Riloth the 19th the 124th

“Not good? What does that mean?” Dagmar asked angrily.

“It means ‘not good,’” I answered defiantly. “Not terribly either, but this is hard. I’ve never tried to learn a whole spell in a single sitting before. All the spells I know, I learned over years of slow practice. Plus, there's this whole verbal and somatic nonsense. My mother had strong opinions about those, and never used them, though I suspect she didn’t understand their full purpose. I theorize that they help prepare the Material Realm for the e—”

Dagmar cut me off with a wave of her hand, a mundane somatic component as effective as a spell, “I don't need to know how the tunnel is dug. Just tell me, do you think you can figure it out, or is this a dead end?”

“Definitely, I know I can build the spell construct in my mind given enough time—which we certainly have. It's just the verbal and somatic parts that concern me. This wizard took copious notes, and I can work backwards from his own failures to learn to perform them myself. I just don’t know how long it will take.”

“Good enough. Tomorrow we will attempt the Dahn once more with these swords and that wand, but we can wait till night to do so. While you spend the morning studying that book, I’ll finish my survey of the Kituh. I’ve found a few minor caches, but I suspect there was another larger outpost near here. During our trip here, I noticed a series of collapsed tunnels that seemed deliberate.”

That night, I lay in a clearing of the forest, watching the skies pass overhead, awaiting the end.

Riloth the 19th the 125th

The next day went much smoother. We dispatched the wizard and Fanos just as before, if a little quicker. Dagmar's shots and strikes became more effective as she learned to compensate for the effects of Mage Armor.

The killing still didn't sit well with me. Each morning when I saw them anew, I considered a different tack.

Could we talk to them? Convince them to let me see the spellbook for the day? Could we knock them unconscious?

And then my thoughts would return to my first encounters, where they attacked me, sight unseen simply for the presence of my magic. The expression on Fanos' face when he charged me, the look of disdain when the wizard senses me using sorcery.

It didn't make it easier to kill them, but... it made it less hard. Does that make sense? I don't know. Even now, sitting here in the Dahn writing about the events over a subjective year later, I don't know if what I did was wrong. I know that it was not right, and that it was necessary, but was it wrong? What will Daulf say if he reads the account of my time here? He jumped to my aid when he first met me. If he had the ability to sense my magic—which I am pretty sure he doesn’t—how differently would that meeting amidst the goblins have gone?

Sorry, enough of that. I will have plenty of opportunities to reflect on Daulf later when—no, I won't write about that now. Back to the clearing.

After the battle, I spent the morning continuing my studies while Dagmar returned to the Kituh to scout out the mysterious collapsed tunnels. She returned as the light began to fade, to find me studying the book by Light.

I heard Dagmar's graceless tromping through the brush when she was still some distance away and began gathering my things for the journey to the Dahn. Thankfully, the distance from the Kituh to the clearing was short enough that even she could navigate to me by simply heading west until she saw my light.

"Tomorrow you're taking me back to town before you go exploring," I told her as soon as she reached the clearing.

Swatting at flies angrily, she said, "Oh, so you finally come around on the horrid Faust cursed place that is the surface?"

"I like the forest just fine. It reminds me of training with my mother. I just need to focus more. Minor distractions like a bug bite or bird chirp can break my concentration and make me lose an hour of work".

"Fine by me," she answered. "I think I found a likely spot to dig in the Kituh, I can pick up some digging equipment after dropping you off. Though what you Waatin call a pick ax is laughable."

We returned to the Dahn, ready to face our faceless foes once again. It had been a few weeks since we’d last faced them, and in the time between I’d forgotten how large the hulking golems truly were. Dagmar had grabbed a helmet, but elected to not bring any other armor or weapons. Runed gauntlets prevented her from activating the magic swords, and armor wasn’t likely to help her survive any blow that landed.

I had my wand, a crossbow, and some wax earplugs. I didn’t like how the helmet restricted my view, and hoped earplugs would be sufficient to protect me from another incident of vertigo should Tim or Jim decide to clap. We’d worked out a new plan yesterday, though it was largely the same as the first. Assuming that Jimothy’s wards didn’t disrupt Force magic, we’d focus on Timothy first. It didn’t really matter in what order we destroyed them, the thought being that if we could destroy one while both were present, we could destroy the second easily enough when it was alone. Timothy was chosen as the first target because it allowed for me to distract Jimothy for some time and then teleport away.

After warming up with some stretches and a jog around the clearing, we stood outside the door looking in. My heart beat at a rate that could not be explained by my brief exertions. Dying left a scar, even if you recover. The sight of the golems set every nerve on end, everything in my body telling me to flee, while my mind tried to hold me in place.

