Silence - Chapter 22

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The Crafters Quarter was a wild cacophony of wagons, screeching avum, and hollering porters. Goods moved across the cobbled streets like Mana through channels, and Atar found himself hard pressed to cross some of the busier thoroughfares. He was carrying a pack atop his battlerobes, and it threatened to overbalance him with every step. Not to mention the pressing crowds as everyone an their grandmother apparently had Important Business with the various crafthalls. Someone had even tried to pick pocket him. Him!

Damn common, Untempered trash, he griped. As he came to the corner, Atar looked up at the street signs once again to gain his bearings. Potter and...Dyemaker's Way, yes here we are, he thought. It should be a block centerward.

Everything in Haarwatch was described as either toward the center or toward the various walls. Folks rarely relied on the cardinal directions for whatever reason, but it was an easy enough system to understand. Rustic and idiotic, but simple. The Eyrie loomed at the center, after all, visible from all Quarters with very little effort. Nothing about Haarwatch had impressed him, save for the Eyrie itself. Compared to the Archive and resources within the Guild tower, the rest of the city was interesting to him as different varieties of mud.

In fact, Atar wouldn't have been caught dead in any of the city Quarters were it not a direct request from Elder Teine. His Bronze Rank assistants required reagents and materials for their various unnamed experiments and Atar soon learned that it was the job of lowly Tin Ranks to fetch said materials. So he had swallowed his pride and followed the hierarchy of authority, eager to please his new teacher. That had lasted for approximately three days, until the constant fetching had turned from onerous responsibility to rage-inducing futility. The requests never ended! And now he was delivering as well as procuring supplies like some sort of common messenger!

Atar grunted in annoyance as another musclebound porter jostled him. At the very least, his trips were usually restricted to the Crafters Quarter, the nicest section of the city after the noble's Sunrise Quarter. He hadn't been sent to the Wall or Dust Quarters, which were far less pleasant smelling, and that was even considering the tannery three streets wallward from the fire mage. Trade was booming in all Quarters, however, and the press of people did nothing for the stench. Materials were flowing into Haarwatch as never before as teams of harvesters had begun denuding the forests at an impressive rate. Monster cores abounded, rare herbs, flowers, fruits, even precious stones found in ancient dens beneath the forest were uncovered every day. It made getting the Elder's supplies that much easier, at least.

He trudged another block, sweat soaking his robes, before he reached his destination. A thin, wrought-iron sign proclaimed it the residence of Mr. Bartleby's Pottery And Lampworks, and he groaned in relief. His pack was cutting into his shoulders and Atar was half-certain he was going to have blisters. He stepped into the narrow stone edifice with the jangle of a tin bell.

"Welcome and well met, young sir!" A man looked up from the front desk, dressed in a clay-spattered apron over a simple tunic and trousers. Khellish design, if Atar's eye wasn't mistaken. Well out of date. "If you are here for our ceramics sale, you are just in time! We have—"

Atar crossed the small room and tossed his bag atop the thin counter. It hit with a solid thunk, and a number of vases and bowls jumped.

"I am not interested in your ceramics. I've come on behalf of the Elder of Spirit for the Protector's Guild." He began opening his pack and unloading eighteen small sacks of heavy sand. Each one was labeled with a glyph, which was a series of sigils joined into a singular pattern. Usually those were control nodes of an array, but this was simply the seal of the Elder of Spirit. "I am to pick up supplies in exchange for these reagents."

The portly man wiped his hands on his apron and picked up one of the sacks with reverence. He licked his lips and opened the ties. Within, the sand was a vibrant, shimmering hue, somewhere north of green-purple. "Yes." He tightened the ties again. "Yes, of course. Wait a moment."

The man set down the sack and disappeared into a back door. He was gone just long enough for Atar to massage some of the strain from his shoulders, and when he returned it was with a faint, chiming clatter. The back door opened and the portly man carried a large crate that looked at least three times as heavy as the pack filled with sand. He set it down on the floor next to his counter, and Atar saw that within were dozens of glass bottles.

