Of Plague and Sight

[Thomas Cosa]

41st of Fall, 512 AV Early Evening "Shielding is perhaps one of the, if not the safest, personal magic," a small voice could be heard throughout the Great Library, reading passages of Shielding: A Basic Guide aloud. "Like with Auristics, meditation is the key to master this particular branch -- this author recommends 43 hours," Thomas paused, rereading the same passage. "43 hours?" He whispered violently, wondering whether the author, certainly one of the current Nuits of Sahova, really meant that. Thomas was beginning to find the Dead have a rather different kind of humor. *SNAP* The cold harsh sound, rang throughout the library -- anyone within the immediate vicinity would undoubtably hear it. "You! Boy! Pulser! Come help me!" A hooded figure cried out, motioning for Thomas to follow. "I'm sorry?" Thomas asked, clearly offrented. "I'm busy," Thomas quickly mentioned, gesturing at the beginner's book, clearly not interested in helping any Nuit. "Especially after the way I've been treated, it's not like the bodysnatchers have been in any rush to help me," he thought bitterly to himself, returning his gaze to the book. "I said, come help ME," The hooded figure hissed at the young man, now approaching him. "Listen, pulser," he sniped, "Unless you want to be served first hand over to Qiao --," Thomas' eyes briefly widened at the name of the second-in-command of Sahova. Qiao was not a name you just brought up as an idle threat -- at least, Thomas wouldn't. And he wasn't about to refuse anyone, despite their being undead, who would. Grudgingly, Thomas closed the beginners guide, leaving on the table. "Come, come," the Nuit hissed, the smell of decay wafting around him. "This -- THIS," he pointed eagerly at possibility the largest book Thomas had ever seen in his life, "Grab it. Grab it, NOW," he yelled at the young man. Startled by the Nuit's complete regard of any social skill, Thomas hurriedly grabbed the large volume -- weighing at least twice him, and desperately tried carrying it after the wobbling Nuit. *BAM* The sound of the book hitting the floor rang unnaturally well throughout the library, the Nuit's own curses being vocalized just as well. "You IDIOT!" the undead hissed -- pausing for a brief second, "No, no. We can work -- the pulser just needs a little help, perhaps we can find another one, yes? Yes!" The Nuit looked around, still in conversation with itself. Just another day in Sahova.

[Wrenmae]

Tucked between equally imposing walls of mottled, dust colored spines, Wrenmae drew a line across a row of books. The mark was a solemn trail of his progress, also, perhaps, an indication of how useless these works were. No one had touched them in years, certainly. Withdrawing his finger, the mage sighed and peered suspiciously around the shelf he’d come to the end of. It would not do to be caught by the nuits here. Rayage had warned him that his lab was the only safe location in Sahova…even then, the enigmatic dead man often spoke in riddles and owed his allegiance to only himself. Try as he might, Wrenmae couldn’t get around the feeling that he had simply not lived long enough to leave a permanent impression on the nuit’s mind. Out here, he was no better than a test subject. Half of his journies were made in shadows, sometimes as a bird, seeking to avoid confrontation with the dead folk of the island rather than risk a bloody end. It wasn’t as if he felt inferior to them. By the standards Rayage had outlined, he would be considered Master Wrenmae by this circle of corpses. In the twenty two short years he’d spent on Mizahar, Wrenmae had accumulated enough expertise in two arts to rival some of the greats in ancient history.

But because he drew breath, he was innately a walking casualty waiting to happen.

The sound of something heavy hitting the floor gave him pause between rows, the sound so deafening it was almost thunder in the otherwise silent chamber. Peering through the spaces between books, the hypnotist made out two figure near the end of the library. One, obviously human, and the other, equally obvious as he was, a nuit. Due to his caution, Wrenmae had limited his interactions with the other pulsers around Sahova. Certainly the nuit seemed angry and for good reason. His brittle arms could never hope to lift a tome so large as the young man struggled with.