It’s going to be okay. It doesn’t hurt so bad if they get a good hit.

While casting the wand, I'd gotten the sense that I could use it while concentrating on Mage Armor—Force Armor I suppose—but I'd decided that the meager protection wasn't worth the delay in my casting of Wind Jump. So this attempt would be free of any sort of armor.

I really need to learn Shield.

I stood, schooling my nerves, and surveying the scene. The two golems stood at attention in their resting places, free of the blood and gore that coated them briefly after each encounter, only to fade as our bodies did from former resets

On the count of three—without a go—we stepped through the portal. Dagmar broke for Timothy and I shot Jimothy with the dwarven crossbow, mostly to gain his attention. Once Dagmar stood between Tim and me, I pointed the wand at Tim and sent the spell within it into the Arcane Realm. Three near invisible darts of distorted air shot across the room and hammered Timothy in the chest. Each impact was accompanied by the sharp crack of breaking stone, which I heard faintly through my earplugs. They struck in the same spot—the spell aiming itself off of my intent—and cumulatively chipped away a dent the size of a grape.

Before I could line up a second shot, Jim reached me. I cast Wind Jump and leapt backwards, throwing my arms wide to maximize the surface area of my body. I flew well clear of his first swipe, just as Dagmar reached Tim. She ducked under his first blow and landed a slash with each enchanted blade across his midsection. Both left the faintest scratch, lacking the weight to penetrate deep despite their magically sharpened edges.

"Bah!" came Dagmar's shout as she threw one of the blades off to the side, switching to a two handed grip with the remaining.

The short sword looked more like a bastard sword on her shorter frame. Timothy came around for an overhead blow, which Dagmar narrowly sidestepped, swinging at the arm with her sword before running behind the golem.

I'd continued backpedaling with the help of my spell to take bounding leaps, all the while keeping an eye on Dagmar waiting for my cue. As soon as she stepped around Tim, I cast Blink, and appeared before Tim with the wand at the ready. I unleashed its power directly into his chest and watched with delight as a plumb sized divot appeared on the featureless stone.

And then, I was killed.

Riloth the 19th the 126th

After a few surprises, the resets that followed fell into a familiar—if uncomfortable—rhythm. Each morning, Dagmar woke me and we split up to procure the crossbows and potions before meeting at the gate and heading to the Kituh entrance. Dagmar no longer brought the potions to me when we woke, not having the time, so I was forced to muddle through the morning in a half dead state until we met up once more.

The battles against the wizard and Fanos grew easier, if only martially. I’d hoped—maybe feared—that I’d grow accustomed to the killing, but each time weighed heavily on me. It was a small consolation that Dagmar generally dealt the killing blows, for I was equally culpable as she.

An interesting thing did occur on the 126th reset, the first battle after we resumed attempts on the Dahn. We started the battle as normal, with a salvo of crossbow bolts at the wizard. The shots were only glancing blows on this occurrence, and the wizard reacted quickly enough to bring his wand to bear upon us. I hadn't expected such a swift response, and he had the opportunity to fire his wand before I could disrupt him with Gust. But, instead of being struck by those near invisible darts, his arm exploded in a very familiar manner, spraying his blood and bone shards all over himself and his Seeker companion. He fell down in pain, and I held Fanos back with a Gust while Dagmar finished him and the wizard off with her crossbow.

“Torc’s stones, that was odd,” Dagmar commented after the battle. “Go on, tell me what you think happened. I’ll admit I'm a bit curious myself. I know you have a theory.”

Dagmar gave me too much credit, I’d yet to put the pieces together, but I began to muse aloud.

“Hmm. I’m not sure. The wand exploded for me after the spell stored inside it had sat in my mental vault for some time. The failure was reminiscent of accounts I’ve read of failed attempts to create spells by incautious wizards. If I had to guess, I’d say something disrupted the spell in the wand.” I paused to consider what could have caused this before continuing. “This must be related to the Dahn. The duplicate of Spellbook fell apart when I ripped a page out of it. Whatever effect caused that to happen may have disrupted the spell inside the wand, destabilizing it.”

Dagmar let out a vaguely approving “Hmph” and went on to examine Fanos’ blades.

“Cast a spell,” she ordered as she walked towards me.

I conjured a Light fixed in front of her and watched as she swiped the disrupting blade through it. The floating ball of white light vanished as the sword passed through, and Dagmar inspected the blade.

This time her “Hmph,” was more curious than approving—it's amazing the amount of nuance the dwarf could pack into simple grunts and sighs.

