Fluid - 1

The metal’s song bursts with energy, and even expecting it, I’m still too slow to avoid the sudden scalding heat. My fingertips had barely brushed the plate’s surface before the energy cascaded within the enchantments and overflowed the divination’s loop. Even with my hand well away, the rune-etched steel sears its way into the guild master’s desk. While the scent of burning cherry wood is sweet, it ends up buried beneath the pungent metallic odour of overheated steel.

A Spell from the Guild Master snuffs out the growing power; bereft of a source, the flames die away. With a flick of his fingers, the gruff-faced man flings the still hot steel into the chamber’s open fireplace. Though its impact causes sparks to spit onto the white marble floor, like the unadorned walls, there is nothing to burn. The cold starkness of the office at least prevents a fire from starting.

Despite the speed of his reactions, the plate left runes seared into his desk. Glaring at the damaged wood, he rakes his fingers through his grey-streaked goatee. It’s strangely the only hair on his head, his scalp and eyebrows so smooth it’s clear he’s spelled the hair away. He has the black eyes I’ve seen in many of the Egyptians I’d met so far, though his nose doesn’t appear hawk-like for his narrow face but just large.

Compared to the local Greeks he made for a strange sight, not only in the choice of hairstyle but also in his clothing. Dusky-skinned like papa, he wears a broad gold neckpiece that lies flat across his shoulders and curves down to the top of his sternum. Set with runes and individually enchanted gemstones, it radiates magic even without listening to its song. Hieroglyphs stitched in gold marched down the middle of his white linen shirt, bordering the ties that secure it. Loose leather pants show wear marks where his sword’s scabbard would typically sit. Solid boots that come up high on his calves feature holders for multiple wands.

His pants remind me ‌I need to expand my wardrobe for adventuring. I hope the long blue Elven silk dress and sandals I’d opted for today weren’t a wrong beginning. Curious, I open myself more to his song and catch the impression of a spoiled Elf noble he’s settling on already.

“Drats.”

The glare hasn’t even faded when he shifts his dark-eyed gaze towards me.

“Drats? That’s all you have to say?” grumbles the Guild Master and motions towards the burn.

Though the drats hadn’t been for his desk, he grumbles so similarly to some of my Dwarven teachers that he sets me giggling. “You saw it do the same thing to the reception counter. Why did you think it would do anything different to your desk?”

The blisters I’d felt forming swell and fade, Protean ensuring my body’s song returns to its normal state. The cool wash of pain relief adds to the brightness of my tone partway through my reply.

My tone has his eyes narrowing coldly—which is an impressive bluff—but unfortunately, the light tinkling chimes that fill his song give the game away. “My desk has protections.”

“Had protections,” I counter, listening to the last of them unravel.

My correction adds more of the pretend heat to his gaze, so I wring my hands together, countering his mock anger act with a pitiful look. Carefully softening my voice to contrast the heated theme he’s trying to portray, I play along and continue in a near whisper. “I am sorry, but how was I to know your registration thing would have issues with me? Not once but twice after you assured me it must have been a flaw in the first’s crafting. They’re new, aren’t they? What did you use before you had them?”

My question refocuses his attention to the runes burnt deeper into his desk, and he stabs a finger at those representing my classes. “There hasn't been an issue with them in over thirty years of use. You’ve got Wizard, but I’ve never heard of these other classes.”

“Your clerk said I only needed one capable combat class to qualify as a member.”

Leaning forward to fix me with a stern look, the beautiful chimes mental calculations added to his song ruined the effect. “That’s true. But would you care to explain why you have a Class whose name matches the High Elven word for Royalty? How high are you in the line to the Taurë throne?”

His assumption isn’t a surprise with the shape I’ve taken: leaf-green eyes, rosewood-hued hair, and copper skin tinged with flecks of green; none uncommon among the Wood Elves.

I add a smile to my generous lips, and my song’s overtones let me know genuine delight is shining in my eyes. Fortunately, not the golden glow that would draw other questions.

