Dawn of Balance
Life is a matter of balance. Order and chaos are both necessary, like the two halves of a whole. Without the chaos and darkness of the night that is finished and the order and light of the day that is to come a dawn cannot exist.
Disclaimer: I am not Intelligent Systems. I do not own Fire Emblem. End of story.
At the Green Cauldron
As the lieutenant had indicated, the Green Cauldron was not hard to find.
Sephiran followed the man's directions, dodging the noonday traffic on the streets. As he took the second left, he glanced at the wooden signs hanging over the doorways, more as a formality than anything else. He could sense the presence of other magic users quite well, and a concentration of them could only mean one thing.
An onlooker might have wished that the wooden sign for the Green Cauldron was slightly less lifelike. The sign-maker had meticulously etched in the wood the design of a cauldron bubbling with some liquid, and then painted it, with red flames underneath the iron cauldron and green froth foaming over the sides of the pot. Little chunks of something - it was probably better not to think about what - appeared to be floating in the liquid. Familiar as he was by now with the practices of some quack alchemists, Sephiran thought the depiction to be pretty apt.
The heavy oaken door of the shop was closed, the brass handle corroded as if acid had been splashed upon it. The wooden planks of the door itself were burnt in several patches, as if an irate druid had hit it a time or two with a Fire tome. The window, however, had been cranked open, and the horrible smell of various potions bubbling drifted outwards. The townspeople covered their mouths and noses with a handkerchief or pulled up the collar of their tunic as they walked past. However, they did not complain any more than that: the potions the alchemist was brewing would be made into the elixirs, concoctions, panaceas, and common vulneraries they would buy to treat their wounds and ailments.
Bracing himself, Sephiran edged the door of the Green Cauldron open and stepped inside.
The interior was a bewildering array of mishmash items, not all related to the practicing of dark magic. In one corner, druid robes hung from pegs, price tags clipped to their sleeves. Near the window, laid out in apparently no order on some stained tables, sat various trinkets - Ashera Icons (always useful to unlucky dark sages and druids deployed against unbelievably lucky heroes), Arms Scrolls, a lone Red Gem, and a stack of Specter Cards.
Beyond them, stacked neatly upon shelves, were dark and anima tomes for sale. Sephiran's gaze whipped over the selection. He was rather impressed with the offerings, especially considering that Osin was a small town. A small town with a dedicated group of dark mages, apparently. There was even a Verrine tome, as well as a Meteor tome, the latter on sale for only 700 gold, for druids who just couldn't resist the urge to rain down gigantic fireballs of doom upon their enemies from afar, likely while cackling evilly the whole time.
Sephiran had no intentions of ever acquiring a Meteor tome.
He walked around a basket of vulneraries towards the back of the shop. A sort of greenish haze, like the smoke of pipes that hung perpetually under the rafters in a taproom but worse, clung to the exposed wooden beams overhead. From the beams strings of alchemical ingredients hung, along with bundles of food - onions, corn still in the husk, sausages. Sephiran did not think it would be a wise choice to buy food from this place. He just did not.
A rumble of masculine voices came from the rear of the shop. A couple of men stood leaning against a counter, one in druid robes and the other in the robes of a dark sage.
The druid was smoking a pipe and holding forth about the advantages of versatility in being able to use anima magic in addition to dark magic. This was of particular importance when being chased by pesky bishops from Palmeni Temple who accused them of necromancy, he said.
The dark sage, who had seemingly heard this argument many times before, merely nodded and made agreeable noises at all the appropriate times. His smile indicated that he had no intentions of donning the fringed robes with the overlong sleeves and picking up a Wind or a Fire tome anytime soon, however.
Behind the counter stood an old man in dark blue and black garments, his thatch of white hair a bright counterpoint to his dimly lit shop. He was busily attending to a set of several small cauldrons, stirring them with bronze and silver rods and tipping in a carefully measured teaspoon of the next ingredient. Though he seemed shriveled by age and his cheeks were sunken, his hands were steady as he went about his precise business.