Interpreting this mutterance as a question about my theory, I said, “Assuming my theory was right, I’d guess the reason that sword still works is because the spell inside of it is already cast, and maybe more stable. The spellform in the wand was potential, waiting to be sent into the chaos of the Arcane Realm. Any alteration of a spell construct can be deadly, but spells themselves, once brought into the world, are more stable and less susceptible to whatever mechanism causes duplicates to disappear. Which from my prior study I theorize is tied to the Font of Creation not being involved in all this time nonsense.”

“Good enough for me,” she answered, handing me the spellbook she’d recovered from the wizard along with the sword. “I’m going to go bang this against some rocks until I‘m certain it won’t disintegrate on me. This dispel weapon didn’t have any effect, but I felt the Will drain sword activate when I struck the golem. Either way, swords are terrible weapons against a golem, so I am going to retrieve a war pick before I come and get you from town.”

“Bring one for me too, I suppose,” I said, avoiding looking at the messy remnants of the wizard. “It seems I will not have my wand today.”

We gathered the fallen pairs' belongings into my satchel. I made a failed attempt to remove the magical pockets from the wizards robe, but halfway through my cutting the enchantment failed, and the remaining content suddenly appeared in the now-to-small pocket, ripping it at the seams and destroying the more fragile items.

Those pockets were fascinating. I'd heard about such items existing long in the past, but like many magical arts, the knowledge of their making was lost in the flood.

We walked back to the Kituh after that and made our way back to town. Aside from desiring to study in the peace and quiet of the library, I wanted to ask Levar about a few of the items we’d found. I'd hoped to show him the wizard’s pockets, but bringing a freshly bloodied wizard robe in seemed a bad idea.

Maybe once I learn Clean.

Levar’s shop was open by the time I made it back to the town. Inside, the man stood behind his counter, with hundreds of potions laid out before him alongside a ledger.

The bell above the door rang when I entered, but lost in his note-taking he didn't notice me until I plopped my bag onto the narrow patch of exposed counter.

"Oh, Mage Theral! I didn't hear you come in. How can I help you? If you're here to check up on that strange script I'm afraid I've not yet received a response."

Strange script? What is he—oh!

It has been four months for me, since I'd let Levar copy the Bookish pages, and somehow he'd not brought it up once in our dozens of subsequent encounters. Interrupting his post theft inventory seemed to have thoroughly thrown him off script. It was refreshing in a way to know that people can still surprise you no matter how many times you've repeated the day—and wands, I really wasn't expecting that to blow up either time.

My father would have tried to weasel a pithy saying out of that sentiment, though I sense my current predicament is not likely one shared by many, though that wouldn't stop him. He loved to repeat little nuggets of supposed wisdom about very narrow circumstances like they were applicable to everyday life.

'The best bookmark is the one you have—though do make sure it's dry.'

'Heavy is the hand that holds the quill with truth.'

'When the whales fall, feasts follow.'

'Never tell your wife how to row when she grew up on the sea, and you were born below.'

I never understood the last few, but it always made my mother smile.

"Oh, no. Not that, I forgot about that months ago. I have much more pressing questions you might be able to help me with," I said, gesturing to my bag.

"What did you bring me? I could use something to distract me from the theft," he said with a sigh and gesture to the arrayed potions.

"Theft you say?" I feigned ignorance. I'd taken over the potion thefts from Dagmar and hoped my more subtle method would go unnoticed, saving Levar from the trauma of a break in. Apparently I'd failed.

"Yes, yes. Look here," he said, picking up a copper disk that was emitting a faint light. "This here disk is runed to detect magic. I picked it up from a dwarf adventurer if you believe it. He made it for me in lieu of coin for some potions, though the gem set inside it would have covered the cost."

He held it up for me to see the runes carved into the copper disk around a gem. My recent experiences gave me the sense that these runes were crudely drawn, but the light they emitted proved their efficacy. I closed my eyes for a moment to focus and bring on my Willsight while Levar continued to talk. With it, I saw that the gem held an aura of the same bright yellow as Levar's. That same aura flowed through all the runes and I saw it leaking through the imperfections, much like with my first attempts at imbuing a rune. Aside from the light emitting runes, I didn't recognize any others.

Levar continued as I examined it, "This device lights up when magic is used in an area. I keep it on my person all day, and check it when I suspect customers are trying to pull one over on me though magical means. At night, I leave it down here to let me know if I have any unwanted visitors. Last night, it appears I had one, though I'm not yet sure what it is they took."

"Fascinating. Does it give you any indication of the magic user's identity?" I asked with genuine interest.