“You’re a very well-educated man, Guild Master; most Human wizards wouldn’t know High Elven. Though I qualify for the Class, I’m nowhere close to inheriting the Isil throne. Now, I can tell you have other questions, why don’t you spit them out so I can answer?”

More like be selective in the ones I answer amongst the rush.

“Glinnel means Singer, doesn’t it? Yet I’ve never heard of a Spellsinger becoming an adventurer in Human lands. What does Solar Emissary offer a guild team?”

Auntie Erwarth says listening to another’s song the way I’m doing is rude, but I catch snatches of his plans to learn more about me. With him already forming plans, perhaps it’s better to counter his questions with my own.

“I thought I had to find a team myself?”

“Usually, people joining do so in teams, and we assign them one or two mentors to get them established. When individuals join, we try to give them time with a more experienced team. Is there anyone else you’re expecting to join you? You’ll need at least four members for us to risk giving you combat work.”

“No, but I’d prefer to talk to people and find a team on my own. I could do minor errands until I find a suitable group.”

A shift of disbelief in his music doesn’t come from my rejection; instead, it’s because of other runes burnt into the wood. “You have how many affinities?”

The addition of another question has me pumping a mental fist. Hopefully, we don't return to any of the original questions.

“Everything except Infernal and Abyssal—those make my skin crawl.”

He goes silent again, watching me while tapping his fingers rhythmically next to the burn marks. I can hear him shifting through options and have to stop myself from interrupting a dozen times before he finally picks one.

“Are you associated with Amdirlain’s Cadre?”

“Only indirectly, in that I know some of them,” I offer and waggle my hand before I carefully admit. “A cadre commander gave me directions to come register here.”

“Level forty in four classes, yet you seem barely an adult Elf. How did you manage that?”

Mentioning hordes of undead doesn’t feel like a good idea, so I choose another option that isn’t even a lie.

“During my training I went with various military expeditions to trouble spots. I provided magical support and also moral support with my singing.”

“Moral Support? Are you similar to a Bard?”

While I’m not sure if a Guild Master should go for assumptions, it’s clear he’s merely trying to push me into categories he knows. Poor fellow, I refuse to be defined.

Excitedly clapping shoves him down a rabbit hole. Suddenly he has images of skalds and various bards bursting from his song. “Do I get to sing for my supper here? I love singing.”

“No, you do not,” mutters the Guild Master and pulls a sheet of parchment from a tray on his desk. “Name?”

“If I tell you my name, will you tell me yours?”

My question at least brings his mental ranting to a halt. Clearing his throat, he straightens in his chair. “My apologies, young Isil. It seems I’ve grown used to people knowing my name. Imhotep Spellblade, and you are?”

“Gailneth, but people call me Gail, or Gai, depending.”

I don't know why some people feel calling me Gail is odd when I’m feeling more masculine. Male and Gail rhyme, so what’s the problem?

“Depending?”

“I don’t know, it just varies; people make weird choices ‌with many biases involved in their decisions. Does no one have nicknames for you?”

“Nevermind me, how would you prefer to be referred to within the guild? It isn’t something easily changed once we send notifications out to other guildhalls.”

“Gail is my ‌preference for naming myself‌. Not that I go talking to myself because that would be weird. Hi Gail, how are you today? Fine, thanks; happy to be alive. You? See, that just doesn’t work.”

Looking back and forth, as if I’m talking to myself, lets me at least check on the two exit points again: a solid enchanted door and a clear glass window. Imhotep seems split between tossing me out and laughing, but ‌focuses on the parchment instead, his quill at the ready.

“Gail, Class Wizard, is how I’ll register you unless any of the others are combat classes.”

“That’s fine.”

The amusement vanishes, and he fixes me with a look that’s all business. “That will limit what opportunities you have, Gail. We only allow teams of individuals with multiple combat classes to take on the more dangerous jobs; that‌ would limit your potential rank in the guild. Didn’t you mention to my clerk that you were seeking to venture out onto the peninsula?”

Even if I likely hadn’t needed to search near the east coast, being left out of opportunities for adventure chafes considering what I went through to get here. “Spoilsport, fine. Solar Emissary and Aranya both provide various combat and social skills. Aranya means roya‌l, not royalty. Singer can do everything a Human Bard does, so ‌knock yourself out with that one.”