Sneaking and creeping had its uses, but Syliras was soon to knock on Sahova’s doors…and it might pay to have allies. Only the mad or brilliant of the living sought a place like Sahova out. Was he one of those, then? Or perhaps a slave? In any case, making a nuit his ally would be far harder than another pulser…and perhaps HE would know a bit more of what the dead whispered of when he wasn’t there to spy their words.

I’m going on ahead. Stay here and find me a book on Summoning.

What? Why? I was content to just lay here and let you waste time with your paper words.

We haven’t much time in the library and we have the ability to split our focus.

But we have enough time for you to make a new friend.

Would you like to go instead?

You know I would. Why bother asking?

For the sake of the unknown, let’s let me tread first. I walk with more care.

Boring.

Which is why I want you to stay here. I’m sparing you that cautious nature you so despise.

I didn’t say despise…shyke, always leaping to conclusions. I mean that it’s just uninteresting.

Very well. My point stands. If it makes you feel better, if you find me a book on Summoning, you may choose whichever other book most fits your fancy and I’ll read it.

No matter what?

No matter what.

Fine. Deal. You move too slowly anyways.

The flask at the hypnotist’s side became water, suddenly, and that globule of water soared a small ways away from him before shifting into a copy of himself. Zan frowned, pushing his hair back and releasing Djed enough to turn it blonde, pushing his face until it was just different enough to pass as Wren’s brother rather than clone.

“Must you do that?”

“Yes. I think we should let the record show I am Zan, not Wren.”

“However did you make that distinction?”

“Blonde hair, see?”

Wrenmae waved his familiar off, stepping around the shelf into visible range. The nuit caught sight of him immediately, waving him over with an uncharacteristic frenzy for such an ageless being.

“Yes…yes. You there, human, help this pulsar carry the tome to my laboratory. Quickly now…Quickly! Have you been stricken lame?”

“No, my lord nuit,” Wrenmae addressed with a faint smile and a bow, “I did not want to offend your ears with the clatter of my feet.” He knelt next to the other man and grinned, helping him pick up the huge collection of pages. “Where will we be taking your prize?”

“You will follow me, the both of you, and perhaps if you do so without dropping the book again, I’ll forget to mention such worthy bodies for our kind to possess.”

“I’d take that as a kindness,” Wrenmae said, looking up into the dusty sockets of the nuit, “But do you really want to lead us all the way back? Certainly a master in your station has many tasks to complete.”

“Master, ha!” The nuit choked a laugh derisively, pausing only to see that Wrenmae seemed earnest. “No. No I am no master. Although an expert at my craft, I am nowhere near the animator master Mashean is.”

“Surely you are modest,” Wrenmae continued, hypnotic djed crawling into his voice and pushing pride onto the nuit, an easy manipulation, “If you will pardon me for saying so, I do recall seeing you examining the dock’s overseers, seeking to improve upon their design, were you not?” He followed his words with a simple hallucination, something akin to a memory. Yes…yes, he would recall examining the golems at the docks recently. There was a gnawing desire inside him to outdo his betters, certainly making improvements on such public golems would certainly grant him the respect he wanted from his peers.”

“I do not appreciate being watched, mortal,” the nuit spat, rearing back his hand and slapping the hypnotist across the face, “See that it does not happen again.”

“As you say, Master nuit.”

“I am no master, boy. Are you stupid? My name is Lyle Velos.”

“I am sorry for my impertinence.”

“Forgiven,” the nuit muttered, obviously carrying himself differently. There was a self-righteous stiffness to his form now, a distant, hungry ambition. “You say you know me, boy. Then you know the way to my lab?”

“I would never seek to be so bold,” Wrenmae lied, “If you will correct me…”

“Lab 4-A,” Lyle hissed, “See that this tome is delivered immediately and do not tarry. I have a task to complete at the docks.”

“Of course,” Wrenmae responded, “I wish you fortune.”