The dark sage at the counter looked up as Sephiran approached. He observed him with neither hostility nor fear, but with a calm that indicated he was confident in his own abilities and did not feel threatened by the presence of other sages. He had dark hair, and a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee. His gray eyes had the look of a scholar in them - one used to sizing up ancient mysteries and delighting in finding the answers.
"I haven't seen you in these parts before," said the dark sage, "but you look as if you know your way around some high-level tomes. The magic in the room went crazy when you stepped through the door."
"This is my first time to visit Osin, yes," said Sephiran. "As for high-level tomes, it depends on which type."
Taking the pipe out of his mouth, the druid turned lazily to lean with his back against the counter. In contrast to his dark-haired friend, the druid had a thick shock of golden-brown hair, complete with round hazel eyes and a full beard. He eyed Sephiran a moment before returning the pipe to his mouth and commenting around it, "Not a druid. Shame."
"Full of himself ever since he first got his hands on a Fire," muttered the dark sage under his breath.
"You don't wear dark sage garments," the druid continued. "At least, not proper ones. If you're not from around here, that might explain it – different schools and all. Still… something about you… it doesn't add up. You sure you don't use anything other than dark tomes? I could see you with a Wind. Very precise, those tomes. Very fast. Not as much fun as a Meteor, of course – don't tell Abby I said that, Avyn-, but there is something to say for shoving a Tornado spell up the tax collector's nose. Do you use Wind tomes?"
"Berkeley, stop being so nosy!" the dark sage groaned, facepalming at his friend's lack of tact.
"No, I'm afraid not," answered Sephiran.
"Fire? Thunder, even? Not very accurate, but great fun, Thunder tomes are."
"No, and no."
"Aww. You should really try them! Anima tomes make for great versatility," declaimed Berkeley, waving his pipe around as he gestured to emphasize his point.
"No, no, no! Stop it, Berkeley, stop it! Cartus will kick us out of his shop since you scare away half of his customers with your druid-proselytizing!" The dark sage pulled a stool out from under the counter. "Now sit here and smoke your pipe and be quiet until he's finished brewing your elixir!"
With all the air of a sullen child, Berkeley sat down on the stool and puffed smoke rings into the air.
The dark sage turned apologetically to Sephiran. "My apologies. He's like this all the time, I'm afraid. We've known each other a long time. He had an older brother who joined the priesthood, Berkeley did…"
Berkeley snorted. "The pompous windbag. Just because Bernard makes healing staves for the Temple, he thinks that makes him automatically holy and superior to everyone else. Is it any wonder I want to show him up? He has a fireball to the face coming, I tell you."
"…And so Berkeley's a little obsessed," finished the dark sage. "My apologies, again. My name is Avyn." He offered a polite bow.
Sephiran returned the bow. "I am called Sephiran."
"This is Cartus, here," said Avyn, indicating the white-haired man behind the counter, "who runs the Green Cauldron inn. It's been in his family for decades. We're regulars in here. In fact, pretty much every dark magic user in this area comes here for what they need - tomes, vulneraries for inevitable accidents, the odd staff. Or for the company of fellow dark mages and the conversation, although if Berkeley's present the talk tends to be rather one-sided."
"You just don't know what a joy dropping a Meteor on your mother-in-law is," said Berkeley from his perch on the stool.
"Yes, yes, whatever, Berkeley," said Avyn, flapping a dismissive hand at him. "I'm sure I'll find out when I get a mother-in-law. And I'll try not to get one like yours."
"More like monster-in-law…" Berkeley muttered.
Behind the counter, Cartus smirked a little as he took a small cauldron off the flames and set it on a tripod to cool.
"Your elixir will be ready soon, Berkeley," said the shopkeeper, his voice as steady as his hands even in his old age. "Just to your specifications, as always. Eight doses, just like a vulnerary." From a shelf over his stove of cauldrons he selected a small bottle wrapped in blue paper, opening a drawer with his other hand and withdrawing a ladle without looking. Sephiran imagined that, after having worked in the shop all his life, Cartus would know precisely where everything was and could carry out his daily tasks blindfolded.
Avyn chuckled. "Berkeley likes an elixir with lots of uses," he said. "I suppose it's because he finds himself in a lot of accidents with those Fire tomes of his."
"You didn't have to bring that up, Avyn!"
