Chapter 127: Jet-Black Relics

Chapter 127: Jet-Black Relics

“Wanted to say…” Galamon looked at Argrave as they watched the oasis town, far out of sight. “You’ve gotten tougher.”

“The hell does that mean?” Argrave asked, worried at Galamon’s praise.

Galamon shook his head as though telling Argrave to calm down. “You used to never stop complaining. Couldn’t bear the sight of blood. Hated physical work. Different, now.”

“Not my choice, believe me,” Argrave turned his head away. “I like soft hands.”

“Regardless… you’re blind to yourself, at times,” Galamon finished.

“You’re still making potions and poisons next time we need them,” Argrave pointed at Galamon without looking.

“…as ever,” Galamon said with a sigh. “Enough talk.”

Argrave and Galamon proceeded openly and honestly into the oasis town of the southron elves. It would be difficult to approach any other way with both of them being over seven feet tall, and they also didn’t come for deceit and trickery. Of late, that was a rare thing.

“Just a reminder…” Galamon began seriously, and Argrave turned his head to look at the elf. “…don’t use the Blackgard name,” he advised.

Argrave laughed once. “Hadn’t planned on it.”

“I’ve been with you too long,” the big elf noted, looking around the town. People were starting to take notice of them, and anxiously moved to act.

“Tired of me?” Argrave kept his gaze facing forward, keeping an eye on developments.

He shook his head. “Used to you.”

Argrave spotted familiar people and kept his eye on them. “So what’s the problem?”

“Didn’t blink an eye at jumping into a pool of water and blood to enter a cave with a dying race within. It’s… concerning, that’s all.” Galamon tapped Argrave’s elbow. “Keep your hands up. Demonstrate we’re harmless.”

Argrave obeyed Galamon’s command, keeping his hands in the air. “I just broke one of their illusion spells. Though… that’s not the least crazy thing I’ve done, I’ll admit. Maybe you can help convince Garm that I’m as all-knowing as I claim to be.”

“He’s seen enough. If he isn’t convinced, my words won’t change him,” Galamon answered. Argrave saw Garm’s eyes move around in the helmet on Galamon’s back, and then squeeze shut.

A great many of the southron elves moved around the oasis, weapons in hand as they moved to confront the two intruders upon their territory. As they came closer, Argrave saw their features clearer.

The southron elves were far distinct from the pale-skinned Veidimen—they deviated far from their ancestors, enough so it was near impossible to think Galamon or Anneliese might be distant relatives to those present. Most notable was their jet-black skin, far darker than that of the southern tribals or other denizens of the desert. Their hair, their nails, and even their eyes were black. Their ears were much larger, and their bone structure was altogether sharper.

The southron elves were a lean and skinny people, and a little taller than the humans Argrave had seen in the Burnt Desert—a couple inches, perhaps, but not to the extremes of the Veidimen. They wore elegant silk clothing matching in color with their skin.

These elves gathered in front of Argrave and Galamon, most pointing a large glaive towards them. They shouted and cried and made demands, but their voices were too many to follow any sort of direction.

Argrave took an uneasy step back, and then called out, “We aren’t here to cause any trouble.”

But his words were drowned out by a multitude of questions, and the glaives in the elves’ hands did not lower. At the very least, the conflict was not escalating. Argrave was content to wait until things settled enough for him to speak, but then he spotted someone he knew quite well walking out towards them.

“All of you, let me pass!” a loud voice rose above the rest.

A grizzled veteran pushed past the crowd, face marred by scars and burns. Half of his nose had been torn off by something, and one of his eyes was blinded by a burn. Even still, he looked no less of a warrior as he pushed through the crowd, using his own glaive as a walking staff that he did not seem to need.

He came to stand a cautious distance away from the two of them. With silence reigning, Argrave pressed the advantage, using his classic trick—knowing everybody’s name.

“You’re the warrior Corentin?” Argrave pointed.

Corentin shifted on his feet, planting his glaive in the ground.

“I mean… can’t picture anyone else matching your description,” Argrave pressed, lowering his hand.

Corentin pointed with his glaive. “Who told you this? How did you get here?”

“Gebicca, of the line of Burgund,” Argrave disclosed.

Though the hostility from the southron elves did not evaporate, it did diminish into a steady caution in the silence following. The Brumesingers hiding in his clothes came out at this moment, and the sight of their long-dead warpets evoked gasps of silence and mutterings from the crowd.

“Gebicca? Is that right?” Corentin said. “And what did she say about me?”

“She said…” Argrave paused, rubbing his chin. “Well, she said that you’re a real asshole, honestly.”

Corentin laughed. “And Gebicca… why is she not here?”

“Because she’s dead,” Argrave said simply. He picked up one of the Brumesingers off his shoulder, holding it in his hand and petting it.

Corentin stared at Argrave. “Then it seems you have a reason to be here.”

#####

Corentin entered into a large room, seemingly emerging from nothing but the wall. He looked about, and then went to retrieve something. After rummaging through a bag in the corner of the room, he pulled free a black cube, etched with glowing runes like those found everywhere throughout the village. These runes did not glow blue, though—theirs was a fell purple.

“Dad?” came a voice.

Corentin turned around. “Don’t leave the room, Iltuda.”

“I won’t,” the woman responded. a rather muscular southron elf with a long, braided ponytail. She wore heavy coverings, likely for dealing with the heat of a forge. “But what’s the matter? That…” she looked at the cube in his hand. “Has danger come to the village?”