“Fortune.” The nuit snorted again, “I have talent. I need no fortune.” Turning on his heel, the creature departed the library, leaving both men struggling with the heavy book.

Wrenmae let it drop again when the nuit was out of sight, sighing. “I find it best to move unobserved in Sahova, besides, now we have access to an Animation lab for the next bell or two.” Smiling at the other human, he put out a hand, “My name is Wrenmae, of Alvadas. I don’t usually intervene where nuits are concerned, but you seemed to be in a spot of trouble.”

Dusting off the cover of the book on the ground, Wrenmae struggled with the translation. It was written in the old tongue, enough so that he could only pick up a vague idea of the contents. “Looks like our friend Lyle was looking into the early works of Mashean…at least if my grasp of nader canoch can be trusted.” Glancing up at the human, another smile crawled across his face, “So…what are you? Mad, ambitious, or a slave?”

[Thomas Cosa]

Thomas smiled weakly, politely shaking the offered hand, "Thomas Cosa," he responded curtly, "And I thank you for your intervention -- I take it you have been to Sahova before? Or at least you seem to have had extensive dealings with the Nuit?" Thomas asked, the last word uttered in such a way similar to one muttering a curse. "They are proud things," he mused to himself. "It wouldn't surprise me," the young animator sighed, bending down to take a closer look at the title, "TransGolem Transplantation of the Actualized Soulcore, I think -- one of the Master's early works," he paused, biting his lower lip before continuing "Most of us, at least those who study Animation, constantly review his printed work. I imagine you are familiar with his accomplishments?" He asked Wrenmae dryly, not really expecting an answer. Living on Sahova, albeit for only 40 days, Thomas had forgotten just how ignorant man of the outside world was regarding magic and some of its greatest advocates. "I suppose all three -- ambitious for coming, mad for staying, and well, the Nuits, I expect, treat me worse then any slave I ever encounter in Syliras, perhaps only a little better then the Zith treat their own," Thomas frowned, reaching down to grasps one side of the giant book, "In any case, we should probably hurry then -- the quicker we get to the Lab, the more time we'll have to use his lab. Although we should consider the possibilty the Nuit will return earlier then expected," Thomas finished, glancing back at Wrenmae, Djed slowly coursing through the young wizard's eyes. Eyes opened to find the man before him bathed in a golden light -- pulsing slightly, moving fluidly. The sharp electric smell of Djed assalted Thomas senses, marking the storyteller a wizard -- and a powerful one at that. The young animator noticed a small link, or cord of golden Djed linking the man to something in the library -- or perhaps farther out, either way, it wasn't something Thomas could see, and blinking several times, he turned off his auristic sense. "You are a wizard, I take it?" Thomas asked, wondering if Wrenmae had any contact with the Archbishop or the Council of Five -- he was certainly powerful enough to where Thomas could believe it. A sharp pain shot the Thomas' stomach, the organ making noise in response to the young animator's hunger. "I don't supposed you would have any food?" Thomas asked, hopefully starting at the storyteller.

[Wrenmae]

Wrenmae smiled, helping the fellow hoist the book again and start off toward the laboratory. Pushing Auristics into his eyes, the storyteller gave the man a once-over, seeping magic playing a light patter of Djed use on his skin and fingers. The fellow was a mage, of course, and that much was obvious. However, the nature of his talents were yet obscured from the wizard.

Instead he nodded, wondering how much the young man knew about the nuits, the Archbishop, Council of Five, the whole embroiled political body of the Sahovan nuits. For the most part, Wrenmae had stayed well out of Rayage's way upon their arrival. There was a chance for both of them to hone and practice their skills for the coming of the Sylirans. So far, Wren had spent his time memorizing the twists and turns of the citadel passageways. It was a risky venture and one that often saw him scrambling into shadows, watching the nuits pass, catching snippets of their dry tones as they spoke of inventions and strides ahead in magic.