“There are various Human classes termed after ranks of nobility. Recording your Class as Noble instead will attract less attention.”

Whatever makes him happy, I’ve no intention of working anywhere else on this planet. I’ll just get the harp I remembered Gideon speaking about and get gone.

“That’s fine. Maybe along with a warning that I blew up your plates, so don't bother trying again? Because knowing my luck, I’ll run into another Guild Master with the ability to read High Elven.”

Imhotep’s laughter comes out in a light-hearted tenor far different from his grumbling voice. I can’t help but smile at how it echoes beautifully within the power of his song until his next question cuts off my amusement.

“Age?”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a lady her age, Guild Master? What would you say if I asked for your age? You’re getting grey. What are you 45?”

“It’s needed for the paperwork, and I’m 105,” Imhotep retorts, and I blink at the truth in the answer.

“I thought humans only live 50 or 60 years.”

Imhotep nods, and I hear jealous notes undercut his song’s dominant theme. “That depends on what access you have to magical healing.”

A warble of sly notes sound, and I catch the meaning in his half-truth.

“You have Life Affinity, don’t you?”

“Age?” demands Imhotep.

“Physically, I’m a mature 120, but I’ve got the joy of a twenty-year-old youth in my heart.”

My hands clasp together demurely against my modest bosom don’t even draw his gaze. Maybe I should have copied Elleth’s bust.

“Why can’t you just say your age?”

“Put 120 if your official thing needs something. Can’t you tell I’m an adult?”

“Elves, so many of you have the look of teenagers.”

Glancing down at my lean lines, I must admit Elleth’s Dryad heritage had provided her more curves. Sarah’s fierce declarations come to mind, and my smile broadens. “I am who I am and whoever I want to be. Wait, when did you get Spellblade? That wasn’t known as Class until recently?”

“During the Gods’ War,” Imhotep answers readily and regards me closely before he continues. “You are the strangest Elf I’ve ever met, Gail.”

His words set me back for a moment, but given how true it is, I reluctantly nod. “That’s likely true.”

“Would you show me what you mean by moral support through singing?”

“It’s hard to show singing, but I’ll sing, and you can listen,” I tease, starting a wordless song before he can retort.

I playfully split my voice and then split it again; the song contains a quartet of vocal parts that dance and intertwine. They mix ‌the songs of the wind playing in the Domain’s trees with the warm sunshine and the river’s cool water. I let the energy slowly build and add the vibrance of the rope seat's speed. Every swing within the memory promises to drop me in the cool, relaxing water. I let each lyrical turn brush and nuzzle the edge ‌of his song before I finally push it all into him and stop. The tight notes within his melody silence first, and I spot the tension easing from the muscles in his face and neck.

“Now, if you can tell me you can see objects via sounds like one of my aunties, then I’ll take it back.”

His eyelids droop momentarily, and he pushes himself back in his chair, eying me curiously. “What was that?”

“Singing, or did you forget the definition of the word? You know, making musical sounds with one’s voice, hopefully appealing sounds.”

He opens his mouth to protest and snaps it shut again. I start to prompt him when I catch what caught his tongue. His song strengthens as it soaks in my mimicking of the Domain’s energy, and his goatee turns black. Maybe I added too much oomph.

“Drats.”

“What did you do?” He asks, even as the lines around his eyes fade as well.

“I helped your stressed state, maybe a little too much, but nothing harmful. Would you sign off on my membership if you feel more relaxed?”

“What did you do?” insists Imhotep, but he shifts about as if enjoying his unknotted muscles. The bliss of the energy washing through him steals suspicions away.

“I wiped your stress away, but it seems like the stress and the grey in your goatee had something in common, so that went as well. Humans are so weird.”

His eyebrows raise at the huff in my voice, and I hope I didn’t sound petulant.

“You are weird; even papa says humans are weird, and he’s had long exposure to them.”

“Indeed. How long has he been assessing humans?” asks Imhotep, and his gaze sharpens.

