With a sudden scratch that interrupted silence, came a rushing burn of tiny flame from the end of a match. The match moved swiftly from candle to candle, five total atop a silver candelabra. A quick flick of the tiny wrist which held it snuffed the flame, leaving a simple rise of smoke and smell of a burnt matchstick. The candelabra, lit, revealed a cramped room of aging stone, stuffed with shelf that brimmed books of various size and age. A lone person sat before a small desk that contained in part the source of light, an open tome with half-written page, and beside it inkwell and quill. A wooden cup was set upon a corner, and a breath was taken.
The small figure, draped in a simple robe brown of color, lifted the quill and rolled it along a small rag before continuing writing along the page. Light Gray eyes followed along the quill's motions, occasionally stopping to glance towards a book, propped open atop a stand for ease of reading. Small lips pursed, raven black hair cut to the shoulders whipping back as the apparent young woman continued her work. She was human, fair of skin, with a professional countenance that seemed permanent.
Copying was a tedious task for many, and something that even a seasoned Scribe would never fancy; for Ismene, however, it was a chance to reflect and lose herself in her mind. The young woman of twenty and two Springs was devout to the God Oghma, the Lord of Knowledge. Such was apparent as the only item on her person that did not cry of plain was a golden amulet, tied with a silver chain. The amulet was a depiction of a scroll, the holy symbol of her deity. As Ismene tipped her head to study the page she had written for errors (though she knew she made none), the amulet dangled from her neck, twisting here and there in small motions that carried the light of the candle flame in patterns.
The room was left in silence for the moment, save the rhythmic breathing, until a toll of distant bells could be heard. As the seventh and final bell faded, Ismene appeared startled. Had she reserved herself to the dark, silent recesses of thought for so long? Regardless, her routine would not be changed. The candelabra's short life was snuffed as the quill was wiped and left atop the table. The seventh bell of the evening marked a ritual for the young devout; it was time to make a trip to a closing bakery and collect her dinner.
The seventh toll of the bell might have been an omen for another; a young man who could not hear it as he stared into a tankard of ale that he cupped with both hands, surrounded by the noise and bustle of The Rusty Justicar, one of Iriaebor's lesser known taverns. The ale was strong for his taste, but a welcome reprieve from the bustle about him, and even more so the gargantuan city he had only heard about till some hours before. To a spectator he may have appeared a disturbed armsman; a sheathed Greatsword set against his table, a hefty pack on the floor beneath it, with what appeared to be a war pick of some kind tied to it. He didn't appear to be staying for long, as a deep, Navy Blue cloak remained about his shoulders. He wore a brown sleeved shirt and pants along with leather boots, over which was a brigandine of studded leather dyed like his cloak.
The man under the armor with hands cupped around ale didn't appear to fit his appearance. A really young man that could not have seen his 20th winter, his dark eyes betrayed a certain fear, maybe a lack of confidence or questioning thereof. Brown hair swept back revealed a clean shaven face with light skin. His armor and weapon appeared at best untested, and his demeanor struck a chord that he was not comfortable. Some of the patrons of the Justicar were catching onto this, he felt, as he took a long swig and glanced around.
A group of river sailors slammed their table and swore profusely, demanding bets on the cards that centered their table; he only knew they were sailors for how much they spoke of their ship, the Seagull. A pair of men in working clothes shared drinks silently; a hooded man in faded green cloak sat silently alone; and what he deemed a trio of adventurers took bites from a large soup bowl. A wench went about taking orders as a barmaid filled them. A man behind the bar, suspected to be the owner, moved from the common room back into a kitchen to bark orders at a cook. Considering how small the Justicar was, this made for a cramped experience.
The young man had finished his drink and intended to order another, sliding his chair back and standing when he felt something heavy fall over and behind him. Glancing back with raised brow, he came face to face with an angry river sailor, who started to scream at him in unintelligible drunken fury. Perhaps there was a hope to settle and resolve things, perhaps there was a hope that his comrades would sit down their drunken friend- neither would be the case, as the young man was soon surrounded.