Most of it was interesting enough to prod the storyteller onward, memorizing faces and voices, names and titles. Should he ever find himself in a position to possess some of these created wonders, certainly he would want to know which of the undead to watch out for.

“Aptly assumed,” Wrenmae answered, peering around the corner of the corridor before stepping into the hallway, “Was it common sense or Auristics which revealed that truth to you?” The mage winked over his shoulder, pausing only long enough to reach into his robes and pull out some of the bread and dried meat offered to him from Rayage. Food was not plentiful on the island and some pulsers were forced to go without. Luckily for Wrenmae, he had a friend in Rayage and that afforded him a little more than enough to subsist on. He offered this excess back to Thomas now.

“The dead often forget the concerns of the living. Keep those complaints quiet. I hear that the talented pulsers are considered for nuitification…and the untalented ones secretly promised to nuits who require new bodies. The best policy in Sahova is to remain invisible just long enough to create something noteworthy. If you are deemed useful, you may get some measure of respect from these shuffling cadavers.”

Their trek took them up winding stairs and then down, finally leaving them in a hall of iron doors, marked only by the lab number. Nodding at Thomas, Wrenmae pushed open the door and stepped inside, laying the book on a large operating table in the center of the room. Around him, the lab was festooned with gears and metal pieces. An incomplete golem head in the shape of a dog’s snout laid discarded, glass eyes staring nowhere and everywhere as soft light lived within its metallic bones. Animals paced in wrought iron cages, frightened and savage eyes daring the two humans to tread closer. Wolves, mostly, but one bear eyed them with implacable serenity.

“Animation was never a study I had time to pursue,” The mage admitted opening the book and perusing the pages, “Life to the inanimate, seemed a dangerous sort to tamper with. My expertise exist in a more personal magic, but to your interest and knowledge, I credit you an Animator then?”

[Thomas Cosa]

"Auristics," Thomas said, taking a moment to grab the clump of food, "and thank you, for this." he smiled at Wrenmae, breaking off a small chunk of the bread. Grabbing a strip of dried meat, Thomas greedily shoved the foodstuffs into his mouth, closing his eyes in appreciation. Thomas laughed, "I am sure that might seem the more obvious, or even polite, answer, but I assure, Wrenmae, that they are quite aware what we need to survive. I am not sure how long you plan on staying, --," he paused briefly, considering what he was about to say, "I hope you don't misunderstand what I'm about to say as anything more then a warning, Wrenmae, wizards in general, aren't good company, and the dead even less so, but I would hope you have plans for staying in Sahova. "The Nuits are disgusting and immoral creatures. You should worry should they pay any mind to you -- at least until you've proven yourself useful. As you said, to the Nuit, the only useful pusler is a dead one. They do not see a soul, or any worth to you or I. To the dead, we're just a way to extend their own lifespan. However, should you manage to gain their respect, they become immeasurably valuable, as I'm sure you're aware. They have proven themselves some of the best teachers in the Arcane." Thomas struggled to carry even half the weight of the grand book -- often asking Wrenmae to stop along the way. It was obvious Sahova had taken it's toll on the young man, his thin frame and gaunt face a testament to the conditions of the undead isle, and perhaps even to the treatment he had endured at the hands of Nuit. It had not been an easy stay, to say the least. The duos entrance into the animation lab was announced by the various snarls and fearful growls coming from the cages -- to which Thomas paid no mind. He had originally been horrified at the treatment of animals he had witnessed on Sahova, but his time spent on isle had taught him to ignore what was happening to him. No longer did he hear the soft cries for help as he passed the cages to his Master's lab. As long as it wasn't him, Thomas was ok. "Really?" Thomas asked, "I find animation fascinating. It was what originally drew me to Sahova, but to each his own, I suppose," he paused, looking at the door before he grabbed the golem head. "I am," he mentioned, casually toying with the mechanical skull, "So you study personal magics alone, then?" Thomas asked, testing the joints of the skull. Thomas paused, seemingly considering something. "Wrenmae, do you know the story of how humans came to practice Animation?"