Oops.

“He was among those gathered when the first Human boats made shore not far west of here. Though papa hasn’t been assessing anyone, just learning his way and getting to know people.”

“Your father is long-lived, even for an Elf, to have a daughter so young.”

“Auntie Am says my papa’s a well-preserved old fart. But that aside, is my registration accepted, or should I bill you for providing stress relief? I'm sure Auntie S would make one of her crude jokes about a happy ending.”

Imhotep blinks, but the reference goes over his head, and he continues, his mind awhirl with possibilities. “I feel like I could fight for days. Very well, you’ve certainly proven your bardic capabilities. I’ll introduce you to a few teams around your level that venture beyond the swamp’s border region.”

Yeah, I’m sure he’d be happy for me to go with any of the senior teams now.

“And if I don’t like any of them?”

“Then you’ll have to find a team somewhere else or join a new team and assist them to grow in strength,” counters Imhotep. “One thing that the clerk won’t have mentioned is the locals don’t like elves, nor is the Adventurers’ guild popular.”

“Why is that?”

Imhotep’s music shocks into near silence, and he sounds like he’s reassessing my intelligence.

“Aren’t you aware that the Andúnë Royal Guard killed off more of the Greek gods than any single group? Do you think that will make them fond of elves?”

Frowning at the lack of logic, I motion towards the glass window. “No, I wasn’t aware of that; I thought most of it was self-inflicted between humans. Though they shouldn’t have an issue with me, I’m not an Andúnë.”

“The locals will see the shape of your ears and nothing else,” cautions Imhotep.

“If the locals don’t like you, why are the Adventurers’ Guild here?”

“Because we now control Crete, and if we’re selective in what we protect, they’ll have reason to cause more trouble than they already do. Plus, there are fortunes to be made from the alchemical materials the peninsula’s swamp provides, so why not here?”

“Humans! Is it always about money?”

“Since you’re not here for a fortune, why are you here?”

The curiosity in his song’s theme suddenly drowns a swath of details. Amused, I give him the one thing he’ll likely not believe—the truth. “To seek a key. Now, might I have my registration processed?”

His thoughtful gaze doesn’t leave me, but he pulls open a desk drawer and sets a circular ward stone atop it. “Hopefully, you won’t destroy one of these. Touch or hold the disk, and I’ll attune it to you.”

When I extend an already recovered finger, his gaze rests on it for a moment, and he gives me a curious look. I half expect him to ask about the heat, but he utters a word that resonates between the stone and an amulet around his neck. The energy ignites a link to me within the stone and the crest of the Adventurers’ Guild in copper in the centre.

“That’s now yours,” says Imhotep and motions for me to take it. “Don’t lose it; if anyone else presents it, the symbol won’t display. While no one can impersonate a guild member, that won’t save you the cost of replacing it.”

“The four small golds I paid the clerk?”

“Three, the fourth is for distributing your membership details. The fee discourages loss, but your reputation within the guild will suffer even if you can afford it. If you’re careless with something so easily kept safe, why entrust you with greater responsibility or benefit?”

Turning the disk over in my fingers, I let it vanish into the Inventory space whose song I learnt from listening to Sarah use her special ability.

“Sleight of hand tricks. Maybe you’re more like a Bard,” grumbles Imhotep.

I sing again from memory, and when I push the desk’s original music into it, the burnt wood disappears, leaving the odours as fading proof it was ever damaged. Oh, except for one other thing.

“Sorry about the protections, but you told me to touch the plate.”

Imhotep’s hand shot towards the door. “Get out.”

I get going and make sure not to slam the door on my way out; neither Elleth nor mother were fans of loud doors.

The white marble of his office is a constant throughout the building. Its starkness makes this place feel cold where the Domain’s crystal buildings had always felt warm. The marble staircase encircles the lobby, starting downwards across the hall from his office door. While the waist-high balcony offers a clear view of the empty lobby below, neither it nor the stairs’ broad railing feels sufficient protection from a slip on the polished stone.

