Flashback The Mysterious Remedy

[Celeste Arumen]

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7th Day of Spring, 509 AV

"We have an important delivery to make today, child." Grams said.

After they'd collected the lavender and sliced it thinner than an Alvad's purse-strings, they ended up filling at least three different jars with the stuff. "You want to pour alcohol in with the petals - it acts as a solvent, something that helps separate what you want from what you don't. Just a little bit over the top, about an inch or so." Celeste nodded seriously and began to pour. "Not too much!" The woman exclaimed, knobby fingers itching toward the carafe of vodka.

Celeste shot her a dirty look and poured a little less vigorously.

Once the jars had been filled, it was simply a matter of waiting. They'd shaken and stirred the concotion, then let it set for a couple of weeks. "If you boil 'em, it comes easier," the old woman replied as they both sat near the sill. "But I like it this way. It really lets the substance mature." Celeste narrowed her eyes but said nothing. The crone always added an extra step.

So when the day came, they passed the tincture - a dark, swath of purple and brown - through a cheesecloth at the top of each jar, straining the liquid into tiny little phials for distribution. By the end of it all, her hands were stained and her feet hurt. Who knew they'd fill so many little bottles? "Lavender Extract is good for everything. Gashes, migraines, burns, even indigestion. You can cook with it or use it as a perfume. Doesn't matter."

The little girl just stared.

"Now, I need you to take a few of these to the Bizarre. There is a young man of average height and build. You'll know him when you see him. Give him these and tell him Isolde Arumen sends her thanks." Celeste furrowed her brow. "But how am I.."

"Go! And wash those hands before you leave."

The short walk to the Bizarre was uneventful. It was a path she knew well, even though it was ever-changing, and Celeste hummed tunelessly as she went. The prismatic cobblestone gleamed cheerful and irregular and she counted each crack in the masonry as she passed it. 'One, two, three...'

Once among the stalls, her eyes strained to pick out the aforementioned young man. Who was he and why the hell did Grams owe him?

Eeeee!Do with this what you will!

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[Wrenmae]

"Ladies and gentlemen, come, come, gather round." The young man crouched on an empty stall, the merchant who owned it long since gone. He wore his wide brimmed hat and cape, grinning. The sun fought in its stubborn way to illuminate all the niches and shadows cast by people and stall. Somehow, Wren had found a swath of it to crouch in, and although obscured, his voice drew curious and smiling folks around him.

At this point, Wren was something of a fixture to the Alvads.

The rogue storyteller, watch his hands, but keep your ears open.

"Let me tell you a story about the otter and the shark." Standing up straight, he leaped off the stall and into the center of the growing crowd, arms wide as he surveyed the gathered. "Mind you, this is a tale guarded by Caihya herself...for in the dawn of time, all animals could speak as you and I..." he winked at one of the rough men, "Perhaps a bit better than some of us by the look of you lot."

An appreciative chuckle rippled through the faces. Target one and you make an unhappy listener, target no one and everyone will laugh at who they think you mean. Tricks of the trade, tricks of the trade.

"Now in that time, Shark was feared by all who dared to tread in the sea. Shark came under the cover of water, and none could see him till it was too late. As Shark grew full, the friends and family of Otter began to disappear. So it was that crafty otter decided something needed to be done."

He stalked around his audience, smiling, snapping at the children with both hands, gnarled fingers like teeth and the hands acting as jaws.

"Otter found shark loved to swim in a deep part of the sea, but came close to shore when hunting. So Otter laid a trap. When Shark came close to shore, Otter would get his brother Beaver and his sister Muskrat to dive into the water and coax Shark close. Before they leaped out, Otter would throw a stone at Shark's back."

Wren mimed throwing stones, and a child giggled. Bending down near the child, Wren spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, but almost seemed to be confiding a secret to the child.

"Now, Otter was crafty. He knew that Shark would hungrily continue to throw himself at Beaver and Muskrat till he had something to drag back into the waves. The stones hurt, but not so much as to deter Shark's mighty hunger. To the horror of Shark, Muskrat and Beaver became more adept at avoiding him the more stones hit his back. You see, what Otter did was give Shark a bump."

Wren bent over and put a hand behind his back, the telltale fin of a shark.

"And that made Shark easier to see coming...allowing Otter to keep his family. Now, Shark still doesn't know this. So when you see his bump split the waves, you'll know he's coming...and you can thank the crafty otter for giving it to him."

