[The Kelp Bar] A Tale Spun From Arcane Webs (Wrenmae)

[Marcus Dymez]

11th Day of Summer, 512 A.V. Marcus was a man of subtle habits, and he often took to strolling around Zeltiva, simply as a way of observing the environment in which he lived. He wished to be aware of any changes, however subtle they may be, and yet subconsciously wished for the spontaneous. Walking through the city, now on his way back to the University campus for some dinner, Marcus decided to take one last detour along the harbor, passing by the local tavern. As he walked by, his gait slowed, eventually coming to a stop. Marcus considered his plan of action for a moment, as he was in need of a particular type of individual that his father's quaint family inn would not harbor. So with curiosity at the helm yet again, Marcus stepped into the foreign tavern, and was greeted by a cacophony of merriment and good cheer, albeit bad-natured good cheer. Walking up to the bartender of the tavern, the ruggedly-robed student, made his way through the crowd carefully, minding the few drunks stumbling about. He placed an arm on the counter, and waited a moment for the keep to finish pouring a mug of ale. His mouth opened, but no words followed, and he just sat there a moment in silence before realizing where he was. He threw on a stoic expression and knocked firmly on the wooden bar, demanding attention. When the rugged women at the bar finally turned to him, he nodded and spoke with a low tone. "I'm looking for a bard, one who may know a thing or two about some ruins I'm looking into." Marcus really had no ruins in mind, but rather was hoping such a bard would live up to their reputation as information dealers. What he was not aware of was that such a man was in that very bar as he spoke. The weathered woman pointed across the bar, towards a small crowd of inebriated patrons surrounding a table. Said table was supporting an eccentric story-teller, spinning a tale that the crowd of sailors seemed to be enjoying quite well. Marcus smirked to himself, slid the woman a silver coin, and made his way over to the bard, eager to make his acquaintance. Let's hope there is more than meets the eye...

[Wrenmae]

“It was a man and a half by length, maybe more, circling my spars of driftwood. Pale grey and white it was, with great big black eyes, like staring into an endless hole, unblinking, hungry.” Wrenmae shivered in his seat, casting his gaze around the circle of sailors grimly. “What’s a man to do with naught but a few pieces of wood to his name and a hungry fish come looking for his innards? Tell me what I was to do?” “Jabb’em ‘n err eye,” one spoke up with a nod, grinning crookedly, “Use yer thumbs’n push in real quick-like.” “Petch that,” another said irritably, “My da said ta take em by the fin and ride em till they was tired” “One o ther reasons yer pa aint sailin no more.” The first chuckled, and the rest joined in. Scowling, the other bowed out of the circle and pushed out the door, dark curses on his lips. Wrenmae watched him go, unwilling to intervene. This was not his culture, not his bar. He was the entertainment and nothing more. “G’wan boy,” a woman ordered, putting her hand on his shoulder with a rough shove, “Didyer get bitten?” Wrenmae smiled and shook his head, “No, m’lady, not bitten. Not then at least. For as the monster circled nearer and nearer to my spar of wood, I sent prayer after prayer to father Laviku to deliver me from this fate. Too weak to swim away, nowhere to swim to. That monster could shatter my raft with a flick of its tail, but it didn’t…Laviku heard my wishes.” “M’laaaaaady,” a sailor crooned at the girl, “Wot a name for ya Milly, wot a name. M’lady’s much a lady as my boat’s a horse!” He didn’t get to the laughter, her fist shattered his nose before he could even reel back for a single guffaw. Screaming, the sailor pitched off his chair and onto the ground, immediately restrained by two others. She spit on him and nodded back to Wrenmae, who now fidgeted nervously in his seat. The other two sailors dragged out the offender and tossed him through the door, returning for the story. Wrenmae swallowed, seeking moisture in a throat that had none. He smiled and continued. “W-Well, from the deeps there came a churning, spun my raft near to sinking. That great monster must have felt it too cause he shot off to the portside faster’n I could blink.” The woman smiled, nodding, and Wrenmae slapped his hand down palm-out on the table. “But! Not fast enough. I’m not so well sailed as you fine patrons, but I’d never seen so big a creature in all my days. Like a great lizard it was, long snout full of glistening teeth, big as swords! Body of a fish, rose out of the water and took that beasty by his body, cut him in two…one snap.” He nodded gravely, quietly, sitting back against the table and sighing. “Thought I was a dead one as well, but it nary disturbed the waters again ere it sank from view. A week later I washed up in Sylira, left my raft by the trees.” He took a drink, setting the mug down again and smiling. “Well?” She asked, “An then wot?” Wrenmae shrugged, “M’lady asked for a story of the sea and I obliged. Sylir was the end of my seaward journey and the end of the Wretched Sprite.” “Fair ‘nuff boy,” she smiled, tossing a single gold miza onto the table. “Wager you earned it. True or not.” Her companions followed her, dropping a gold miza to accompany the other. No one to under or overbid her. “Name’s Milandra of the Brightmoon pod, an’ I ‘spect ta see you again, boy.” She nodded her head to the door and her men followed, leaving Wrenmae to pick up the scattered mizas on the table. His heart beat rapidly in his chest, but a grin clung to his face. It was exciting to tell tales again, to watch the people move and their eyes glitter again. Something of the story, of the telling, it brought new life briefly to the air around them before the stale air moved in to claim its domain again. Next time then, next time…he’d tell a story to empty their pockets. He had to have at least one.