Ismene couched a small basket in her arm, filled with bread and pastries from a favorite Bakery ran by a woman named Cezelia. She had arrived in the City of a Thousand Spires a couple tenday ago, and found herself staying in and working for the City's small library. Upon exploring the surrounds, she found and made a commitment to do business with Cezelia and enjoy an indulging dinner every couple of days. The winding road was shadowed from the several spires above as the light of dusk began to fade away, and the young woman made a point to note the relatively quiet and uncongested road before her. A member of the guard, known as The Shields, marched past her with little regard; a small cart pulled by an Ass contained a compliment of hops; a couple sailors eyed her up and down but simply smirked and went about their way- to which she regarded with a raised brow and unamused stare.
The relatively peaceful walk back to the Library was swiftly ended with a crashing open of a door and soon thereafter a young man flying through, who slammed down into the ground before Ismene with her basket. Her Gray eyes glanced down on the man, who lay on his back and stared back up at her with some confusion. Glancing left, she came face to face with the man's assailants, a rabble of drunkenness that disgusted her senses- it was clear these men had not bathed in a tenday or more. Laughter and coughing fits filled her ears as they approached; she darted her gaze back down at the young man, who had bloody nose and a bruised face and appeared all too terrified. They spat words at him that were difficult to register, and as she glanced over she had to tilt her head up- one of the rabble had his eyes on her, and was easily a foot taller than her tiny frame, a few inches over five feet in total.
"Ye' shouh geh outta 'ere little gurl, 'fere we get any idears." The man cackled, several missing teeth and awful breath apparent.
Ismene truly preferred neutrality in most matters, but this man's words caused a brow to raise and the need for a retort,
"I believe you've had more than your share of… hm… 'fun' with this man, and I believe it unwise for you and yours to continue your assault upon his person or, worse, your lack of courtesies towards myself." Ismene's voice was soft and light in pitch; a contrast both to the deep voice of the man before her and the words she spoke.
The response was laughter from the man and his friends; the young man on the ground propped up, appearing dazed and glancing at what was going on above him. Ismene's countenance turned somewhat cold and with warning as she eyed the man. She was calm and continued to hold her basket of goods. As the man's laughter died out, a hand suddenly reached out towards the scruff of her neck. That would be his first mistake.
With lightning reflex, she gripped his thumb and stepped forward, using her weight to twist it and his hand around, causing him to scream out and drop to his knees, to her eye level. He was startled, and his friends for the moment spoke of confusion- however, he reacted with his second mistake, which was to take a wild swing at Ismene. The small woman shoved his thumb back while raising her elbow to crack into his nose; she used enough force in her elbow strike causing him to fall back, holding his face with his free hand and screaming to his friends to assault her. His third mistake.
With swift movement, the woman darted back a few paces and set her basket down behind her, rising with a careful stance, her feet bracing, left hand open and right in a fist. Ismene regarded the men who lined up but glanced to one another as if to decide who wanted a shot at her person first. An overconfident man would push back his friends and roll his neck, cracking it. He was built strong, his arms the size of her head. Speaking no words, his eyes betrayed his intent, which was nothing Ismene would have this night.
His lunge forward would have been sudden if there were not several tells Ismene noted before it. As his hands reached for her neck she darted down, easily avoiding the contact but making her own as her fisted right hand connected with his gut in a strike that was all too hard to match her frame. As her assailant spit out his breath, she used her other hand and in a shove tripped him so he would fall backward, following up with a kick to his side that elicited a scream of pain- all of this in seconds at most.
As the others looked a lot less confident, she spoke again,
"I believe it apparent now why I encouraged your friend that it be unwise to continue ill courtesies with my person. I also believe that it is best for you to withdraw and 'cut your losses', as the phrase goes. Nonetheless, I stand ready to teach each of you the lesson your friends have learned."