Descending carefully, I keep to the outer curve, one hand on the wall and the other holding my dress clear of my feet. Without even listening hard, it’s easy to tell I’m giving the clerk an eyeful based on the gleeful notes in his song. Seriously, getting so excited about seeing my ankles, will he faint if I flash some calf?

I could shift my location in a half-dozen ways, but I’d prefer not to show off—I've done enough of that today. When I reach the ground level, I take in the scorched marks on the desk and the ash stains on the marble floor. Smiling at the clerk, I stop and tone it down a notch or twelve when he gives me a look as if I’d punched him between his hazel eyes.

His broad smile shows plenty of pearly white teeth and doesn’t waver when my smile dims. If papa was here, he might have an extra lump in his previously broken nose. A light theme of wizardry is within his song, and I wonder if he’s Imhotep’s apprentice as well as his clerk. The dark-grey half robes he wears aren’t flattering against his olive skin.

“Master Imhotep has sorted out my registration, but I never caught your name.”

“Petrus, and you are?”

“Gail. Would you explain where I find the jobs list, Petrus?”

“I could help you find a suitable job. Were you looking for anything in particular? Oh, do you have a mentor team assigned?”

It’s clear the flood of questions is just starting, so I hold up both hands, and he cuts off instantly.

“Please wait up, Petrus. It’s very kind of you to offer help, but I’ll need to tend to other things first. I just want to know where I’d normally find the job listing for the members.”

Petrus flushes excitedly, his music humming away when I say his name and gestures to his left. “Through that archway, the board is on the shared wall. Just tell whoever is tending the desk the reference number on the pin. Don’t take any job down. You’ll need your ward stone to see the jobs you qualify for according to your rank. What did you need to tend to?”

“I need to see a money changer and arrange more suitable clothing for the swamps.”

Though I motion to my dress, he seems to take it as an invitation to ogle and doesn’t even notice the amusement meeting Imhotep left me with me leave my gaze. When the silence drags on, he finally notices, and a blush darkens his skin. Maybe tomorrow I’ll show up male and see if he stares then, if he does, then I might forgive him. Though his song holds images too far in advance for having just met me. Apparently, he either likes to spy or has a very accurate imagination about naked female bodies.

“The money changer isn’t far. Turn left when you go out front and towards the end of the street you’ll see his sign with three coins. There is only one seamstress in the village; some female adventurers have had issues with her in the past. Most now ‌pick up extra clothing when they have time to travel to Appian.”

“Where and what is Appian, and how would I get there?”

“That’s the closest port city, it's two days by good horse to the west. A ferry goes there every month, or one of the fishing boats occasionally hires out to transport people or goods.”

Or I can get some casting practice, but at least I know the options.

“I’ll see if she’ll put up with me before I go that route.”

Waving farewell, I head out the door and let the late afternoon sun wash some of the chill from the stone away. The streets have the same unappealing odour as when I arrived: sun warmed manure with a side order of fish guts. An ox drawn cart plods along without guidance except for routine while a local uses a board shovel to collect the contents. The looks he sends my way makes it clear he’d like to toss me in the back with the rest. Glad we won't cross paths, at least not yet, I head for the money changer.

Though the Adventurer’s Guild is large and fancy, all the village’s buildings are sturdy stone. The solid, precise notes from the well-placed stonework speak volumes about their builder’s dependable hands and pride in their work. It’s a short street, with only ten buildings separating the guildhall from the money changers. One is a bakery, but they’re already closed for the day. Aside from the guildhall, with its stark white theme, they’re painted bright, cheery colours, and I wonder how often they have to repaint them.

Most houses are devoid of any but the simplest of magics and the businesses aren’t any different. The money changer’s place isn’t one of those but ‌has protections that exceed the guildhall. The similarity of the enchantment’s music quickly makes it clear the same Artificer set them in place.

Weaving between the contributions of various steads to the bountiful aroma of the street attracts the attention of the money changer’s guard standing out front. If I measured myself against the heavily muscled man, I’d come up to the middle point of his sternum, and I’m nearly 180 cm tall. Maybe I should have followed the trees’ advice more? As I get closer, he eyes me with attraction and wariness, but unlike Petrus’ lingering gaze, the guard’s song mostly assesses the danger I represent.