[Marcus Dymez]

Marcus watched as the crowd made their way out of the old-fashioned tavern, content with the story they had received. When the Svefran crew made their departure, the young scholar took their place, stealing a seat with the curious storyteller. As Marcus took his place across the table from the curious-seeming bard, the student gave a polite smile, his eyes gleaming with a more interesting sentiment. He flashed a slight smirk as his voice came through the bustling of the tavern, characteristically calm and collected. "Quite a story there. Lucky for you Laviku wasn't too busy with his other divine tasks." A slender hand was extended across the wooden table as Marcus introduced himself, eager to get to the business at hand. "Marcus Callus. Scholar of sorts." Pleasantries aside, Marcus was still unsure about how helpful this man would actually. Optimism was the name of the game. "I hear you're quite the collector of stories... Perhaps you could help with a little search I'm conducting." Marcus made a quick sleight of hand, a golden coin appearing in his hand as he turned it above the table. His scholar's robe provided quite nicely for such things, and he hoped to appeal to the entertainer's sense of showmanship. He also hoped to bring out some of the stranger's curiosity as well, dangling a small piece of bait to test the waters. For all Marcus knew, he was baiting a monster straight out of the entertainer's story. "You see, I'm interested in seeking out something that has survived the Valterrian. A relic of the old times. And I was curious if perhaps you know of a tale or two in the same vein." Marcus smirked to himself, giddy at the situation he found himself in. He was playing the detective for something he had always dreamed of obtaining, and he didn't even have an object in mind. A man couldn't have been vaguer if he tried. Regardless, Marcus still held out hope that this was a true bard, and not simply a spinner of fairy-tales.

[Wrenmae]

Wren shrugged, looking down at his hands. It was the best answer he could give the man to begin with. Approached so soon after his momentary brush with a barfight, the storyteller was still a bit unnerved. It wasn’t that he wanted to appear standoffish, it was only that his legs were still shaking and he needed a moment to re-calibrate. He took a deep breath. His eyes followed the gold coin out of habit, watching it curl and dance in the other mans hand. He remembered the streets of Alvadas, what he once might have done to get his nimble fingers on the gold rimmed marvel. That was before. Now the gold he had back in the dorm was more excessive than he was used to carrying. It weighed on him, pushed him, and reminded the young man that he didn’t know where the coin had even come from…what he’d done to earn it. That was perhaps the most uncomfortable. “Yes, fortunate, but sometimes I think I’d rather have not experienced it.” He gathered the coins that were dropped from the other patrons and poured them into his pocket. Every so often he looked up at the scholar and the dancing gold coin, thinking of what to say. He could spin any sort of fantasy, but the fellow seemed bent on this task. Personally, Wrenmae didn’t want to be responsible for sending him off on some search for nothing. He knew that task, the fool’s errand. It wasn’t a road he’d set anyone on. “Pre-Valterrian,” he repeated, bringing a hand through his hair and sighing, “You mistake me for a lorekeeper, I think.” He smiled and raised his hands helplessly, “I’m a storyteller from Alvadas, Pre-Valterrian is for the historians and excavators. I’ve only just arrived here, so my magical knowledge is a bit…limited.” He could almost sense the disappointment. “I can ask around though. I’m sure some folk in the University know the location of Prevalterrian ruins somewhere. I once walked through some myself, a ruined tower in the Kalea mountains. Picked clean by the buzzards, of course,” he remembered the red eyed Symenestra, the sound his dagger made when it pierced his heart, “But of a location for what you want, I cannot say…nor would I send you on some false hunt.” Folding his hands, he indicated a seat next to him at the table. “Tell me, what brought you here, to Zeltiva, and why this fascination with the times before?”

