Character Scenario — Quirinus & Umbria [Prologue]

Snow falls from a grey sky—cold, dull, lifeless. 

He has heard more bards than he can count wax poetic about the beauty of the Artanisian wilderness, but in truth he cannot see it. Perhaps there is something in ice-clad mountains and evergreen forests blanketed in white, but all of it is meaningless when he cannot see the sun. The cold here would be the end of many, but with his magic it is of no concern. 

No. The cold is not his enemy. The lack of light is. This far to the south it seems daylight never truly comes. A few hours of endless grey that are encroached upon on either side by the dark of night—a timespan that shortens with each passing week—can scarcely count as day. 

It would be enough to drive anyone to madness. 

He scowls at the thought. What a story that would be in the years to come, he muses, scratching his beard as he surveys the snowfields beyond the camp once more. The archsage who travelled south on a lark and lost his mind. Oshiro would dearly love to tell that tale, damn the man. 

He exhales an irritated breath and raises a hand, summoning a small ball of conjured light in his palm. It dances, brilliant and warm, a childish echo of the Velantian sun as it sets over the ocean. The Frostmarks leave much to be desired, but at least he has left that nest of vipers in the north where they can squabble and row and jostle for power to their hearts’ content. With their attention drawn to the Meissandium in Velantis and the Imperial palace in Erenvor, they will pay him no heed. His work is absurd, after all. A fanciful dream. The Council would not have cleared it if not for the standing his unique abilities have gifted him. 

They would offer him anything if it guaranteed keeping the sole triple-attuned individual within the Guild of Mages.   

“Sabien?” A muffled voice, a telltale crunch of boots on snow. He doesn’t need to turn around to know his apprentice is there, wandering from the safety of the shelter.   

“There are no changes,” he says shortly and dismisses the orb. “Go back to the tent and wait. Brew yourself a cup of tea if you like.” 

“I already have. Twice.” Umbria draws up next to him with a scarf pulled over her mouth and nose, tears glistening in her brown eyes from the wind. A small coil of dark brown hair has escaped its braid and brushes against her forehead. Eighteen years old now, she is headstrong and reckless and a far cry from the shy young novitiate who joined the Guild only a half decade ago. Unlike the rest of their retinue who have opted for practical gear, she has chosen to venture into the Artanisian wilds dressed like a Velantian. A pink travel serithan drowning in an oversized wool cloak with a puffy fur collar dyed a pale rose, a white fur hood to keep her ears warm and a matching muff to cover her hands. She is perhaps the most colourful thing for miles. “Where do you think it is?” 

“It will come. We simply must have patience.” 

“We have had a fortnight of patience.” She lowers her scarf and turns to the mountains, scanning the woods with a keen eye. “Perhaps it will never come. Perhaps it is time we go to it.” 

“I would advise against that.” 

“Surely a creature is no match for you.” 

“It is not the creature that gives me pause. There is more that lurks in these woods than a fannarl.” He looks away, his gaze drawn to the mountaintops. It’s out there, somewhere. The Spire. That great ancient fortress of obsidian and glass. Twin to Diradan Tower. Home to the Wayfarer Order and its grand designs. Brissa Varyn will be there, not that he has a desire to see her. “I am not often one for caution, but in this case I would heed it.” 

“Why?” 

“Alerting the Wayfarer Order to our presence in their territory would be unwise.” 

“We may not have a choice. Or rather our quarry may not give us a choice. We need that fannarl.” 

He glances at her. Once again—as he has often found throughout these few short years—her impatience speaks not just to her youth, but to her human ancestry. A need to move fast, to outplay her elven, dwarven, and melusine colleagues who will have decades to hone their craft. “There is time yet,” he says calmly. “Even if fate conspires against us on this particular venture, perhaps at a later date—” 

“There is no later date. If I am going to commit heresy, then the time is now.” 

A pause. A winter wind howls, sweeping snow across the field. The grey sky darkens; night is approaching. 

“Do you know what death is, Sabien?” Umbria says quietly. “It is the dark and the cold and the nothingness. The space after the heart stops, when the mind is torn asunder and left in freefall. If there is a way to reverse that moment, to snatch the soul from Nashira’s grasp and return it to a healed body… I would find it.” 

“Necromancy is not an advisable path.” 

“Meissandic bullshit. If what I aim to do is necromancy, then all curative magic should be called so.” 

Another pause. He blinks, the wind chafing his face, snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes. And yet he is not cold—his spellwork sees to that. “Tell me something,” he says after a moment. “You are not the first to attempt to walk this path. Why do you seek immortality?” 

“I don’t. I simply want to help people.” Her lips twitch. She shrugs and pulls her cloak tighter, shooting him a glance from beneath dark lashes. There is fire in her eyes. “And when this goes well—because it will go well—just remember that I’m not the one who brought immortality into this conversation. You did.”