“I don’t know,” Corentin answered. “Not overt danger. Not an attack. But the Vessels taught us those might be the biggest threats.”

“Then…?” she pressed.

“Someone claiming to know Gebicca has come.”

“Someone else?” she raised her brows.

“Yes,” Corentin nodded.

Iltuda removed the thick forging gloves she wore and stepped forward. “What do they want?” she said insistently.

“To talk alone,” Corentin said grimly, then hefted the black cube glowing with purple runes. “I’ll find out what he wants, who he is,” he said, then moved towards the wall he had entered from once again.

“This could be dangerous, dad!” she tried to grab his arm.

Corentin dodged her grasp easily. “And I am a warrior of our great empire. I am here to protect. Protect you, protect the villagers, protect the empire.”

“Our dead empire,” she refuted.

“Stay inside,” he repeated, pointing, and then walked to the wall. “Step outside, I’ll tan you on that leather rack, young lady.”

“You’re mud,” she shook her head.

“Yeah, love you too,” he said with angry sarcasm, then vanished into the wall.

#####

“Gods, I’m turning paranoid…” Argrave tapped his temple rapidly as they waited for Corentin’s return. “Keep thinking about ways this might go wrong. Can’t muck this up.”

“Gods?” repeated Galamon, standing just behind Argrave. “You always said ‘god’ before.”

Argrave looked up perplexedly, then dismissed with a shake of his head, “Whatever. Been here months. When in Rome…”

Southron elven architecture was much more refined than most of the buildings they had seen in Sethia. Though Delphasium had been a place of marble, and was quite beautiful, this place had a distinct flavor and culture to it separating it from anything else. The walls were made of smooth, black sandstone, polished to the point where it shone. The glowing blue runes decorating the walls and ceiling gave an accent to the place that made it seem almost mystical.

The chairs were made of silk and wood—the wood formed the frame, and silk cloth stretched tight made the seat itself. It was a little like sitting in a hammock. The center sunk the lowest, while the edges held firm. Argrave’s Brumesingers roamed at Argrave’s feet, moving about the place frenetically. They were energetic little devils.

“He’s coming,” Galamon notified Argrave, bringing him to attention. Soon after, Argrave heard the sound of steady footsteps coming up the stairs.

When he saw the cube with glowing purple runes in the southron elf’s hand, Argrave straightened his back in the chair and placed his feet against the ground, ready to bolt.

Don’t freak. Don’t freak. It’s just Corentin. He’s just being cautious. Caution—why else would he bring a grenade?

Argrave tried to calm himself, feeling the ring beneath his gloves with the B-rank ward, and thinking of the enchanted leather armor around his skin.

“I’m glad you’re willing to hear me out,” Argrave said, trying to use conversation to ease his nervousness.

“Mmm,” grunted Corentin simply, grabbing a chair from another side of the room and pulling it until he sat across from Argrave and Galamon. “And what brings two Veidimen to the last bastion of the southron elves?”

Argrave tensed at once, worried that Anneliese had been discovered. He calmed and thought on the words further. Argrave touched at his ears—his hair had grown long enough to cover his ears, he realized.

“I’m human, actually,” Argrave corrected, relieved. “Just a freak of nature.”

“I see,” Corentin nodded. He was being a little polite—a telltale sign he didn’t trust them at all.

“I’m going to conjure a ward,” Argrave said, holding his hands out. “Block out listeners.”

Corentin adjusted on his seat, placing the black cube on his armrest, clenched tight in hand. “Go ahead,” he gestured towards Argrave.

Argrave went ahead, conjuring a C-rank ward to envelop the three of them. As soon as it was up, Corentin questioned, “How did Gebicca die?”

Argrave scratched his brow, then said, “…badly.”

Corentin stared with his one remaining good eye.

Argrave swallowed and continued, “She was crushed. Trapped. Removing the rubble would have killed her, and she’d been starving for some days when I found her,” he described, going over the situation the player met her in-game. “Tried to help. Maybe an S-rank spellcaster could have saved her. But I’m not one, and not affluent enough to bring one.”

Corentin ground his teeth together as he stared at Argrave, then he nodded. “Alright. And why are you here?”

“Two reasons. Because Gebicca came to trust me enough to divulge her tribe’s secret… and because I need your help.”

“Help?” Corentin frowned. “And you sought it here? In a ghost town?”

“Don’t need your forces, not especially. What I want… is to uproot the Vessels from Sethia, completely and utterly. My situation demands a third party.”

“Your situation?”

Argrave licked his lips, choosing his words carefully. “The Lord of Silver, Quarrus, has something that I want in his tower. The Lord of Copper is trying to use the southern tribals to wipe out Aurum and Argent before betraying the tribals, absorbing all factions,” Argrave disclosed without qualms. “I need what’s inside Argent. But I don’t care to have the Vessels being the only faction retaining power in the Burnt Desert.”

“So, inform the tribals of the betrayal,” Corentin suggested simply.

“I could,” Argrave shook his head. “But I want to be sure that the Vessels in Sethia are purged. To do that, I’ve been working with the Lord of Copper. The southern tribals can’t win against the Vessels—the Vessels have to fight amongst themselves.”

Corentin took a deep breath and exhaled. “So, you’ll ensure they fight amongst themselves, while you wish us to be a proxy to inform the tribals?”

“Precisely,” Argrave nodded. “You know as well as I do that without internal dissent, Sethia will never be free from Vessel rule.”

Corentin rotated the cube in his hand. “…we will have to speak to the other warriors. They will be returning soon.”