Solar Emissary continually improves my natural Charisma and Quickness. While most have written off my flowing movements because of the rarity of seeing an Elf, he doesn’t seem so inclined. A casual motion puts his hand atop his flamberge’s hilt, leaning against the wall nearby as if merely stretching.

The strength of his song strikes the world with deepening tenor notes, but here and there they crackle from wrongly healed wounds. As I get closer, I take in his square-jawed face, green eyes, and reddish-tinged beard that is sparse in places from the strange scars healing blessings leave behind. The same type of scars run from one melted ear to the other, and the stubble shows where he uses a straight razor to shave the rest away.

His gaze lingers not on my breasts or hips but on the dagger sheaths hidden by my long sleeves and the slight change the one strapped to my right thigh causes to my gait. I don’t need any of them on me with Inventory available, but it’s better not to be sorry; plus, they mislead the folks that can spot them.

With the assessment he’s giving me, I stop out of reach of his man-height blade and show empty hands.

“Good afternoon, guardsman. My name is Gail. Is the money changer available to see me or busy with a customer?”

“It’s a slow afternoon. He’s available at present. Know when you’re inside drawing weapons without permission, or casting any Spell or Blessing will trigger the wards.”

I smile with deliberate brightness and then turn it into a mischievous pout. “But you’ve not told me your name?”

“Most don’t care about a guard’s name.”

“I’m not most.”

“I don’t share my name with strangers passing through,”

He’s so gruff, that makes it so much fun. “Oh harsh, I’ll give you a name for being mean, and you might not like it.”

I catch his real name from a memory in his song, but it comes with grief that’s a blow to my guts and lessens my urge to play. “Could you please tell me your name? I’ve just signed on at the Adventurers’ Guild and will be here sometime. It would be nice to know the names of a few people in the village.”

Losing my teasing tone causes his eyebrows to raise, ‌yet he takes his time responding.

“Ulfr.”

“That’s not your name. I don’t think you’re a wolf; you look more like a bear to me. That’s what, Bjørn, in your people’s tongue? But the Norse have a few names that mean bear: Karhu, Nanoĸ, Bijáš, oh Otso, and I think there is one more.”

The shift of his eyes and the spring of his notes give the reaction I expect to the third option when I pronounce it exactly right.

“At least two more,” he states, his voice a low rumble rubbing along my spine.

“I could just call you bear,” I offer.

“Ulfr.”

“Nope, I think I’ll call you Dire since we’re just talking about something to call you. You need to be at least three wolves standing atop each other.” I keep my tongue glibly and listen to his song chime with wary amusement. “Nah, I think it’s Nanoĸ, right?”

“Are you always so persistent?” asks Nanoĸ.

“Absolutely. But seriously, can I call you Nanoĸ instead of Ulfr?”

“You already have. Now go inside.”

Slipping past him as he steps to one side, I hit him with a smile. “Being all commanding. Very well, but I’ll buy you a drink later, Nanoĸ.”

Tongue-tied, he’s too slow to refuse, and I shut the door without too much noise. The counter looks like what one would expect in a town, not a village. A master carpenter built the polished oak counter with the grains all aligned, and the money lender even has a metal grill separating himself from the customer’s area. The bars sink straight through the polished surface, crawling with enchantments, though there isn’t a single obvious rune.

There isn’t a guard inside, but I consider going back outside and entering more demurely. The wards outside aren’t to protect the building, they’re to hide the dimensional magics that I blindly stepped through, and the creator is sitting behind the counter. He looks like a young man, maybe in his early twenties, olive-skinned and sharp-featured with topaz-coloured eyes. It’s unclear if his brown home-spun clothing is an affectation or just because he doesn’t care about them. I’m also not sure what has his interest, the gemstone he’s considering through an unnecessary dwarven jeweller’s hoop, or me.

He sniffs loudly and long, seemingly inhaling more air than a Human body can ‌hold, and his song clearly says it’s now me.

Drats!