"Alas not. I was told it was possible, but beyond the adventurer's skills."

Relief flooded me, though I knew not why I was so concerned. Consequences had long since become an abstract concept. That morning I'd Blinked into his shop, pleasantly surprised at the lack of wards, and taken the potions of clarity and forgone sleep. I'd then attempted to rearrange the potions to disguise their absence, but that clearly had not been sufficient.

"Enough about my woes," he continued. "What new mystery brings you to my shop?"

In answer, I removed the potion and runed bone rod from my bag and held them out for his inspection.

"I found these on a w—" I caught myself before incriminating myself in a murder "—on a dead adventurer in one of the abandoned outposts. Can you tell me what they do?"

"Hmm," he hummed to himself, reaching for the potion first and holding it up towards the window to see how the light refracts through it.

"Just as I suspected by the coloring. This is certainly a mixture," he said, tisking in disapproval. "Shoddy, irresponsible alchemy, that is. Putting profits over quality and the safety of the customer."

"A mixture?" I asked, trying to forestall one of Levar's diatribes about the falling standards of the guild and keep him on topic.

"Oh yes, it's what all the adventurers are clamoring for—and I understand their desire, truly I do—but the practice, in reality, is quite dangerous. Adventurers want something quick and effective that they can down mid-battle, consequences be damned, and regrettably, the guild moved to fulfill that demand. Why carry seven potions of different effects when you can just take one that does it all? Healing potions, they call them. Healing my ass. They do as much damage as they fix and rely on the small amount of potion of regeneration to cover the negative effects.”

“What exactly does it do?”

“Well, that's the problem. There’s no standard. Throughout the history of the guild, we’ve followed procedures rigidly,” he cleared a space on the desk while talking and bent below the counter to bring out a familiar and massive tome.

“This,” he continued, whipping his brow from the effort of lifting such a large book, “Is Pains and Deaths Recorded, the 48th edition. It records every reported side effect of the guild-approved potions, along with information on reactions and recommended potion combinations for adventurers to carry which minimize reactivity. This is alchemy. Mixing three potions that together cause kidney failure and adding in a potion of regeneration isn’t just irresponsible, it's sloppy alchemy!”

By the end of the tirade, Levar was breathing heavily, and visibly angry, in a way I’d only seen him when the topic of love potions arose.

This man really takes pride in his profession.

“I thought you said potions of regeneration were prohibitively expensive due to unicorn horns being a major ingredient,” I asked.

“I did now?” he said, confused, though lacking suspicion. “That is true, but I don’t recall mentioning that to you. This whole theft has me all turned about. I’m sorry, yes. Unicorn horn is the main ingredient in a potion of regeneration, but there are other methods to produce them, and the amount included in these mixtures is very small. Only sufficient enough to heal minor wounds or stave off death long enough for a wound to be properly treated.”

I need to be more careful. With Levar it’s fine, but a slip up like that in an interaction with Tilavo could prove fatal.

“Anyway,” he continued in his regular excitable mood. “I’ll need to run some tests, but this is likely a mixture of potions of regeneration, clarity, and endurance, with an antitoxin and antidote thrown in for good measure. Adventurers take these in the heat of battle to stay in the fight. I don’t blame them for wanting them, or even alchemists for trying them out, but we have no standard formula or data to suggest that these aren't causing lasting harm.”

“Could I pay you to tell me what's in it?”

“I was going to insist you allow me to do just that. I’ll do it for free, on the condition that you report any side effects if you are fool enough to drink it.”

“Thanks,” I said, handing him the vials and grabbing the next item. “What do you know about this?”

“Wow, yes, I do know what that is, but what I’d like to know is how you found it. That is a Tower Will Grain Meter.”

Grains of Will! It looks like that's one mystery of the spellbook solved. If only Spellbook’s mysteries had been so accessible.

"I don't know how to use it," he went on, "but I know what it does. It measures the Will of the user somehow. Each notch that lights up represents one 'diamond grain' of Will."

“Diamond grain?” I asked.

“I believe it is a dwarven measuring system. It has something to do with diamonds of a certain weight—a grain—and the corresponding Will, but I don’t know the details. Or even the generalities for that matter,” he chuckled at the hole in his knowledge as he handed the device back to me.

I examined it with new eyes. At the base of the rod sat a section filled with runes reminiscent of those found on the handles of the runed war pick. I gripped it with a hand and sent my Will into it. I felt the Will leave me in a great surge. The amount I could push into the war pick was like a leak in a bucket compared to the waterfall of this device. It was a bottomless pit, hungry for whatever I could give. If not for the surprise, I felt I could have stopped the flow.