The rabble heeded her warning this time, and quickly grabbed and picked up the two men who were down. As they shuffled away in defeat one of them called a threat that Ismene believed was idle foolery. Her attention, once the party of brawlers were out of threatening range, was upon her basket first, which was untouched in the engagement, and the rising man who looked stunned, as he collected his thoughts.
Pain was a constant reminder as the young man struggled to stand, he felt the blood seeping from a nose that must have been broken, and the rising bruise on his left cheek. Two punches had nearly knocked him out upon the floor of the Justicar, and what was an early start to his ambitions was practically cut short- and in his mind was over. Such thoughts left as he met the light Gray eyes of the woman who had saved him from a worse fate.
"Thank you…" he said, not able to hide the pain he was feeling, which was not the worst he had felt, but this was coupled with a feeling of utter defeat to his very core. He felt, for the moment, as if the eyes bore through to his mind and the woman knew all too well, but he shook the thought as she spoke,
"You are welcome. I trust with such troubles gone you will be ok from this point on? You have some notable injuries, but nothing too severe."
A sting of pain reminded him of his injuries as he glanced back to find the owner dropping his belongings aside the entrance. The angered stare that came with it was clear indication he was no longer welcome in the establishment. The woman arched a brow as he looked back at her,
"W…what is your name, miss? Is it uh, 'unwise' to ask?" the young man said.
She pursed her lips a moment but then gave it,
"I am Ismene, and you?"
"Uh- right." He dipped his head, "Willem. Willem Littledale of Asbravn."
Willem was regarded a moment before she spoke, as he motioned towards his gear and began to replace it upon his back.
"You are some form of armsman I take it?"
To lie and say yes would be a waste of Ismene's time, Willem wagered. While worrisome of the response he might get from the truth, he decided to be straight with her.
"Not quite. I was a Miner, and… well… I up and decided to leave that life and take a chance exploring." He felt a fool as he said it. In his first city, and he felt ready to march back home and never face such pain and embarrassment again. Ismene tilted her head some and looked in thought. In reality, she left him in silence for perhaps a few seconds longer than she intended.
"You may walk with me if you would like, mister Willem."
The offer caused Willem to blink but after a moment he nodded his head, "S-sure thing."
As he walked with the smaller woman who kept a brisk pace, his thoughts were on what to do about his face. The looks he received, both of confusion and comedic, would need to be put to an end soon. As dusk faded to night, the two found themselves at the entrance to the Library- the entire walk was in silence. Perhaps Willem might have regretted that.
"You may join me inside if that is acceptable, mister Willem. I believe you to be one of the few men who would not take worrisome meaning out of such a statement." Ismene regarded him and motioned towards the Library.
Walking in first, Willem was met with a dimly lit hall that opened into a large room, shelved in rows with several tomes, with the occasional sets of table with chairs. He felt alone in the structure as he stopped to look back to Ismene who joined him and motioned to follow. Her brown robes flowed along the floors as she reached a simple wooden door. Producing a key, she unlocked and opened the door to reveal a cramped chamber. Ismene stopped and glanced over her shoulder,
"Please procure two chairs from the table behind you- and try not to disturb the silence too much, yes?" She disappeared into the chamber and left the door open.
With his task complete, there was little room for movement in the chamber, as Willem sat down with a sigh, setting his pack and blade against a shelf, careful so the pommel rest on wood and not book. Ismene glanced back at him momentarily, then resumed her work. A silver candelabra lit the room, where she wrote into a book before her, glancing to read a book propped on a stand and then write again. She turned pages on both.
"I am currently employed as a Scribe, if you are curious," she said, breaking the silence as Willem touched at his nose and winced, she continued, "…and am currently copying Panani Folkor's The Glittering Illusion from Gnomish to Common."
Willem glanced at both and realized such was true- he couldn't read the Gnomish but wagered the foreign script to be such.
"It is a task that requires a lion's share of attention and care, though I imagine you are more than happy to rest given your ordeal."