"Reinforced potion bottles, just as the Elder requested," he said with a tap on the side of the crate. He beamed with pride. "Impervious to casual abuse and able to survive a fall of over thirty strides."

Atar stared in disbelief, which only made the potter beam brighter.

"It is impressive, no? The best work in Haarwatch! I've the Elder's seal to prove it!" The man kept talking, droning on and on, but Atar wasn't listening.

I have to carry  that?!


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END +2

STR +1

He was a sweaty mess by the time he reached the Eyrie once more. Thankfully he no longer had to enter through the always-busy main entrance, and his Tin Rank medallion allowed him access to a few of the external doors on the Crafters side of the tower. Still, he had to slog through crowds that only increased as the day wore on, leaving the fire mage battered and bruised by the end of it all.

The bottles, on the other hand, were unharmed. Even after Atar dropped them from exhaustion.

Burning...bastard wasn't...completely lying, Atar thought with a grunt. But of course he wasn't. The Elder of Spirit had contracted him for these potion bottles and wanted them durable, so durable they would be. Else there would be...consequences. Atar shook his head. No one wants...to be on the bad side of Elder Teine.

He'd heard a few stories of Guilders that came up against Teine, and it was never a happy ending for them. Atar could admit much of it was likely hyperbole, but if even a fraction of the punishments were true, the mage never wanted to cross his benefactor.

Atar struggled up the last of the steps to the lift. Though the Tin Rank doors weren't nearly as busy as the main entrance, they were still congested with low level idiots all on various assignments for Guild credit. He had to muscle his way through the crowd and take his place in line for the lift, because of course there was a line. It was a magically powered automatic ascension—a design only the Guild had access to—why would anyone want to take the stairs? Especially when some people had to climb to the tenth floor.

Atar swallowed. His legs felt shaky just thinking about it. His Stamina was barely above two percent full after his exertions, there was little chance he would endure a march up so many flights. He reined in his patience and waited.

If nothing else, the wait allowed his abyssmal Stamina regeneration to bring him up a touch. He even had a nice seat with his crate of bottles. It let Atar's mind free up. He found himself wondering what his teammates were up to.

Since they had met, Alister, Lilian, and Dabney had joined forces with Atar. These particular fetch quests were even split up among them for greater efficiency. They were expected to be done at the same time, but Atar hadn't anticipated his troubles. Alister and his troublesome cousin were likely finished a glass ago, and Dabney...well, he at least was likely still lost among the warrens of the Dust Quarter. Dabney was something of an idiot.

Another stroke of luck, I think. Atar shoved his crate another few feet as the line moved. Alister and Lilian are likely out to eat at that tavern he's always inviting me to. The minor noble had invited Atar to the place on Chandler and Lapidary a handful of times, even suggesting they ditch his cousin and that bumbling hanger on. Atar was tempted. Yet as...fascinating as Alister was proving to be, Atar's first priorty was the job. Advancement above all else.

I need to get to Apprentice Tier. I'm so close!

Teine handed out Essence Draughts of increasing rarity to those that accomplished his tasks with the greatest diligence and skill. Those that did not, those that failed him, were swiftly drummed out of his inner circle. Which was why Atar was working so damn hard, exhaustion be damned!

He achieved the lift, eventually. Atar had no clue how it worked, and his usual curiosity was barely peaked by his ride. He couldn't get distracted. It rose swiftly, almost too swiftly, and before he could believe it Atar was at the tenth level of the Eyrie. The wrought iron gate opened up onto a wide corridor with serpentine inlaid stone floors, austere, white walls, and a preponderance of bright magelights tethered to the sconces along the ceiling.

He exited to find a number of thick, wooden benches and a single desk right outside the lift. A Elf in curiously wrapped robes sat behind it, quill scratching rapidly at a number of sheets of parchment, so fast his hand was a blur. The Elf was named Qellyn, a Bronze Rank, and was one of Elder Teine's mostly highly trusted aides. Qellyn looked up at Atar as he struggled off the lift with his crate.