In my hand, four inches of the twelve dedicated to light runes lit up with a faint glow, much like Levar's disk of magic detection. Upon closer inspection, I saw that every tenth light rune was cut deeper than the rest, and using this counted fifty-three grains.

Well, whatever a grain of Will is, apparently I had fifty-three. Is that a lot? Oh, my poor head.

The sudden and complete loss of Will left me with a terrible migraine. I had one more potion of clarity in my bag, but drawing it now would draw Levar's suspicion as to the perpetrator of his magical break-in. Luckily, I was in an alchemy shop and knew the way to the proprietor's heart.

"Ouch," I said, holding my head, only a little bit for show. "That took all my Will right out of me. You wouldn't consider trading a potion of clarity for this object, would you?"

"Oh no, I could never," he said, sounding almost offended, "I could not trade you such a paltry sum for an item of such rarity."

"I insist. In fact, you'd be doing me a favor. I'd hate to be caught with such a thing if it does belong to the Tower."

At that, he assented reluctantly, but then perked up in curiosity, “Are you sure you found this on an adventurer? Could this dead adventurer have instead been a wizard of the Tower? A seeker perhaps? You make a good point that these are likely rare outside the Tower’s hands.”

“Now that you mention it, he was wearing a robe like the Tower wizards tend to wear,” I lied, proud of my quick thinking. “In fact, the pockets seemed to be extra-dimensional bags of some sort, though we felt it wrong to rob the dead of their clothing, so we buried him with it.”

“Hmm yes, that is almost certainly a Tower wizard then.”

“I’ve been wondering, actually, why do the Tower wizards always wear robes? It seems so impractical, the Stormcallers all wear canvas and leather clothing, and they—we—do just fine. What benefits do the robes have?”

Levar’s eyes lit up at the question.

“Now, that is a good question and a fascinating story. The creation of extra-dimensional bags is one of the many arts lost to the Flood, but not for lack of knowledge. The spells to produce such a bag were retained, but the materials to do so were lost to the rising waters. Extra-dimensional bags—colloquially called bags of holding—are not, in fact, extra-dimensional in the sense of a parallel or pocket realm, but in that they literally have extra space inside of them. As you may know, the creation of magical items is a sort of cousin to alchemy. We use many of the same ingredients, though for vastly different effects. Enchanting requires the craftsman to incorporate specific materials into the item to be enchanted, less the spell fades. You could enchant a stick to be magically sharp, and any rough edge on it would pierce flesh with ease—for about a minute, after which the spell would fade. There is as much art in finding the correct materials as there is crafting the spells and the item.”

“These bags of holding were created using two spells, one to stretch out space in an area, making the bag larger on the inside than outside, and the other to reduce the weight of the contents. As it would happen, the ideal materials to stabilize such a pairing of enchantments were plentiful in the city of Altian, a place of magic and wonder nestled at the foot of a mountain. The stone of the mountain, when powdered and turned into a dye, allowed for the stabilization of many types of Spatial enchantments, while the silk of a local spider species did the same for Gravitational magic. The city combined the two to create the next best thing to pocket realms—pockets that could contain a realm.”

He paused in his explanation to look at me, a grin wide on his face, to see if his pun had landed.

I gave him a not-so-insincere chuckle, and he continued, “Theirs quickly became the standard, and their bags were sent worldwide. By the time of the Flood, they had reached all corners of Kaltis, and been adapted to many uses. Now, to answer your question—for I did not forget it—shortly before the Flood robes were the height of fashion for the rich and powerful, and few were richer and none more powerful than the Coterie of the Midlothian Empiresave—save for the Emperor. These wizards were not trusting of their peers, and wished to carry all their magical research and artifacts upon them at all times. Some could accomplish as much with their own magical arts, but most resorted to incorporating extra-dimensional pockets into all their clothing. As the Coterie did, high society at large followed, and soon all wore robes with such pockets. When the Flood occurred, the world lost access to new bags of holding, and at the same time had a glut of magical robes. Some attempts were made to transplant them to other garments or separate them completely, but those usually failed. While the enchantments only affected the pockets, the spell was tied to the garnet as a whole."

All the talk of pockets filled in a blank that had been bugging me for some time.

Trish sure does fit a lot of things into her jackets. I'm going to need to ask her about that.

I'd been avoiding her since the revelation of her daily deaths. The sight of her brought the images from that night to mind, and I consoled myself with the knowledge that my notes to her put a stop to them.

I chatted with Levar for a short while longer, but sensed that he was eager to examine the items I'd given and made excuses to leave.