Clapping his hands together, Wren gave a short bow, and a few coins came his way with some appreciative chuckles. Gathering the coins, the crowd began to disperse. But one little girl remained, holding the telltale small glass bottles of the philterer, Isolde.

So...this must be the little girl the woman had spoken to him about.

Wren didn't know if she had heard the story or not, but he smiled at her, bending down to her level and winking. "Hey there, little one," he said to her, "Got something for me?"

[Celeste Arumen]

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There were those who came and went in the Bizarre, trading talents for coin. Celeste often lingered in these places, little alcoves off to the side. She’d been looking for quite some time, but couldn’t identify anyone who really didn’t fit the description. Grams had been intentionally vague. Irritated, she decided to rebel and listen to a tale from a regular storyteller, some careworn young Alvad named Wren. As he spoke he quipped, he gestured and she laughed in all the right places. He had a strangely hypnotic quality to the way he spoke, leaving her entranced. And before long, the tale was over.

”Neh?” She replied in the way of Alvads, blinking. Glancing down at the philters in her hand, she suddenly put two and two together. ”You mean me?” Of course he means you, she thought bitterly. ”What would make you think that?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. He could just be some stranger, seeing something to be gained in stealing her profits. But the man fit the extraordinarily broad description, even though that wasn’t hard.

”Why should I trust you?” She asked bluntly. If he wasn’t the guy, she had business elsewhere. The citizens of Alvadas certainly didn’t rob themselves, after all. Plus, she could be working on her models or doing something else productive. Anything, really. It was only begrudgingly that Grams got her to help in the first place.

Then again, that was usually the way of it.

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[Wrenmae]

Wren rocked back on his heels, squatting at her level. He cradled a cheek in one open palm and cocked his head to the side, smiling faintly at her. Most of it was in his eyes, bright and brown his eyebrows quirked into inquisitive arches and plateaus. What a charming little street rat she was. Although small, she already had the characteristic belligerence necessary to live on her own among the ever shifting layout of Ionu's city.

"No reason," He answered her, bobbing his head to the other side, "For instance...I could say that I was told to wait for a small girl with something for me from Isolde. I could also say she was an old woman who's trying to buy a favor...and that delivering those bottles isn't the point of this little meeting."

He stood, almost unbalanced, stumbling back a few steps before catching himself and grinning, "Or I could say that I'm Ionu himself, or herself really...who's to say differently?" Bobbing his shoulders up he pulled both hands around and clasped them together. He remembered how the old woman had found him, claimed his name and magic before he could say hello, and asked him for a favor. It had been some time and he'd begun to think the old woman would never find a use for his favor to be returned.

Imagine his surprise when a letter had come to him.

So...the recluse had a girl, and a mageling at that. She certainly had the iron beginnings of a decent mage, but youth did strange things to those who leaped into the practice of magic...the girl he saw now might not be the same one some years down the line.

Mad...Kit would say, insanity.

He smiled again.

"Tell me," He said, tapping a finger alongside his chin, "Would you be Celeste?"

[Celeste Arumen]

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The little girl was momentarily taken aback. Not only did he identify Grams, but he cited her first name, which made Celeste feel strangely exposed. Further, he went on to emphasize the ambiguity of his real identity, planting the seed of doubt. Ionu wouldn’t be so forthright, would he? ’Of course not,’ her mind spat. But that too, could be an exceedingly clever ploy. Her youthful mind worked furiously. She’d caught Ionu before. There was no reason to think she couldn’t do it again.

At the sound of her name, she sighed, as if at last releasing her suspicions. ”Yes,” the girl replied, holding forth his quarry. ”These belong to you.” But her eyes were alight with inquisition - she wanted to know just what he meant by that statement, earlier. There was some sort of inferred meaning behind his words. ”But first,” she began, snatching the bottles just beyond his grasp, ”you have to tell me just what the ‘point of this meeting,’ is exactly.” She shot him an arch look, steadying the clattering phials.

She eyed him speculatively. He was rather nondescript, but there was an air of playful indifference about him she found compelling. Celeste looked as if seeing him for the first time. He was relatively attractive, young and of an average build. If ever she got the opportunity, Celeste would try to study him, to work on a model later. That face of his might get her some quality contacts in the city and better yet, she could leave him holding the bag if things went sour.

That sounded promising. She decided to humor him for now. After all, he already knew entirely too much about her. If Grams trusted him, so did she.

”Tell me; how do you know Grams?” That would be a good angle to start with.