She was right. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, thanking her again. Willem couldn't sleep, but sitting here, in silence only accompanied by the scratching of quill to page, was a welcome retreat from his previous experience. He thought of home, he thought of his decision, and then he thought of the dream…
No less than a tenday before, as he helped in closing his father's Mine for the coming Winter, an exhausted Willem collapsed in his bed (which at the moment he missed), and drifted into a troubled sleep, that soon brought him a very vivid dream. Within his room his eyes opened…
… and he found himself looking at the ceiling yet again- however, it was very dark- the air was still and there was not a stirring sound. Something felt… off. He took a breath and realized for a few instants he was stuck- paralyzed but not with fear- perhaps in his fatigue. A sudden regaining of movement brought his head up to look to the doorway. He had left his door open, though a startling realization nearly cause a yelp- there was a figure in the doorway- Willem started to jump up…
He recalled awaking and finding no one there. Worried, he searched and found no sign of the figure. His worry would all but suddenly calm into a lack of alarm, and he would slip into another dream…
… The ceiling. There were some details he never noted of it before, and his mind felt a little lost. This time as his head tilted up to see the doorway, he was not alarmed at the figure, and as it moved a step forth to reveal itself, he was confused. It was an old man, with long white hair, beard, and eyebrows that shone in stark contrast to the dark features of the room. He made no noise, and beckoned Willem with a hand towards the hallway.
Willem didn't remember getting up, but found himself in the hallway- and there was the figure again, at the end and beckoning upward towards the attic. No sense of anything but wonder is what guided him to draw the ladder and climb up into the confined spaces of attic. While the old man was no longer there, Willem found himself compounded to move and shuffle through the stored items to a corner where a chest, somewhat more ornate than the others stood apart. He found himself reaching behind it and gripping something, pulling it up and placing a large sword, a Greatsword, before the chest. He recognized it, that of his Uncle who had passed some years before.
He was looking into the chest, opened now. It was his Uncle's belongings, but what he removed was a scroll case that contained maps, an old leather pack that felt for the most part empty, and an oddly shaped piece of metal, the size of his palm, which he turned and seemed somewhat startled by- it was that of a bearded man, much like the old man he had seen, in traveling clothes and cape, shades of green, walking with the wind. There was a sense of wonder and a confidence over him. He began to heft up the sword to look at it…
Willem had awoken that morning, and sure enough found the chest and sword where it was. His life was always set before him. The second son of his father, the first of which was drafted into the local militia known as 'Redcloaks', it would be his destiny to work and then tend to the Mine as a joint owner. With this came a cushioned lifestyle for what the small town had to offer- a well-built home with comfortable furniture and never a want to eat or be clothed for the season.
For Willem, however, this was far from what he ever wanted. After gaining literacy, he would seek out and read stories of Adventurers and lands far away. This would develop into an interest in Exploring that his Father was keen on him forgetting, but his late uncle encouraged. Willem's uncle was an adventurer and had traveled East, seeing several lands and taking part in plenty of dangerous quests that made for tales which excited a wanderlust from young Willem. This, of course, would fade with the untimely death of the man. But it was just a tenday before this moment within the Library, that such wanderlust came back swinging, with a dream so vivid and surely a sign.
As a slumped Willem reached under his armor and removed a pendant, Ismene showed some interest side glancing, careful not to be intrusive. It was circular, and depicted an older man walking among swirling clouds. Any more detail was unapparent from her angle, and Willem did not note the curious glance.
Willem knew not the name of the man depicted upon the symbol, but he knew it to be the figure from his dream, and finding such in the chest surprised him. In the moment he was filled with doubt, believing it better to rest and march back home, than continue with his wild dream of exploring. Caught in reflection, he did not see nor hear the figure approaching the open doorframe from within the Library- a man, hooded in a faded green cloak.
The steps were too sturdy to be any of her previous assailants, yet differing from the scholars of the Library- however, Ismene did not appear concerned or even react until three loud raps on the open door caused Willem to nearly fall out of his chair.
"Easy, lad, I ain't gonna hurt you. Well, Ismene, I was unaware you'd company." A gruff voice spoke over the commotion that was Willem, and the young woman turned in her seat to address the speaker.
