>>6311310
>>6311634
>>6311634
>>6311634
# # # Silver Knight Quest - 7/π # # #
An old acquaintance manages her business, when she receives a visit. You have a chance to deal with the politics of the Asterites and the Throne, anon... and greet an old friend.
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>>6311634
Sandora’s mind was pulled to the brief yet intense adventure she had shared there in the forsaken Temple. She had seen the unexplainable might of the Holy Land with her own eyes.
Hopefully, Argia and the others would still be fine. Well, besides that girl, Salicera. Sometimes her neck still hurts where she got kicked.
She couldn’t care less about that dumb kid.
Argia, on the other hand…
And yet, something (was it her instinct as a teacher?) told her that she would see Argia Candente once again, or at least that she was connected to whatever was going on with the world these days.
These nights.
The dead light inside her, the one that carried her powers as a star-mage, had been pulsating in ill waves for a while, now.
More or less since the disaster at the Temple, and ever stronger. She had dared not to call upon her gift, especially not at night, where it was strongest.
But if this—
“Sandora,” called a male voice.
She jolted, turning to see a bald man, covered head to toe in red marks, wearing only a black loincloth.
Her jaw fell, and not just because of his broad shoulders and steely thews, which certainly would have been a welcome sight after cycles upon cycles spent sleeping on her own.
But he had come here unannounced.
“Basilio,” she welcomed the engraved wizard. Where other Asterites carried just the Marks of their birth, Basilio showed them all over his body.
Sandora’s spirit wavered at his presence, so close.
Why was the most powerful Asterite in the service of the Throne here for her?
They had not sent a new Crow after her just yet, so—
But Basilio’s blue eyes lit with fondness, so perhaps not all was lost.
“You have been missing your classes.”
“Yeah, well,” she replied, running a hand through her blonde tresses, even under the hood. “I am a teacher, but not just a teacher.”
“Indeed. I come here to ask you a few questions. As Eleventh Seat.”
[cont.]
Sandora’s mind was pulled to the brief yet intense adventure she had shared there in the forsaken Temple. She had seen the unexplainable might of the Holy Land with her own eyes.
Hopefully, Argia and the others would still be fine. Well, besides that girl, Salicera. Sometimes her neck still hurts where she got kicked.
She couldn’t care less about that dumb kid.
Argia, on the other hand…
And yet, something (was it her instinct as a teacher?) told her that she would see Argia Candente once again, or at least that she was connected to whatever was going on with the world these days.
These nights.
The dead light inside her, the one that carried her powers as a star-mage, had been pulsating in ill waves for a while, now.
More or less since the disaster at the Temple, and ever stronger. She had dared not to call upon her gift, especially not at night, where it was strongest.
But if this—
“Sandora,” called a male voice.
She jolted, turning to see a bald man, covered head to toe in red marks, wearing only a black loincloth.
Her jaw fell, and not just because of his broad shoulders and steely thews, which certainly would have been a welcome sight after cycles upon cycles spent sleeping on her own.
But he had come here unannounced.
“Basilio,” she welcomed the engraved wizard. Where other Asterites carried just the Marks of their birth, Basilio showed them all over his body.
Sandora’s spirit wavered at his presence, so close.
Why was the most powerful Asterite in the service of the Throne here for her?
They had not sent a new Crow after her just yet, so—
But Basilio’s blue eyes lit with fondness, so perhaps not all was lost.
“You have been missing your classes.”
“Yeah, well,” she replied, running a hand through her blonde tresses, even under the hood. “I am a teacher, but not just a teacher.”
“Indeed. I come here to ask you a few questions. As Eleventh Seat.”
[cont.]
>>6251084
“Here,” she whispers, dropping a few bills into the boatman’s hand. Twice as much as she would owe him for the trip, but silence is golden, as they say.
And around these parts, it’s silver, which is much worse.
Sandora walks towards the entrance, and another shiver runs down her back as she glances at the decoration over the entrance: the Frigéian’s lion, holding its sword upright.
She slips into the darkness, as the boat waits for her return.
A few mores steps echo in the black silence, then the noise beneath her boots changes and she stumbles as the elevator activates.
“Starless Night,” she curses, holding onto the wall, shifting with a sharp groan of metal on stone. The platform descends, past the level of water — her throat tightens at the idea of feet and feet of ocean now over her head — and at last it stops before a precious door, steel and frosted glass giving way to a soft glow.
Sandora pushes it open and steps into the office — a man who is also wearing a white mask like she is, waiting at the desk.
He nods upon noticing her.
“Welcome. May this night bring profit.” His voice sounds young. He’s not the same one she met the last time.
“May it,” she replies, closing the door behind herself.
The office is carved inside what looks like a single piece of crystal glass, the black water pressing like a shadow of cold death around it, the glow of candles lost inside its infinite darkness.
“I have come to deal with my account.”
“As it may be your wont,” the man allows, reaching for a volume amidst the many. “May I request your—”
“[i]Ten purple below orchard sinister mayhap dozen tide aloof alabaster.[/i]”
At each of her words, a tiny clock on his desk hitches a little click, until it emits a satisfied chime.
“All correct. Would you like to know your balance?” He adds, running his fingers over the files held in the tome.
Sandora had known it for a long time. It had sat there in one of Frigéia’s banks, growing fatter and heavier with each year, like an old toad too content with its own laziness to be of use.
Well, now, thanks to that fanatic Rosandra, and indirectly thanks to Argia, she had a way to put it to use.
[cont.]
“Here,” she whispers, dropping a few bills into the boatman’s hand. Twice as much as she would owe him for the trip, but silence is golden, as they say.
And around these parts, it’s silver, which is much worse.
Sandora walks towards the entrance, and another shiver runs down her back as she glances at the decoration over the entrance: the Frigéian’s lion, holding its sword upright.
She slips into the darkness, as the boat waits for her return.
A few mores steps echo in the black silence, then the noise beneath her boots changes and she stumbles as the elevator activates.
“Starless Night,” she curses, holding onto the wall, shifting with a sharp groan of metal on stone. The platform descends, past the level of water — her throat tightens at the idea of feet and feet of ocean now over her head — and at last it stops before a precious door, steel and frosted glass giving way to a soft glow.
Sandora pushes it open and steps into the office — a man who is also wearing a white mask like she is, waiting at the desk.
He nods upon noticing her.
“Welcome. May this night bring profit.” His voice sounds young. He’s not the same one she met the last time.
“May it,” she replies, closing the door behind herself.
The office is carved inside what looks like a single piece of crystal glass, the black water pressing like a shadow of cold death around it, the glow of candles lost inside its infinite darkness.
“I have come to deal with my account.”
“As it may be your wont,” the man allows, reaching for a volume amidst the many. “May I request your—”
“[i]Ten purple below orchard sinister mayhap dozen tide aloof alabaster.[/i]”
At each of her words, a tiny clock on his desk hitches a little click, until it emits a satisfied chime.
“All correct. Would you like to know your balance?” He adds, running his fingers over the files held in the tome.
Sandora had known it for a long time. It had sat there in one of Frigéia’s banks, growing fatter and heavier with each year, like an old toad too content with its own laziness to be of use.
Well, now, thanks to that fanatic Rosandra, and indirectly thanks to Argia, she had a way to put it to use.
[cont.]