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[Wrenmae]

Wren held up a finger and shook it, "Ah! To answer first in word would be a disservice to our craft." Instead he turned on his heel and strode away from her. He was confident she would follow, curiosity alone was a lure no sentient fish could shake. So when he dipped into an alley, away from the prying eyes of the ever watching citizens, he held his hands in front of his face, turning back on Celeste.

His hands made a perfect opaque veil across his features, so when he reached into his being and tugged on the threads of Djed within him, he twisted his features beneath the hands toward a shape he preferred. Sharper nose, more of a pronounced hollow in his cheeks, drawing back his skin to give the illusion of starvation, and pushing a tuft of black hair from his chin into a bush of barely combed wiry bristle. He removed his hands with a flourish, grinning with his borrowed face and then winked one eye, opening it blue, and then the other, opening it green.

Holding the features for a moment or two, he let his djed naturally seep and his features swiftly retract to his own face again.

"Little mageling, the nature of our meeting is purely business...or educational, transactional in purpose. Those philters are my payment and you the subject." he crouched again, grinning, swaying from one side to the other.

"Wrenmae. I'm a teacher of some magic, or rather, something of a mage myself. I think your Dear Grams felt two alley-spawn should be thick as thieves lest we be vipers in our own yards." Shrugging, rolling his shoulders, he stood and sighed, leaning back against the alley.

"Crafty creature your elder is, surely. She spotted me and knew my talents straight away." Cocking his head to the side, his right eyebrow lifted in a graceful question.

"How about you, Celeste, morpher? How did you come to have such an interesting guardian?"

[Celeste Arumen]

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Our craft? There was some sort of common denominator between them? Celeste felt a sudden pang of jealousy. She wasn’t used to someone automatically having the upper hand. Worst of all, he simply walked off with the expectation that she’d follow him. This meeting with Wrenmae was striking a blow to her pride. Grudgingly, she trailed in his wake, glaring all the while. This was certainly not how she’d imagined her day to be.

When they slid into the alley, she bristled in silence. It wasn’t safe to be following a strange man she’d just met to a place no one could see. Was he hypnotizing her? Celeste tried to think very carefully about how he was making her feel. There were no out-of-place emotions that she could identify and he made no careful suggestions as far as she could see. It was simply her survival instinct in overdrive, letting her know this was not normal, that this was a risk.

But after they stopped, his intentions were suddenly very clear. With a bit of tugging and a little bit of concentration, he moved his hands to reveal a very different face. Wrenmae was a morpher, then? His knowing Grams suddenly made sense. Celeste couldn’t resist the oncoming grin. What a ridiculous disguise! Who wouldn’t remember a man with one blue eye and one green eye? But then again, perhaps being notorious was a part of his game.

And then operation identity theft flew out the window. If he were a morpher, she certainly wouldn’t be able to study him without him knowing it. What a load of rot, she thought irritably. It’d been such a good plan, too. Celeste sighed. Clearly, this day was just not going her way. It would just be better to hang on for the ride.

So he’d run into Isolde and she’d struck up a deal. Now that was interesting. What was her game? Grams didn’t usually make a point of networking for the girl. In fact, she tried to keep her as busy as possible. It was more than likely that she thought this Wrenmae was the closest thing to a good influence she’d find in the city. What a laugh that seemed to be. Perhaps there was something else, a hidden motive that was yet to be revealed. Now that seemed more likely.

”I can’t say,” she said nonchalantly, holding the phials out for him to take. ”I’ve been in her care for as long as I remember. My parents died when I was small.” Which meant she must’ve been really quite small – she barely cleared four and a half feet, waist no wider than a pillar.
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[Wrenmae]

Wren took the phials with careful interest, placing each one in a different pocket on his patchwork clothing. Isolde could be trusted as far as her ends were concerned. Never underestimate a wizard, much less one that knows your secrets. But she had offered up Celeste so easily, willingly, and divulged her secret power as well. It was too early to see all the edges the old woman was cobbling, but then, Wren was not terribly interested in all of that. It had been some time since he had met another morpher and the mage in him delighted at an opportunity for rare camaraderie.

"Dead parents seems like an ordinary recipe around these parts," he said cocking his head to the side and grasping his own chin, "It's a familiar beginning to quite a few neighborhood stories...erm...that's confusing. I mean, there are a lot of folk around, travelers mostly, that lost their parents. Backstory stuff, sets the stage for the loneliness of the day."