"Hahaha. Just teasing, Berkeley. Be that as it may, did you come here looking for something, Master Sephiran? While Cartus is busy with his potions, I can point out all the stuff here," said Avyn. "Or did you just come looking for some interaction with other dark mages? Goddess knows we have to band together; they're so few of us and almost everyone misunderstands us or hates us."
Sephiran pondered what to say next. The matter of Pelleas was much more important, of course. Perhaps he should bring it up first? In the back of his mind, he kept seeing the boy with his blue curls and his big pleading eyes, silently begging to learn and be taken in and loved. He would not rest easily until he saw the boy in good hands.
However, finding Pelleas a caretaker and, hopefully, a master he could learn from could take hours or even days to resolve. He did not know how things stood with the dark magical community in Osin yet.
Asking if the shopkeeper would be interested in purchasing any tomes would take far less time, on the other hand. He could take care of that business in a few minutes, and then proceed to the matter of Pelleas without forgetting anything. Yes, that would work.
"I have two purposes in come here, really," said Sephiran. "The first is perhaps more easily explained." Taking a step closer to the counter, Sephiran addressed Cartus, who was ladling the cooled elixir into its bottle. "Do you buy custom tomes?"
"That depends," said Cartus, not looking up from his careful work. "Avyn here is a fairly gifted tomebinder and I buy most of my dark tomes from him. I have to have anima tomes shipped here from magic schools in other towns. I don't deal much in light tomes, since anyone who wishes to purchase one would look first at Palmeni Temple instead of coming here."
Berkeley grumbled around his pipe at the mention of Palmeni Temple.
"Dark tomes," said Sephiran. "I do a bit of tomebinding myself. I do a lot of traveling, so it is a way to cover expenses. I have bound all the dark tomes up to Verrine."
"Only to Verrine? I do not blame you in the least," said Avyn. "The main SS-rank tome, Balberith…" He shuddered. "You could not pay me enough gold to try binding that tome. Baal is not a darkness spirit; he's a fiend. I have seen Balberith being cast, and I will not be disappointed if I never see it again."
"Indeed," said Cartus levelly. He put the stopper in the elixir bottle and wrapped the blue paper covering up with twine, placing it on the counter. Berkeley stood up from his stool and handed over a few high-denomination gold coins, which Cartus took without checking the amount. Berkeley picked up the elixir bottle and stepped away from the counter, tapping his pipe thoughtfully, but he made no motion to leave the shop.
Cartus placed his hands flat, palms down, on the counter. "I cannot guarantee that I will buy anything, young master, but I'll have a look," he said. "There is a strong dark magic community around here, so I have no worries about not selling any dark tomes I buy."
Sephiran slipped his bookbag from his shoulder. Tomebinding was a hard and quite dangerous process, one few magic users ever tried to attempt. Even most archsages were content to buy their high-ranked tomes at whatever exorbitant prices the dealers charged rather than try to forge their own tomes.
Tomebinding was so dangerous due to the fundamental nature of magic itself. All magic was regulated by the spirit world, the origin of magic, and most beings of flesh and blood simply did not have the personal magic required to do the things they wished to do with it. The earliest magic had consisted of gifted mortals forging pacts with spirits, making some sacrifice in order to temporarily borrow the spirits' power. The spirits were not always agreeable, and they flatly refused to assist anyone who would not speak to them in their own tongue, the ancient language that the herons had spoken.
So tomes had been invented. Tomes were basically books of incantations, each one a petition in the ancient language to forge a temporary pact with a spirit to borrow its power in a specific spell. Using tomes, a mortal who could not speak the ancient language but who could at least learn to pronounce the words on the page could learn to use his magic to wield the magic of the spirits. Few mortal mages bothered themselves to learn the grammar and vocabulary of the ancient language anymore - no doubt due in part to its fiendishly irregular verbs and intricate prefixes and suffixes-, and so they did not know how to speak to the spirits without a book in hand.
(A few unscrupulous tome-dealers had taken advantage of this fact to bind tomes full of, not polite requests of the spirits to borrow their power, but insults to various deities and spirits. Mages who used these tomes were predictably struck down by lightning, the favorite weapon of offended immortals. At least in Begnion, various monasteries and schools of magic had stepped in to regulate the tomebinding business in order to avert such disasters.)