[Marcus Dymez]

The spinning miza stopped for a moment, caught between two fingers of the young scholars hand, and resumed its revolutions a moment later. If Marcus was disappointed, it did not show on his face. He had been at this chase for longer than most of his usual pursuits, and he had long since grown out of being disappointed. Searching for a past no one has seen before is akin to looking for a shard of glass out at sea. Only by being in the exact right place at the exact right time will it reveal itself, and still yet, a man has to capitalize on that opportunity, or lose his tracks altogether. Such was the nature of Marcus' search, and as such, he was not disappointed. However, Marcus did feel the need to clarify himself, as this ordinary-seeming storyteller gave off a feel that was anything but normal. He had claimed to be just-arrived in Zeltiva, yet was confident he could get information out of the professors of the University itself. That showed skill or connections, and Marcus could use either. His voice came out casually, but with a hint of authority, hoping to catch the man's full attention as he spoke. "I have always been here in Zeltiva. My father has always been here. His father has always been here. I despise it..." Marcus chuckled a bit as he quickly followed his words, eager to mend the cavernous mood that was forming. "Not the city mind you, but simply my family's eagerness to do nothing but the usual. So I began a wizard, and now I seek that which even wizards find strange. I'm not sure what you may know or who you truly are, but you seem like a man of means, and so I will share with you my plans." Marcus cleared his throat as he continued, his voice now deep and dramatic. It was not often that he discussed these things, even rarer with strangers, but he felt it only fair to give this man a full-view of what he would be searching for, if he accepted. "I am searching for myths and legends. I am searching for ruins yes, but not ones that have been cataloged and overseen. I am searching for the stories of the past, yet undisturbed and yet untold, and for that, I would like your help. And if you're so inclined, you'd be more than welcome to come with me and see what has yet to be seen; magic can be oh-so fickle sometimes." Marcus flashed a playful smirk as he flipped the coin in the air, leaning back in his seat. He caught it in his palm, the gilded coin shimmering as it fell, before slapping into the firm muscle of his hand. He was offering a story-teller a story of his own, and he hoped the bait was up to his liking. Marcus actually had to stifle a laugh at that thought, the more he reflected on it. It was more like offering him the idea of bait, and then letting him go look for it.

[Wrenmae]

A smile found its way to the storyteller's lips, and he nodded along with the mage. The fellow had an easy sort of charisma, the straight forward excitement of someone driven. Once the same sort of echo had followed Wrenmae's words, but time and torture had whittled away that uncareful drive. Now he jumped at shadows, feared his own magic, his own self. In some ways, Marcus reminded Wrenmae of himself, younger and carefree. Magic didn't have consequences then, it was all fair game. He looked down at the coins cascading between his own hands, slipped them into his pocket and rocked off his seat. Without answering Marcus, he stopped near the bartender and laid a few silver mizas down on the counter, holding up two fingers. With a nod, two mugs were pushed into the storyteller's hands and he brought them over to the table, laying one down in front of Marcus. Putting his own beside him, Wrenmae kicked his legs up and over the table top, boots crossed comfortably as he leaned back. "Interesting proposition. You're a treasure hunter then?" He glanced at Marcus and frowned, "No, not quite right. More...an acquirer. And I take it you're not looking for architecture or paintings, but magic. Always more magic with mages." He laughed. Like he could talk. "I like the cut of his jib," Zan burbled from Wrenmae's stomach, "Let's take him up on it, huh? Worst we can stand to do is kick around some rocks. Best we can stand to do is trigger a trap!" Wrenmae shook his head and smiled. Predictable Sarawanki familiar. "Say that I take you up on your offer, Say that I'm interested." He swung his legs off the table and crashed down on the chair, leaning over the splintered wood and crossing his fingers together, "Do you have destination chosen? Do you have anyone else to accompany you? And..." Djed clouded his eyes, the bar melting away into kaleidescope colors. Activating his auristics, even for a few moments, Wrenmae peered into the very soul of his companion. "What sort of magic is it that you practice?"

