Session VIII

When last we had the pleasure to divert our dear readers, we unfolded how our principal actors, Aerith, Brixta, Cobb, and Cat, came to partake of the Arcanum's infamous entrance exam, which -- to be precise -- Aerith participated very little except in that ethereal, yet not inconsequential, mode of spirit, and at the end to share in Brixta's celebration.

Our heroes treated with Secretary Danvess, after which Brixta was bid to attend tomorrow's induction to the academy proper, and where our friends, now at their own disposals, conducted themselves to the laboratory of our patient Syble Thornwood.

And, so it is that we pick up our history here, with a description of the laboratory of the great Transmutation prodigy herself. And to our audience of arcanists, of whom have their own private sanctums filled with beloved research and experiments, who would consider this a transgression most severe to disclose what secrets lie within such intimate chambers, we do so only in the briefest of senses so that we may continue to faithfully represent this journey through time with these dear friends.

Our Ms. Thornwood, then, maintained a complex laboratory, filled with copper and brass piping, boilers, alembics, bubbling cauldrons, dissections, diagrams, equations, and a very elaborate series of storage shelves filled with jars of all sizes, preserving various specimens—or parts of them. Brooms and dusters and cleaning rags all worked furiously as if enchanted, but the astute reader, especially the arcanist among you, will have recognized when an invisible servant is at work. Though Thornwood was the only sapient occupant--that is, of course, besides our clever friends--the laboratory was veritably alive with business. Where Thornwood went, a mess was surely soon to follow, and a floating rag, sweeping broom, dusting duster was then soon to follow her as the mess was left if her wake.

The perspicacious among you would, perhaps, deduce that this seems an insupportable amount of work for a lowly unseen servant, unless the laboratory was less lively than what the author has contrived to insinuate it as. And our reader would be right to challenge the author of this adventure, though a trivial piece of the story. For how might the reader trust this humble recounter of heroics, if such an author were to 'spin a yarn', as it is said among the gentry -- many of whom we are proud to say partake in our tale, to refer to a fanciful story. But, dear reader, let us assuage your fears of both trust in our authorship, and perhaps even trust that one unseen servant is left to follow the tempestuous mess our dear Thornwood leaves behind -- for that would a cruel fate, even for an arcanic construct, for it was not a single unseen servant, but many unseen servants under the charge of their mistress Syble Thornwood. And, before too many of our more arcanely minded reader take up arms as to the impossibility of controlling so many all at once, we need shall say that is was an enchantment of placed on the room itself. Meaning the servants operated within the confines of the lab and the lab only, and it was an enchantment of Thornwood's own devising, though not transmutation in nature, she is still a well practiced mage, and sorry is the mage that adheres, or, in truth, relies on only one kind of magic. Though, in fairness, we should mention that our research into this particular curiosity, which has waylaid our narrative so, could be said to be a collaboration between Thornwood and Professor Oswald Pelligrath, the Master of Arcanic Artifice, or Engineering depending on the source.

Thus, it was that our quartet entered into an organized chaos and flurry of movement, though most of it unseen -- as we've just discussed at length. It is now, that we must admit that exact knowledge of what transpired within the laboratory at this specific time becomes, necessarily, less well defined. For, as it will please those who wish to keep events, conversations, and so on concealed from the prying eyes of historians such as ourselves, there was little within the laboratory that would at once, capture these next events or retell of them. However, fear not dear reader, we are not wholly without a tale to tell, as that would be an immense waste of effort for describing the laboratory of Ms. Thornwood. Nor would we willingly waste our readers' time so as to drag out our page count, as many another historian might, we confess. No, as your honored guide through this narrative, it is our duty to retell the story as it follows these four friends, both in the briefest of senses and with the utmost care to integrity. So, though we lament that we cannot tell you precisely what transpired within that most experimentally evocative of chambers, by way of conjecture, from notes written, snippets of conversation overheard, and records of interviews from those whom have met with our friends, we can say with some educated guesses, what might have occurred within such mysterious confines.

For one, it would seem that Thornwood, who had great interest in Cobb, was unable to determine Cobb's affliction, other than to say the The Arcane is as fickle in it's punishments and consequences as seas along the Devrian Triad. That is to say, that Cobb's condition was much better than it could have been, and much worse than hoped for. Which is to say, that Thornwood, Professor of the Arcanum though she may be, was at a loss for how to treat our irascible frog. For he was now fundamentally a sapient amphibian, with no traces left of once being a man, other than memories of the life he had once led. Since this flew in the face of Thornwood's understanding of The Arcane, she was -- at present -- unequipped to help Mr. Cobb.