"Mister Keveak, welcome back. There should be another chair for you…" she looked to Willem and felt a need to say "He is a friend; you need not be alarmed." Completely turned to face them, she crossed her hands and glanced between the two. Keveak lowered his hood, revealing olive skin and blue eyes, his face framed by unkempt, flowing brown hair. Regarding Willem with what she was sure was pity, he introduced himself,
"I'm Keveak an' that's my only name. You?"
"Willem," who groaned as he tried to sit straight, "Willem Littledale of Asbravn."
The same greeting he gave her. Keveak offered a hand and Willem took it, as the two gripped hands Keveak spoke,
"I see those lot did a number on ya. Tell ya what, I'll do you a kindness an' tend to yer wounds, if'n ya trust me to do so." Willem glanced from Keveak to Ismene and back. Was he really looking to her opinion again?
"Mister Willem, this man is trustworthy; and, Mister Keveak- you witnessed the fight?"
"Aye, was inside the Justicar when it took place… sorry lad, wasn't really my place t' interfere an' the like…" he insisted as Willem finally nodded to his previous question.
Keveak raised a hand towards his face and touched his cheek, holding in there as he murmured a form of incantation. Looking startled, Willem touched his cheek and nose as both returned to an uninjured state. He, at best, looked speechless.
"Don't mention it."
As he took a seat in the second chair she had reserved for him, Ismene went back to her work. To her further interruption could wait a few pages, though it left the room in an odd silence, and the two men sizing one another up silently. Keveak's cool, calm stare met one filled half with awe and half with defeat. Unaware of the interaction, the young woman continued her work, filling both sides of the open book before her and sprinkling some salt. In a ritualistic fashion, she wiped the quill and set it, smoothed her robes and turned to face the two.
Before she could get a word in, she took note that both men were staring at her, but in particular, Keveak's features spoke of an imminent need to speak. The newcomer took a sharp breath and glanced at Willem,
"You're not plannin' on taking this one with us are ya? He's bloody green, greener'n my cloak and a burden- I can see it in his eyes."
The confusion in Willem's eyes were all he could retort before Ismene simply stated,
"I know not as of yet any plans involving this young man, though I had intended to ask for your assistance in tending his wounds- which I thank you for doing out of kindness. With that said -"
Keveak interrupted her, her response of pursed lips a clear dislike to the act,
"What has he told you? I doubt he knows a thing or two about that sword of his, and I betcha he's some rich boy thinkin' he can tackle the world with coin. That's what I read of 'em. Burden."
Willem looked unamused.
"This young man has been honest with me in our interactions as of today. You are right, he is green, and- well, why should I speak for you, Mister Willem?" Ismene glanced to him, her Gray eyes meeting a dark shade of Green.
"Speak for yourself, and sit up straight- some proper posture will at least offer a little aid to defending your person."
Willem did straighten up and feign some sort of confidence, though he felt odd defending himself against a man that had just used some sort of magics to heal him. Whatever the case, he relayed his story. The truth of it- his somewhat comfortable lifestyle, which allowed the man Keveak a smirk, along with his dream, which gave pause to both that made his audience, and his want to explore. He noted that Ismene regarded him as Keveak in some ways dismissed him as silence grew after the exposition. In his mind, the expectation would be dismissal, and whatever these two had in mind would be their own business. He thought of an Inn he had passed on his way to the Justicar, and how much of what little coin he had would be spent on staying the night. Lost in his own thought, he did not see a silent discussion held by the others in the room.
"We all were made to start somewhere, were we not?" the silence was broken by Ismene. Willem looked to her, and Keveak gave a small sigh as she continued,
"Well, Mister Keveak? Do not relay to me that you entered this world a capable woodsman, a 'Ranger' as you say. You do not think I left my Mother's womb with my pursuit of knowledge and my martial capabilities? I was not always of the Order."
The Order..? Willem looked a little confused though he followed the argument.