[Marcus Dymez]

Marcus was becoming increasingly confident that he had found the right man for the job. This storyteller had an attitude scarcely found in the University, and it was exactly what he needed out of a guide. With only the broadest hints of direction for his search, Marcus needed such a man. All he had to do was find out how true these rumors were, but so far his inquiries had turned up little. Perhaps this curious bard with mysterious capabilities would be able to find out more. Marcus hoped that was the case... As the spinner of tales began to posit about Marcus' own life, the young scholar could not help but laugh along with him. In that sense, Marcus was a pretty typical wizard, and the thought of it carried a bit of sting. Regardless, his goals were nothing of the ordinary, and that calmed his mind as he continued listening to his new acquaintance across from him. Now he inquired about Marcus' plan, which was practically non-existent, and the wizard simply smiled to him as his mind scrambled to piece together what he knew. He pointedly ignored the man's last question, busily hurrying to answer the prior ones as a means of deflection. When Marcus spoke, his words came out collected, carried on a smooth and casual voice through the tavern air. "Well, there aren't many clues towards ruins that haven't been scavenged over already, as you may imagine. So far, my best direction is to the South-East, along the peninsula. I've read about a story or two about a small recluse of wizards, holing up with powers beyond their control, at what's always called the spear of Lisnar. I'm assuming they're speaking of the tip of the peninsula to the North-East of the ruined settlement, but seeing as there have never been any official expeditions, there's no concrete location." Marcus nodded to himself as he laid back in his seat, content with his words and pondering how much he believed the tales himself. It was more than just a coincidence, he had told himself. There were too many similar stories, from various locales of Syrila. He had even had to get a scribe to translate one of them for him; written in a strange local dialect of Common far too mutated for him to understand the nuances of. "Quite a few stories of too similar tastes make for an interesting clue, don't you think?" That was Marcus' summation of all of his thoughts, made plain to the man. But now Marcus turned to the abandoned question, with an almost devilish smirk settled firmly across his features. His emerald eyes looked out across to the storyteller, and it was plain as day that the man's question would not be answered so simply. "Now then, you ask of me what tricks I carry up my sleeve, yet you have not even given me a name to which to respond to such a question. Let us just say that my magic is not the quaint kind kept in labs and lectures. I can hold my own." Marcus sat there, eyes gleaming, as he took a sip of the ale brought to him, raising his mug afterwards with a graceful motion. "Cheers."

[Wrenmae]

Speaking frankly, Wrenmae had no idea what the mage was talking about. The Spear of Lisnar? Wizards with power beyond their control? Certainly it seemed the sort of story that has a predictable conclusion, but was such a place really there? His fingers danced across the tabletop and he accepted the proffered mug, clinking it with his own before taking a drink himself. “Wrenmae,” he informed, placing the perspiring metal back onto the table, “Wrenmae Wilmot. And if I remember my studies correctly, that would make you a personal magic user.” He was confident, world magic was not exactly a battle oriented art. Personal magic was far more heavy-handed, more distinctly geared toward destroying ones opponent. So he may be dealing with a possible overgiven mind…much like his own. Mages fighting mages over scraps, rocks, and the possibility of a maybe. It hardly seemed as tempting as the fellow made it out to be. “You dwell in dangerous times,” Wrenmae said quietly, looking down into his mug, “And yet you throw yourself towards more danger. Even if we do make the journey to this Spear you speak of, what then? Do you know how many mages call that place their home? Do you know how mad they are? What sort of powers have they lost control of?” He shrugged helplessly, smiling almost apologetically at the excited fellow. Too many unknowns. Adventure was one thing, but information was key when walking into a place with overgiven mages. “How do you know what you’re looking for is even there?”