[Wrenmae]

Wrenmae smiled, he admired the young man’s spirit. Just the right amount of bile and determination to create a pliable servant or a vicious enemy. Honestly, without Rayage’s help, he might already be feeling the same effects Thomas suffered. His skin clung to his bones almost desperately, little padding from fat reserves to give the young man any more vibrant an appearance than the healthiest nuit among the Sahovans.

Pausing near the wolves, their snarling, whining, growling blotted out important words, shattering conversation. Transfixing them all with a single stare and a stab of Djed, Wrenmae bent the wolves into obedient silence. Their snarls transformed to whimpers and then silence and they cowered from the mage, pushing themselves as far back as they could.

“I was never given the opportunity,” he revealed, turning back to Thomas with a smile, “Magic is certainly not so ample as to be plucked by anyone. It was quite by coincidence that I stumbled on my teachers in the mystical arts.” Making his way over to the table, he ran a hand along the cold stone edge, felt the blood soaked into it with Auristics. It was as real to him as though he were touching it fresh. The aura of the stone table was steeped in death and faux life. Magic had happened here, and murder, both seemed irrevocably linked.

“Remember, Thomas, The nuit are…or were us. Each one of us carries the possibility of becoming like them, parasites in different skins, eternity perverting our perceptions, distancing our humanity. Do not be so quick as to disregard them as something wholly different. The nuit are ambition given form. They exist to progress and, to an extent, do we not all?”

He noticed the ever present circle around the table, always circles with World magic. Bending, he inspected it for the minute details. The circle was branded into the ground, coils of Djed conductive wires holding its shape. Perhaps this, among all other places, would be the best to create Animated creatures. Oh how jealously the wizards guarded their secrets.

Straightening, he looked back to Thomas and shrugged, “I am no stranger to world magics, but not to all. I have heard few things about Animation, including this story…but I’d be interested to hear it, nonetheless.”

Hopping up on the table, the mage observed his peer. Both in bondage , both no better than slaves in this place of learning. He could not reveal that his ambitions lay beyond this place, beyond the petty reasons that broughthim here, and neither could he reveal his unusual friendship to Rayage, the nuit.

Instead he let Thomas talk, giving the boy something the mage himself had yearned for.

Company…and company that did not consider itself the better by virtue of its condition.

[Thomas Cosa]