"While you are right, Ismene, I still wonder as to why you are even considering…"
"Considering what?" Willem broke the silence and interrupted the man. Both looked at him,
"Well, is it some sort of secret or are you two adventurers? That's what I pin you as anyhow, and that's what I want to do. Maybe for different reasons, sure, but I know my way around the sub terrain. I know about metals, minerals, and their worth. I've had to do business many times and can barter fairly well. I know how to hunt, skin, pack, and cook game. I can set and disarm a trap, just as I did every winter season to keep claim jumpers out. I, uh, had a thing with the locksmith's daughter and that lead to me learning a thing or two about picking locks and the like…" the last line caused a notable brow raise from Ismene, though he continued, "… I'm not completely worthless to travel with is what I'm getting at… and travelling with more folk is safer is it not?"
Keveak maintained a frown as Ismene spoke to him,
"I did mention to you that I am currently employed as a Scribe, though this is not my only purpose within this Library, and it is temporary and soon ending. With that said, there is little secrecy here, with the exception to those that mean my person harm, which hopefully are few. I do not believe you to be one of those number, so allow me to inform you as to my intent.
"The Order I mentioned earlier is that of the Children of the Passive Voice. As such, my other purpose in this Library is to protect it overnight from any troubles. The Children, my brothers and sisters respectively, protect Libraries and Abbeys. Too, we strike out in search of knowledge, not only to build upon our martial ability but also our knowledge, and that which can be maintained. A very brief descriptor of my person, but it should suffice for now. Mister Keveak here I have hired as a guide, and admittedly a guard of my person, as he knows the lands East of here, and more particularly what dangers reside within them…"
Willem listened intently and took in what he could. He had heard of Monks and Orders before, but never encountered one till this very moment- if what rumors he heard were true, there was little reason for Ismene to need a guard. Willem was truly lost within the city, having realized that striking out on his own would be a fatal mistake. Further, it had been very difficult for him to approach anyone he deemed Adventurer-like. The man was just brazen enough in this moment to offer going with them. For now though, he had enough sense to listen. Ismene continued to speak,
"I've intent to travel East of here, namely on the Trader's Road then overland into the Lightning Steppes. The Steppe land contain many notable ruins I wish to visit and study; the endeavor, however, does not come without danger. There are notable bands of nomadic bandits that accost travelers, and tribes of beasts, be they Orc, Gnoll, or otherwise. I've little doubt that ruins serve as an excellent shelter against weather and makeshift fortification against attack.
"Mister Willem, if you truly wish to travel with the pair of us, I cannot guarantee your safety; It is, however, an ample opportunity to get a taste of exploration- enough experience to shake you of the fantasy of dream, or really solidify a want to do so." She paused a moment, as Keveak looked between the two. Ismene's gaze focused on him,
"I think it an ample opportunity for you to pass along your knowledge and perhaps fashion him to not be so green in the end, yes?"
Keveak eyed Willem, "As sudden as thissus' thrown upon ya, lad, I want t'know you er'damn sure. You need to be able t'make decisions on yer'feet and stick to'em if you ever hope t'survive the wilds, or anotha' tavern."
Willem only allowed the silent pause to take a breath. "I am 'damn' sure, and I wish to join you both. Let it be known I'll defer to both of you and do my best to be assistive to this trip."
Ismene offered a small grin that seemed to be her version of a smile. It was perhaps the most outward emotion, save her common brow raises, she had mustered in their interaction.
"It is settled, then. Perhaps a very sudden and fateful decision on your part, mister Willem, but one I believe to benefit all of us. On the morrow, you will procure what necessary supplies you do not possess with mister Keveak. We will leave the morning after, as by then my obligations here will cease."
Keveak begrudgingly accepted, and in a short time Willem was shown to the basement of the Library, where a few cots were assembled. Ismene would remain awake, tending to her duties. As Willem settled in, resting on the somewhat comfortable cot, his mind drifted. What had this sudden decision afforded him? What would come of these travels into the Lightning Steppes? Had he made the wrong decision? His thoughts while keeping him awake eventually lost to the need of rest. He did not dream that night.