"Be careful not to scratch the floors. They were just refinished last week."

Atar let out an unseemly grunt and leveraged the crate onto one of the nearest benches. Panting, he turned to the aide. "G-good afternoon. I am Atar V'as, Tin Rank, and I've come with a requisition for Lot 4117."

Qellyn's hand stopped only for a few moments, long enough for him to gesture down the hall with his quill. "Down the corridor. First blue door on your left. Through there, follow the hall until you reach the sixth intersection. Wait there." The Elf returned to his paperwork without another word.

Atar, who had done similar jobs before, knew not to ask questions. That wasn't his right, not yet. He took a breath. Soon, he promised himself. Soon they'll all be following me.

He followed the aide's instructions to the letter, though it took him far longer than it should have. However, he did earn two whole points in Endurance and a single point in Strength for his day of agony. It was small compensation, but Atar would take what he could get. Once at the final intersection, Atar sat down to wait and recover some more of his Stamina.

Time passed. At least a glass and no one had come for him or his supplies. But that was the way of it. He was at the mercy of those higher Ranked, and they were all busy, especially here in Teine's domain. There were so many research projects ongoing, but the main priority were the tests being performed on those survivors from the Foglands. All voluntary, of course. In the early days, even Atar had gone through a battery of examinations by the Healer's Ward and while he had received a clean bill of Health, not everyone had. Those that hadn't were quarantined for a time while their Health recovered, but something was still off with all of them. The details were never explained—not to him—but the survivors were so thankful to be back home they would accept anything short of death, Atar imagined. What they had seen, the giants and the monsters in the fog...he shuddered. He still had nightmares, and Atar had been relatively unscathed.

"UUUAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"

A horrible, heart-wrenching scream tore through the hallways and set Atar's own pulse pounding.

Wha-what was that?

Whoever it was, they were hurting terribly and...and it sounded close. Atar looked at his crate of bottles, his bundle of contribution that would grant him that much more credit toward earning his next set of Essence Draughts. Toward working more with the Elder directly. Atar bit his thumb, torn between responsibility and a burning, terrible curiosity.

No one has come by in so long. I've got time. He stood. I've got time.

Atar crept down the halls, which were less well lit than the main section near Qellyn. He hadn't a Stealth Skill, but he managed well enough. Robes didn't make much noise, not even his hardened battlerobes. Two lefts and a right had him outside a room where the screaming continued to come from, and he discovered why he'd been able to hear it at all: someone had left the door ajar. He stood just beyond the angle that he could see anything, knowing it was the last moment he'd be able to feign any sort of ignorance. Atar burned through that feeling and crept forward.

His eyes widened.

Through the open crevice of the door, he saw a man begging to be killed. Three figures stood over him, their faces and bodies covered in curious suits of cloth and leather that left no skin exposed. Not even their Guild medallions hung on the outside, which made identifying them impossible. The man on the ground, however...Atar recognized him, though it took some doing. Corum Bettle, a low level scribe they had saved from the Foglands. Atar had helped the man several times on the journey back, as he'd been less adept at physical exertion than the mage himself. Now Corum was writhing on the stone floor, covered in his own blood and screaming.

"Kill me! It's taking—!" Something was wrong with his mouth. It wasn't the right shape at all, and it made his words sound clunky and tangled. "Please! Please! I just want to see my family! To let them—to know," he whined. His mouth filled with fluid that he hacked onto the ground.

What sort of test is this? He couldn't believe the man agreed to...whatever this was. The three Guilders only stared at Corum in silence. I-I don't want to know. I shouldn't be seeing this.

Corum's eye snagged Atar's own, and the man turned in terrible, bloody hope toward the door.

Blight! Atar scrambled backward, no concern for stealth, and hurtled down the hall. He heard the door pull open behind him, but he didn't stop, taking turns at random until he reached a door that wasn't locked. He slung it open and dove within, closing it behind him and throwing the latch.