"But that IS what makes them different, Wrenmae," Thomas argued, glancing at the whimpering beast. Only just a moment ago they were snarling, willful beasts. Now, they were pathetic pups, scared of their own shadows --"hypnotism," he thought, looking back at the young story teller. The young animator had been on the undead isle long enough to recognize hypnotism in it's practice, and made sure to mark Wrenmae as a practitioner. Human or not, a wizard could never be trusted. "Their ambition, their parasitic lifestyles," he scoffed, "This is what makes them different from us, the pulsers. We breathe, we feel, we live. They are driven only by their fear of death. Do you really not see a difference between us and them?" he hissed, eyes searching the story teller for the answer he wanted to hear. He couldn't have the first human he had met in so long be a sympathizer to the Nuit. "True, all life seeks to improve, to better it's existence, to evolve. But this is exactly what the Nuits refuse to do! They are stagnant, unchanging. Many of them believe to see the world as it was Pre-Valterrian!" Thomas argued, "They do not understand the world has changed. The past has happened, and the future is the only thing we can change. They still live as if they were at war -- their progress will do nothing for our present. For our reality." Thomas paused, staring hopelessly at Wrenmae. Could he really not see them as that different? Or worse, did he view the Nuit as human. "They are not like us Wrenmae, and they forfeited any right to be considered so the moment they stopped breathing." Thomas nodded, glad to have a change of subject. "It's an old story, something I'm sure would be considered much more of a fairy tail then history. Either way, it's a nice enough thing to hear." "Life," Thomas began, "Is beautiful in all it's forms, naturally given to us from Kihala, cleverly named the 'Life-giver'. So beautiful and pure is her gift, and is she, it is only natural that others would covet both Kihala and her gifted miracle," Thomas allowed a brief smile to pass his face as he spoke of the goddess, one that quickly changed to a grimace as he began the next sentence, "Uldr is the god of the undead, a god of hate and offense to the natural world. A god so ugly, so hateful, that only the most desperate among us pray for his blessing," Thomas paused briefly, remembering the details of the ancient story. "Uldr's jealousy of Kihala and her gift goes far back, perhaps even farther back then the arrival of the first humans to Mizahar." "Uldr was once mortal, and truly in love with Life in all her forms. Uldr hated knowing that one day he would be seperated from Kihala, afraid that she would forget him in his next life -- so afraid was he, Uldr would go to her altar daily, praying to be excused from the natural cycle. For life eternal spent with Kihala." Thomas smiled weakly. The young novice had always enjoyed this part of the story. Perhaps it was the romantic in him, or maybe the idea of an eternally torturted Uldr brought Thomas some king of sadistic pleasure. "One day, Kihala spoke to her devotee, hoping to reassure him that she had taken notice. 'My child,' Kihala spoke softly, her voice reminiscent of the wind brushing against the spring leaves, 'I cannot stop the cycle, even though it pains me to see Dira work in this world. I cannot stop nature, and it would be cruel for me to try. Life can only be missed once it's gone, Uldr,' she reminded the mortal, hoping he would go back to enjoying the life he loved so, instead of wasting it in front of her altar." "Uldr, however, did not take Kihala's words as well as she had hoped. Instead, he viewed her unwillingness to help him as neglect, her acceptance of what is natural as weakness. Uldr's love of Kihala quickly turned to jealously, and inside him grew an unnatural obsession with her gift," Thomas breathed slowly, his pallor skin reflecting what little light existed in the small lab, "So he turned to magic and other gods in an attempt to lengthen his own life and to detour Dira in any way he could. In particular, mortal Uldr asked Yshul, goddess of thievery, for her help. And surprisingly, she did." "Kihala did not guard her gift, nor is she a selfish deity. But she had long since known of Uldr's plot, and was careful to leave false hints and clues as to how she manage to give true life. Instead of finding the secret to true life, Kihala had planned for Yshul to find something else all together. Thus, it was surprisingly easy for the thieving goddess to steal the knowledge from her. Quickly, she returned to the desperate Uldr, holding his prize just beyond his reach. 'Everything has it's price, Uldr. What will you pay?' Yshul asked, not willing to part so easily with Life's secret. 'Anything you wish, my goddess,' the young mortal responded, hungry from greed. 'Your youth, then. That is the price for this knowledge,' she smiled, knowing he would agree and readily so. And so, Uldr was thus stripped of his youth and made an old man, Death following ever closer." "But Uldr was smart, and trained himself in the magics of his time since Kihala's rejection -- and was thus able to propel himself to an almost divine status, the knowledge of life allowing himself to fully complete the transition from mortal to divine. However, instead of becoming as pure and beautiful as Kihala, Uldr was forever tainted. Hate and Jealousy marked his divine soul, creating a truly ugly god. Angered by his Kihala's treachery, Uldr grabbed Kihala's secret by force and tossed it to Mizahar in a Rage. Kihala tried to grab the knowledge before it fell, but only managed to salvage half." "The rest fell to MIzahar, falling into the hands of wizards, wizards now blessed with the ability to bring sentience to the un sentient, but not to force need or to allow the expression of free will. Or rather, they had the means to create some kind of life, but the inability to truly create a soul." "And that was how Animation came to mortal hands, or at least, that's what I was told," Thomas chuckled darkly, bowing theatrically. "Did you like it?"