He held out his hands, fingers straight, thumbs out almost horizontally, as if capturing an image. "Tragic loss, the ubiquitous beginning to story. Maybe they were torn away by bandits or Zith! Introducing...Revenge. Or maybe the loss robbed them of a sense of belonging, forcing them to wander place to place! Introducing...Quest for a Family. Or perhaps the absence of the parents cue a rapid moral decay and a Rhysol-may-care attitude. Introducing...the Renegade." He shrugged, "Or they could have killed their parents, and in which case we have a dandy antagonist all tied up in a bow, eh?"

Shrugging, he pushed his back up against the wall beside him and slid down it, almost sitting, as if on an invisible chair.

"Tell me, Celeste, why do you morph? Why do any of us?" Holding up a finger as if spearing an idea from the air, he grinned, "We all do our own share of djed-less morphing, don't we? Socially we morph to fill the environment, physically we morph as we grow. Life itself is in the throes of change and we're just ahead of the crowd."

Pressing both his hands together he stood and strode past her, checking both ways down the street beside the alley before pulling his head back in.

"What's your role in the story, hmm? Are you a protagonist? Antagonist? Supporting role? Paint me a picture. Who is Celeste? I can't very well be part of your story without first knowing what kind of tale you're weaving, now can I?"

[Celeste Arumen]

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Celeste couldn’t help but laugh, stubborn as she may be. Wrenmae was ridiculous, but in a charming sort of way. ”Who am I?” She mused aloud, never having thought about it before. ”I suppose I’m a protagonist, in my own way, but in your story, I’m probably a strong supporting character.” The little girl thought back to all the novels she’d read. ”Stories are all about perspective. Just like you were saying, our roles change depending on whose we’re in.”

The mageling continued. ”For example, you’re the role of the mentor in mine, the teacher that’ll likely have a dramatic death – but a really cool one, you know? But only after you teach me all it is that you can. Once your work is done, you’ll die. Still, since that’s not your only role, you’ll probably just disappear instead.” She nodded to herself, as if this made sense.

”As for me, I’m Celeste Arumen, born to magic. My mother went overgave and went mad. My father still loved her anyway. The silencers came and killed them both – my mother for being a mage and my father for trying to defend her. All in all, I never knew them, so I can only feel a little bad.” She shrugged, feigning indifference. Of course, these things hurt her terribly, but she wanted Wrenmae to think she was tough.

”Anyway, now I’m on my own. And one day, I’ll become one of the greatest mages to ever live. I’ll be a Master Wizard of Sahova and use my power to serve Ionu’s will.” She paused, trying to condense what she’d said into one his archetypes. ”So maybe… Epic quest?” She folded her arms.

”So, there you have it. Trickster grant me strength. You gonna live up to your destiny or what?” She laughed softly. ”You wouldn’t want to miss out on teaching the hero, after all. It’d be a real claim to fame.”

It was so fun, to pretend.
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[Wrenmae]

Wren dipped in a stiff bow, his unkempt brown hair falling over his face like a like a curtain. However, it did not fall far enough to obscure his broad smile.

"A pox on me for underestimating you," he said, raising up his head and winking, "You know your stuff, narrative and otherwise." Setting his back against the wall, he slid to the cobblestone and crooked a finger as if summoning her over. Still smiling, he indicated she should take a seat.

"A grand poetic death is all the living can ask for. Although if you're going to be the greatest mage in all the world, we're going to have to work on your image." Lining index to thumb and index to thumb, he held her in a portrait of flesh and closed one eye, focusing. "You'll have to work on your sales pitch. Mission statements are important, you know...as are all grand goals worth having. Without them, one can't very well call themselves anything. I hear Sahova is far and across the sea, so you'll have to make some money for passage...and it's regrettably easy to lose control when djed weaving, so we'll work on that." He bit his tongue, thinking.

"The only child angle is a good one, yeah, yeah, but we can do better. From now on, I'm your older brother, eh?" he grinned at her, "I've lost my folks too, a terribly tragic commonality for this time period." he paused, blinking, "Not in any way to take meaning from what happened I just...I mean..." Shaking his head, he banished the sentence. "We can forge our own family, right? As morphers, we can look like anyone anyway, so who's to say we wouldn't be?"

Clapping his hands together he drew out a long dagger and pricked his thumb, "We'll blood-tie this. A little prick, press them together, and done. No harm, no foul." He held out his thumb towards her and the dagger, hilt facing her.

"Lost my father in the mountains. The storms took him. Lucky for me that I found my way to Alvadas...lucky or perhaps ordained." He shrugged, "Depends, as you said, on which perspective you read."