Fool! Why did you do this? Atar knew he'd stepped far beyond himself at that moment. Things were happening that he should never have seen. Hopefully they didn't see me or Analyze me. I don't think—

For the first time, Atar realized he was in another stark chamber, though this one was filled with a series of cots. At least thirty, and—he stifled a gasp—they were all occupied.

Highest Flame, what is wrong with me? I just had to wait with the crate!

Swallowing, Atar scanned the room. Everyone was asleep. It was late afternoon, so he had to assume they were all sedated in some way. If they were all as Corum was, then a soporific would be a mercy.

Good. I can hide here a moment before I slip back into the halls. Even if they started looking for someone, they wouldn't search forever. He shook his head. This is bad. Even if he went back to his crate, there would be questions. What if someone came for the potion bottles and he was nowhere to be found?

Damn my curiosity! Atar was having trouble breathing. He looked wildly around the room, foolishly hoping for a solution to his problem. His eyes settled on form after form, all of them breathing slowly and regularly. All of them...except one. It wasn't moving at all.

Analyze!

Atar's eyes almost fell out of his head. Magda? Why is her body here?

He took a few steps toward it, close enough to notice the number of arrays built into the metal gurney her body was placed upon. Preservation arrays and...a few others he didn't recognize. What are they doing with her body? And why would it be here, with the sick?

"You are not supposed to be here," said a cold, sharp voice.

Atar whirled toward it, hands clutching at his robes. Yet instead of an angry Guilder he found a strangely pale man wearing some sort of medical robe. He stood near a disturbed cot, and clearly he was a patient that had woken up. Atar didn't recognized him from among the survivors though.

"I, ah, I am here on official Guild business," Atar said, quickly flashing his medallion. "I'm inspecting—"

"No," said the patient in his strange voice. "Guilders wear protective equipment. They fear infection. You wear nothing."

Atar's mouth dried out instantly. Infection? From what?

He tried to smile and managed something like a grimace. "I am simply resistant to infection, so, I don't need the protection." He coughed. "Go back to bed and I'll be out of your hair soon enough."

The man (or was it an Elf?) looked at Atar without inflection save vague irritation. "You must leave now. You are interfering with the Great Work." Then, without further prompting, the strange man turned and climbed back into his bed.

The mage didn't need further encouragement. He held his breath as he went back to the door, unlocked it, and carefully opened it. He opened it only as much as required to slip his slim frame out, and shut it after him. Only then did he take a deep, steadying breath.

You absolute idiot! He had to get back to his crate. Atar started backtracking, carefully peering around corners for any Guilders out in the corridors. There were a few, though none were wearing the full-body suits he had observed, and all disappeared into various rooms along the maze of halls. It took him another quarter glass, but Atar found his way back to his crate eventually. What's more, it was still there, chock full of glass bottles.

"Highest Flame, Urge of That Which Burns, thank you," he muttered to himself as he ran his hands over the crate. Now he only had to wait for—

"Tin Rank!"

Atar froze, his back stiffening into icy stone as a hand clamped onto his shoulder. The mage was pulled around, directly into the face of a Bronze Rank he recognized. Okar, a bearded giant of a man, with access to materials and projects an entire level above Atar's own. Not inner circle, but closer. He stared into Atar's face with something like rabid fury on his face.

"Where were you just now?" he demanded. "This crate was left unattended!"

Atar sputtered. "I was just curious, so I walked down the hall a bit. I—" he flinched as Okar brought his face within a fingers width of the mage's own. "I-I just walked. I saw nothing!"

Acting is level 22!

Okar's wild eyes settled, and his teeth hid behind his lips again. The fury abated, just far enough that Atar saw something that shocked him. The man was afraid, though certainly not of him. "Forget anything that happened. Forget me and this entire afternoon. I'll take this crate, and your credit." He put a thick finger to Atar's face. "If I hear even a whisper that we had this conversation, then I will find you. And you will not like what follows." He shoved the mage backward, into the wall hard enough to shaves a few percentages from his Health. "Understand?"

Atar nodded, hiding both his grimace of pain and surprise.

"Then get out. Now."

Atar ran.