[Wrenmae]

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound echoed in the laboratory. Now that the animals had quieted to a dull murmur, the sound of flesh of flesh held sovereign in the wake of the Animator's story. Leaning against the work table he applauded the story with slow applause.

"Well said," the storyteller complimented, "Well said indeed. I'm sorry to say I hadn't heard that story before, but no doubt you did it justice." He chuckled, "Quite a flair for the dramatics you have there."

Stepping over to the other tables, Wrenmae took several pieces and laid them out in the center of the circle. Idly he ran his hands along the wires, the joints of filed metal, so painstakingly gathered. "A shame such knowledge is wasted on a fool, though." He continued, not looking to the mage.

Instead he began organizing the items, slowly building the shape of a dog with the pieces. No doubt the animator had plans to do the same, but Wrenmae wanted to know how the pieces fit together. "Your hatred of the nuit are misplaced, uninformed, more the prattling of a pulser who has accepted his role as an inferior than any mage." He looked back over his shoulder at his peer, grim. "I traveled with a nuit for the past few seasons, Master Rayage to be exact. At the beginning, I was much of you...angry at the way he treated me so dismissively, more an object with will than a person...but slowly I uncovered a truth in all nuits, I think. A truth they hide more guardedly than their precious magic."

He fit a segmented tail to a hip bone, fixing that to the spinal column with a dull snap. "They're human...or were...and what they once were remains within them." He sighed, it was more despairing than castigating, more defeated than angry. "No man was meant to live forever. The weight of memory, of loss, it weighs too heavily on us for but one lifetime, let alone more. The brief reprieve of reincarnation through Lhex, the blessing of amnesia and new life, that is our purpose. We are transitory beings, Thomas. We live like sparks...flaring brightly and fading. Uldr was a fool to think Kihala would not love him. All life is sacred. The nuit are a punishment, a curse, or a fear that drives the rational to seek the most irrational solution. In prolonging their lives, they seek to build what was lost in the Valterrian...perhaps an impossible task."

He remembered the classroom in Zeltiva. Rayage's face when confronted with retrieving Rayanne's research...there was despair there, old and harrowing despair.

"Understand them, lest you become them." He rose, transfixing the skull to the head of the spinal column and standing back from it, hands at his side. "The nuit only appear static...and it is because they've frozen their timeline, fearful of its natural end."

Turning to Thomas, Wrenmae walked past him to retrieve more parts, returning to the circle, "But even Qiao will die one day, Masheen, the rest of them. One of Dira's agents ambushed us in the forest...a being of considerable power. I do not think Rayage would have survived without my help." Grim-faced, he leaned over his work again. "For a man who is so quick to castigate Uldr's decision to create false life, you follow in his footsteps in pursuing animation...don't you?"

He turned a taciturn stare to the animator, judging no more with his face than with his tone of voice. It was flat...too flat.

"What made you so disenchanted with life as it is? What makes you think you can do it better?"

Standing sharply, he stood aside and thrust a hand down at the half completed metal wolf skeleton.

"What makes you believe this is any different from what the nuits have done to themselves?"

[Thomas Cosa]