To bind a tome, a sage or archsage (mere mages were never allowed to bind tomes) had to know the ancient language well enough to craft an incantation to the spirits. Many different formulas for incantations existed, all of which worked, but some of which worked better for different spirits and types of magic than others. The tomebinder had to know the runes the ancient language was written in. Most importantly, he had to chant the incantation as he wrote it, forming a temporary bond with the spirit himself and sealing the power of the spirit inside the tome with the runes he wrote. That way, a mage who picked up the tome would be able to use his own, smaller magic to activate the incantation, which would forge a temporary bond between himself and the particular spirit, granting him the power for a spell.
It was hardly surprising that tomes were so heavy when they were practically glued together with magic.
Sephiran had taken to tomebinding with insane ease. The ancient language had been the only tongue he had spoken for millennia, and he had seen the runes it was written in evolve from rough scratches on bark to the fine penmanship now showcased on the finest of parchments. His ability to easily speak with the spirits and his blessing from Ashunera ensured that the process of infusing power in the tomes was not as dangerous for him as it was for others.
His main motive in tomebinding was, indeed, to cover the expenses of his travels, but he could not deny that he truly enjoyed the craft. His tomes were always works of art. The borders of the pages were filled with colorful designs and pictures, and the covers glowed with paint. He liked to challenge himself, too, so he would often try to see if he could make his own tomes lighter than the average tome of that type, or have more uses or pack a bigger punch.
Suffice it to say, he had not bought a tome for his own use in quite a while. In addition to the relics he had brought from Goldoa, he had bought a few to begin with, to study their structure and style, and had discarded them when he found them inferior.
Now he kept a small arsenal of his own tomes with him at all times. He still preferred light tomes, for he could not shake his heron preference of order, and light magic was fundamentally order magic. Ellight had become his all-purpose tome, with Purge for the occasional long distance shot and Shine for when he was particularly irritated. He disliked Valaura and Nosferatu. Light magic, he felt, should definitely not poison, nor should it drain the life out of other individuals. He had not been able to locate a copy of Resire, the less twisted version of Nosferatu, but he still wished to find it and duplicate it – it seemed to have promise. Plain Nosferatu and Valaura, though, he had promised himself never to use. Not only were they tainted magic, they were the favored tomes of two of the most loathsome humans in Tellius whom he had ever had the misfortune of meeting.
He had in fact crafted a Rexaura tome, but was still searching for a suitably auspicious occasion for which he could use it for the first time.
Outside of light tomes, Sephiran had only ventured so far to dark tomes, and that mostly in order to research what might have befallen Empress Misaha. He had no doubts that he was quite capable of binding fire, thunder, and wind tomes, and had considered it more than once just to prove that he could. The preciseness and orderliness of wind tomes almost appealed to him, which he found quite strange as a heron. His feelings were more neutral towards thunder tomes, and fire tomes only reminded him of the flames that had engulfed Serenes Forest that terrible night.
No, Sephiran would not touch a fire tome if his life depended on it.
Taking them one by one out of his bookbag, Sephiran laid three Worm tomes, a Fenrir, and a Verrine tome on the counter. He had a few other tomes that he had saved for special occasions, copies of very rare and valuable tomes from previous ages, such as Flux and Luna. He had tested the Flux out himself, so he knew it, at least, worked as well as the low-level magic it contained promised. Luna boded to be a more powerful tome, and he would not sell one to other unsuspecting dark sages until he had first tested it. It just did not seem right.
Unless it was one of those senators from Begnion. With a bit of very un-heron-like vindictiveness, Sephiran would have gladly handed over to them a defective dark tome and gleefully observed the destructive results from a safe distance.
Cartus picked up one of the Worm tomes and turned it over in his hands, flipping rapidly through the pages with a thumb, scanning the contents. He grunted quietly, letting his fingers rest on the painted cover. "You obviously spend a lot of time on these. Few tomebinders bother to illuminate all the interior pages," he said.