For two, we understand that a conversation was held between Brixta and Thronwood about where she might have come from. Whatever transpired within the confines of Thornwood's laboratory, it gave Brixta -- and Aerith, to be sure -- an idea that led them to their next destination. And, though the temptation to speculate what happened to lead Brixta from one magical source to another, is, indeed, great, we shall leave speculations to those whom busy themselves over such uncertainties and accomplish nothing. Instead, we will content ourselves with not knowing, even having bandied with conjecture is enough to cause this, your humble guide, to retreat quickly across the fields of uncertainty to the refuge of all that is certain. But as with all areas of study, we know as much as we do at any moment, due to those beautiful souls whom have had the foresight, or need -- to aid their memory or to motivate them or for some entirely other purpose or caprice -- to write down what pieces of history they have. But should we merely recount what evidence there is, our readers should, indeed, be bored to death by incoherent and disparate scraps of history that seem, to the untrained, inconsequential and meaningless. What we mean by this, is that though we attempt accuracy, most of the historical sciences, invariably, engage in interpretation of historical articles. Some might accuse us, then, of mere speculation, but that is where training and experience make their defense for us, the poor historian, and -- as we've endeavored to do -- it is precisely for this that we take every opportunity to confess what is solid fact, and what is only conjecture of expert kind.

Nevertheless, we know that Brixta and company spoke with Professor Thornwood concerning her origins, and we know that this conversation at least seemed to lead the party towards the Temple of Avanthal in the neighboring district of High Town. But before we get ahead of ourselves, your ever faithful guide must make our readers away that they stopped, first, at the Arcanum's library. Thus, allow us to sketch these most hallowed of halls amongst such prestigious halls, the Library. The Arcanum is generally nothing, if not perfunctory.

However, this library is not as others are. Yes, entrance requires membership, this is not so strange, unless our dear reader is only familiar with the grand libraries of the Lorekeepers, then this should seem quite exclusionary. But, to the surprise of these same readers, we should imagine, many libraries at this time, and, indeed, even now, were private collections. The exception has always been, and will likely continue to be, those prodigious collections of the Lorekeepers.

Returning to the Library of the Arcanum, however, the party were able to gain entry on the grace of Brixta, whom now a student, could claim them as her responsibility. Now this library does not, perhaps, appear all that strange at a glance, but our readers should not be so deceived, for the Library of the Arcanum is, indeed, a most magical place. And, not only metaphorically speaking, either, for this library achieves much the same effect as many Lorekeeper libraries do, it is much larger on the inside than its exterior size would lead one to believe. One might spend twenty minutes walking from one end to the other. And, though it is true that the space for the library—if one were to look at the plans for the Arcanum—is not inconsiderable, but it is assuredly not the fifth of the walking distance from the Inner Gate to the Mid Gate, and that at a brisk pace.

The compressed space is not the only anomalous part of this library either. It appears that wherever a person occupies within the library, the space is stretches and morphs, almost as if other parts of the library that aren't being used are compressing even more to accommodate the uncompressed space an individual experiences within. But, then one would think there to be some kind of limit, and should tens or hundreds of students occupy space within these hallowed archives, whatever magic supports the Library would be overcome, or that the Library should indeed become as long as the entire Hall of Promise, and break the academy apart. No, when someone occupies space within the Library, their moment in space and time never seem to exceed the boundaries of the Library's four walls. It is a puzzle that I'm sure some of our more arcanically minded colleagues might be able to unravel in their jargon, which some of our readership might then understand, but not all mysteries need be unraveled. It is the opinion of this historian, that some mysteries are best kept that way, as I'm sure some of our party will soon find. Ah! but we get ahead of ourselves.

Brixta and the Library. It is the honor of this humble servant to inform our readers that Brixta and friends, were attempting to find information on demigods. Not just any demigods, but demigods offspring of Avanthal, also named the Platinum Dragon.

They were met with mixed success, however. As, in the opinion of the Arcanum, much of the gods' business is their own, and myths surrounding them are endless and ill supported. In two words, the Arcanum viewed such speculations as 'fairy-tales'. And so, Brixta and company found hints of such 'fairy-tales', but nothing that could definitively point to a direct answer. Thus, Brixta and Aerith helmed the party towards the Templed of Avanthal.

As the party was leaving, however, there was quite the disturbance—of the Cobb kind. A disturbance so great that the party fractured for a brief moment in time. We will save our reader the indignity of recounting the crude and outlandish things our frog companion had, then, did his compatriots the dishonor to speak into existence, but the party separated from Cobb at this juncture in time—as they were leaving the Hall of Promise. Or, rather, Cobb separated himself, and Brixta, Aerith, and Cat did not stop him.