"You insult me, Wrenmae," Thomas replied, all the friendly warmth drained from his voice, "I am no more a fool then I am a willing servant to the Nuit. It is unfortunate that my current," Thomas paused briefly, having difficulty finding just the right word, "...situation gives me less status then a newly turned Nuit, but it is a role I am willing to play. It is the game of Sahova, something we all must partake in. Surely, Master Rayage explained true undead politics to you? Or did he withhold that information?" Thomas smiled, staring right at the story teller. "In Sahova, pulsers are considered little better then slaves. They make sure we view them as valuable. Here, all pulsers are made dependent on the Nuit. They withhold food as well as knowledge. They have us sleeping on nothing more then a few pounds of hay, then forcing us to help them in every which way. The Nuit want us broken, Wrenmae," Thomas finished, . "But, I am not so easily broken," Thomas whispered, his voice barely carrying through the lab. "Perhaps it is because I understand them, however unfortunate that is, but I do. They are depressing creatures, and only the most desperate ever chose that path. Forever they are dependent on us, the living, for body. And perhaps that is why they despise us so? To have their own immortality tied to something so mortal must be...aggravating," Thomas paused to consider this, never having spent much time thinking about a Nuit's perspective, "I have always assumed their condition a curse, and I am glad that we can agree on that, but I do not pity them, Wrenmae. Should Dira come to Sahova tonight and completely reap the isle of the Nuit, I would only mourn the loss of knowledge," Thomas stared into nothingness, his face devoid of feeling, "They are not deserving of my pity, nor yours, Wrenmae. You would do well to stop humanizing them." Thomas considered Wrenmae for several chimes, going over what the Hypnotist built. The young animator checked all the joints, careful to make sure they turned the way they were supposed to -- that they would support the whole structure. Thomas grabbed several of the smaller pieces; claws, teeth, and other ornaments, and carefully placed them on the metal skeleton. "No," Thomas mentioned finally, adding two leather padded figures as ears, "I do not follow in Uldr's foot steps. Nor do I intentionally seek to improve on natural life with Animation, Wrenmae. I do not seek to build a master creature, or an immortal husk for my soul. I seek to give life, to create," Thomas slowly traced his finger along the golem's spine, testing it's flexibility, "Practicing Animation, despite being the source of Nuits, is not the same as being one, I assure you. I do not defy the gods with my practice, as the Nuits do with their existence." "I see nothing offense in what I do, but then again, perhaps Uldr saw nothing wrong in his practices," Thomas paused, his face pensive, "I have faith in my future, and will welcome DIra when my time comes, but perhaps that is because I have Seen my own potential" "What about you Wrenmae? Do you have faith in your purpose? Will you welcome Dira? Or will you try and defy her?"

[Wrenmae]

Wrenmae did not speak as Thomas did. He only watched the young animator at his work, fixing up the golem Wrenmae had partially assembled. How long had that man been in Sahova? He spoke as if he had for months, seasons, years. The hatred of the undead ran so deeply in him it might as well have been a poison coursing through his blood. Worse yet, he understood the nuit, had been given time to consider their perspective. His was an infection so deep, nothing but the most focused hypnotism or unexpected actions would excise it from his soul.

Truly, Wrenmae was lucky. Lucky that Rayage still viewed him as enough of a threat...or a friend, to pull on the strings of the undead isle to keep the young man fed. Had he been with Thomas, perhaps he also would have hated the arrogant man-husks ghosting through the dusty halls.

Retrieving metal legs, setting their joints together, popping them with ease, Wrenmae fixed them to the wolf creature, taking care to push and prod at the places where the leg would bend, accept weight, hold the creature above it. How fascinating. This animator was a genius at sculpting...or had an eye for detail in ordering them.

"No, not you," Wrenmae muttered, clicking claws into the paws, "Only your creations would be viewed as the nuit, abominations of Djed life. Not the creator, but his children...and only because you made the life simply to give it, not for any purpose besides playing god."

He smiled, in spite of his words, rising and dusting off his hands.

"Sahova has changed you, I think. Perhaps, it will kill you if you stay much longer. The nuit I travel with has shown me humanity and vulnerability, Thomas, as any man could have. That endears him to me. My time in Sahova is temporary, as should yours be. I think the refuge for the dead will always remain as such, and you'll find yourself among their ranks before you expect if you do not carefully proceed."

Returning again to the table, he took two red gems, setting them into the hollows of the wolf skull's eyes. They glittered there, strange semi-sentience rising and falling in their flickering depths.

"I have defied Dira already, I foiled the plan of her priest to take the unlife of my friend. If the Lady in Black seeks me, she will find me a game opponent."

He grinned at Thomas, "I have much to accomplish before I let myself breathe my last."