Avyn leaned over the counter to get a glimpse of the tome. As Cartus examined the Fenrir, the dark sage said grudgingly, "You've done a good job with these, Master Sephiran."
"This one is lighter than usual, too," said Cartus, hefting the Fenrir. "They average around 20 thaumic weight. This one is, I'd say… about 17 thaumic weight."
"Niiiiice," said Berkeley from behind them. He edged forward to peer over Avyn's shoulder. "And it's a long range tome. I love long range tomes. Raining death from afar… priceless. I'll take it, if no one else wants it. It's not a Meteor, but I'm not one to pass up on a deal. How much do you want for it?"
The going rate for a Fenrir was around 1500 gold. Berkeley was amazed when Sephiran did not press for a few hundred more gold than that.
"Hey, I'm not complaining," he said. "Don't mistake me. Just… wow. The next time you have custom lightweight tomes for sale, my man, let me know. Especially if you ever decide to go into anima magic. I would totally give 1000 gold for a lightweight Meteor tome. Then I could double that nagging mother-in-law of mine while she's still at the end of the driveway."
"That's not a good reason to want a lightweight tome, Berkeley!" said Avyn, gesturing in his distress.
Cartus ignored their antics. "Normally," he said, "I would not buy tomes from someone who walked in off the street. However, many years of dealing with tomes has given me the ability to distinguish between a good piece of work and a shoddy book. These are of high quality. I have no doubts that I will be able to sell them - oh, don't give me that face, Avyn, you know I'll still depend on your tomebinding for the majority of my goods-, so I'm willing to bargain."
After a bit of haggling, 11300 gold and three Worm and one Verrine tomes were exchanged.
Berkeley, who had stayed to watch this little interchange, tapped his pipe. "Well," he announced, "gotta run. Abby's probably already wondering where in Tellius I am. The kids are probably driving her up the wall. Nice meeting you, Master Sephiran. Take care, Avyn, Cartus. See you again in… oh, probably a week. You know me."
He strode to the door, dodging the basket of vulneraries in his way. Just as he was about to lay his hand on the door handle, he paused, glancing out the dusty window. His gulp was audible as he fairly jumped backwards, almost dropping the elixir he held.
"Ah, Cartus…? Can I go hide in your back storeroom?" he asked, his voice rising with uneasiness.
Avyn quickly stood up straight, robes snapping around him as his magic jerked to alertness, ready to cast a spell. "What is it, Berkeley? Another pack of bishops from Palmeni Temple ready to try to arrest us all for necromancy again?"
"I wish," said Berkeley, continuing to back away from the door.
Something in his tone of voice communicated something to Cartus and Avyn that it did not pass on to Sephiran.
"Oh, dear goddess, not him," muttered Avyn, scowling.
Cartus said nothing, but swept his newly acquired tomes off the counter and out of sight, arranging his features into what amounted to a polite grimace.
The door burst open.
Author's Notes:
Ahahahaha! Cliffhanger! Yes, I am so evil. I never knew being evil would be so much fun. Ahahaha.
Anyway.
Welcome to my second batch of OC's! You remember Misaha's family, yes? Well, let me introduce you to the dark magical community of Osin. I have tried hard to invent backstories for them and motivations, so that they will seem like real people seamlessly interacting with Sephiran and the rest of Tellius instead of glittering Mary Sues or boring cardboard cut-outs.
I have a lot more information about this gang, but I can't tell you right now. Spoilers! However, do note that you haven't met them all yet. Hint, hint. We'll be spending a few chapters with them to get the Pelleas arc resolved (other matters may also be resolved along the way), so please bear with my OC's. If you absolutely loathe them, by all means write an angry review telling me so. If I'm doing something wrong, I definitely want to know so I can improve and fix these things.
As far as how tomes work and how they are made, I made it all up. These are just my theories, influenced rather heavily by the manga for Marth's game(s). If the explanations don't make sense, shoot me a question or rant about it in the review box and I'll try to make it all better.
In other news, my lovelies, I'd like you to know that every time I see that Dawn of Balance has been read, reviewed, favorited, or followed, I squee and spin around in circles. You make me do a happy dance. So thank you all.
Spinner here, signing out.