From accounts we have discovered across the second and third tier, Cobb would have a harrowing adventure, fading in and out of consciousness on several occasions, and in and out hungry mouths of birds, cats, dogs, and so forth, culminating in a—Ah! but we are not ahead of our the rest of our narrative. Cobb, fending for himself, attracts much unwanted attention, and that is where we shall leave it for now. It is not the desire of this humble historian to hold captive our readers' suspense, but as a student of chronological arts, we do wish to keep the timelines relatively in order of sequence. Rest assured, should we find this an untenable strategy to relate this narrative of friends and villains and adventure, well, we shall do our utmost to provide to you all, our dear readers, a narrative both compelling, cohesive, and as truthful to the events as know they occurred as we are able.

Without further delay, then, we abscond from the harrying plight of Cobb the frog, as he flits away on the wings of gulls, limp and unconscious—and chased by other gulls, no less— and fall into the tranquil, if slightly austere environs of the Temple of Avanthal. It should be said, that the Temple of Avanthal in Anbaerin's Temple District of High Town, not the be confused with the Temple District of the Green Tier, is the primary site of worship for all worshipers of Avanthal. This Temple is also, consequently the largest of the temple structures in the district, and most resplendent, if not so colorful as the Temple of Llyssa.

It is here that our party has a meeting with Arbiter Maraza, a high ranking priestess in the hierarchy of Avanthal's clergy, and here that our party learns some most distressing news. For many of our readers this news may not be quite so distressing as it was for the principle actors of this history, but you, and we ourselves, have had the benefit of time to come to terms with this piece of news. Indeed, in some ways it still feels fresh, but we also appreciate that we may be alone in this feeling, as our readers may not even give it a passing thought in their day to day, and we, your faithful guide, have been wallowing in grief-stricken account after grief-stricken account.

Thus--before we can be accused of teasing our audience overmuch--we shall relate to you, as the events have come to us, what precisely this distressing news was. We have already introduced you to Arbiter Maraza, and our friends have asked after her advice for a rather completely other subject than our distressing news. Brixta, in her pursuit of ascertaining what and where she comes from, latched on to the notion of godlings, offspring of gods, or demi-gods as many others would consider them, but this line of inquiry led the party down a path of sudden, yet irefutable woe.

Making little headway with conversation alone, Arbiter Maraza, intrigued enough at the idea of confirming her own notions or confirming the existence of Avanthal's mortal children, offered to commune with her patron deity. Yet, there was something else perhaps more disturbing than an Avanthalian child, the usurping of a major temple of worship, as through aforementioned conversation Aerith had impressed her own concerns of the goingson in Septur's Temple. And so down to the communal ritual site they went, and there Maraza asked her questions three.

The first, being the most obvious: Are there any mortal children of Avanthal? To which Maraza received an ambivalent answer, as if Avanthal were to say, there might be some. Having an answer enough, and since there was no surety in cryptic answer given by the Prime deity, Maraza, perhaps wisely, turned her efforts to something more troubling, Septur and her church. However, with only three questions, we are sure our readers can appreciate this as well, one must be careful how to word such questions. Thus, this ardent of Avanthal asked a broader question first: Is Septur well? To which, she received a more than likely, no.

As one might imagine the effects of this question and its answer on our group of heroes, this was shaping up to be a morning of tremendous highs and horrible lows. For we respectfully remind our readers that in this very same morning, Brixta was admitted to the illustrious Arcanum, and now we are here, but hours later, receiving such disturbing news. The effects of which are most keenly felt by our endearing Aerith.

Well? What then was Maraza to do but to clarify what Avanthal meant by not doing well? As one might imagine, not doing well could have anything to do with a sour disposition to deathly illness, and though it may not do to anthropomorphize the gods in this way, it is hard to think that Avanthal doesn't have bouts of the fits from time to time, as orderly as he may be, as ancient as he may be. Maraza's question is, thus, singular and pointed. Perhaps there was something in the way that Avanthal answered her, that led her to ask such an outrageous—to those at that time—question, but ask she did, and I will do our audience the benefit of knowing what question she asked the Platinum Dragon. It is this: Is Septur alive? Preposterous, is it not? To think of gods dying, but alas, such was Maraza's, and, we have some notion to be sure, Aerith's. The answer received was no less shocking for the foreshadowing of the previous question: a saddened no. What does living mean to a god? we shan't get into these particulars of celestial metaphysics here, for we, but a humble historian, would not be able to such a discussion justice, but also because in time we shall reveal at least an answer to this question. Suffice it to say, that at this moment, all of Aerith's worst fears had been realized in a mere moment, her worldview, the god she loved, everything came crashing down with a simple, or rather no so simple, no.

As sad as this moment is, we must now leave our friends, until a later date. Perhaps there is some justice in doing so, but we will leave the verdict up to our most esteemed readers. For while the historian in us wishes to dive deeper, and exhume Aerith's thoughts and pain in this moment, as a member of the mortal races, it seems only humane to leave this wearied worthy with her own thoughts at this precise moment. Though, assuredly, all will become clear as we venture deeper into the history of these four friends. So we tread on the vast patience of our readers for but a moment more. Until next time.