid back on the ground, taking in the sweet, humid air of the strange sphere. Salamatu had already fallen asleep, her collection of carefully brewed potions stacked neatly beside her. Fatima remained wide awake as ever, sharpening her various blades upon a whetstone. There was almost something inhuman about her fortitude. Nathair closed his eyes and reflected upon the food in his belly and the moss beneath his back. However dire their straits, hope remained, and for that Nathair was grateful. 

 

As he drifted from consciousness, Nathair suppressed thoughts of Suleiman, images of his sacrifice upon the Capricorn playing through his mind time and again. There would be a season to grieve for the Archmagus, but to let grief distract him from their mission would be to let everything he’d sacrificed be in vain. This Nathair refused to allow.