[Marcus Dymez]

Marcus knew exactly how to answer the bard's question. "I don't." Marcus could feel this exchange coming to a close. This Wrenmae fellow had never heard of this place, nor of the stories Marcus had named, and time seemed to be in short supply these days. Marcus did find it curious that he had never asked himself that question however; he had always simply assumed there was a chance his treasure would not be found, or would be inaccessible, or just out of reach. Perhaps that was the appeal of the adventure. If he knew everything about the trip it would be more of a mission or an expedition. Marcus was a man who chose his words wisely, and he was seeking an adventure. "I know nothing but the stories, and, if I was trying to hide something, spreading rumors about a bunch of mad-men wouldn't hurt. There's no way to find out but head down there myself, so I suppose that's why it's an adventure." Marcus shrugged over to the man sitting across from him with a casual smirk. This was all a game to the young scholar, but the veneer had cracked ever-so-slightly when Wrenmae spoke of men broken by magic. A brutal memory roared against its chains inside Marcus' mind as he smirked, but it felt like nothing more than a nagging feeling at the back of his thoughts. Some secrets should never come to light, after all. Marcus made his way to stand, hoping to draw a last glimmer of information from this bard, his words almost an offer themselves. "If stories are all I have to go on, then I suppose there is no helping it." A slight rustling of Marcus' thick robe, and a rough piece of parchment scribbled with ink laid on the table. It held written on it only two things: a date, 43rd-512, and the words 'Treasures of the Sea,' a name of a shop that was quite easily found. Marcus nodded to Wrenmae as he slid it across towards him. "I do have some preparations and contingencies to work out, however, if you feel so obliged to find out the answers to your questions, you're more than welcome to tag along." But there was work to be done, as there always seemed to be, and Marcus simply grinned a devilishly playful smirk as he got up, a small bow and a flourish of the hand signalling his exit. "Until then." And then out the door he went, the rustling and bustling crowd of inebriated sailors filling the absence of his voice quite eagerly. The web was spun, but what would Marcus catch? An unsuspecting fly, caught in passing, or perhaps an even more deadlier creature? Such was the thrill of not-knowing.

[Wrenmae]

Before the man left, Wrenmae pulled Djed from within him, pushing it out through his eyes and gazing on the aura of his adventurous companion. Auristics wasn't an art he had practiced much of, in fact the concept of magic itself had brought him more trouble than gain, but the fellow had interested him and the brevity of their interaction invited a sort of necessity of classification. The attempt was painful, all colors and spectrum he didn't quite grasp. He saw confidence there, an almost suicidal amount of confidence, but the details were hazy and indistinct. It was harder, then, to classify him than Wren would have liked. He let the magic drop from his eyes, shaking a headache away and letting the stranger depart. Taking the piece of parchment between two fingers, Wrenmae nodded to him and smiled, almost apologetically. Zeltiva was big, but not so big that he wouldn't see the fellow again. His brazen approach to magic and aggressive archaeology was...at once refreshing and completely foolish. So rather than comment, he nodded at the man to leave and sat back in his chair, nursing the last of his drink. "Nice guy," Zan commented, "A bit touched in the head though, right?" "I'm one to talk," Wrenmae muttered, draining the last of the liquid, "Maybe an adventure would be nice to clear my head." "That's what I'm talking about!" Zan laughed, bubbling around in his stomach, "Let's get moving and catch up with the guy! We can set out today! We could be halfway to wherever for whatever by tomorrow!" "Patience," Wrenmae cautioned, frowning, "We don't know him yet." "I didn't know you from the get go, but we turned out fine!" "He is not bound to keep me alive by necessity of life." "That's a cold way to say we're bonded like the very best of friends." Wrenmae shook his head and chuckled, "Always have to have the last word, eh Zan? Well, alright. I'll look into this Marcus and see if his story holds water." "Held me in attention pretty well," Zan quipped, "Don't take too long." Wrenmae laughed, tossed a coin on the table, stood, and strode out. There was work to do.