The Erstwhiles

Descent II

The hallowed halls of the Bivlioteka unlit, contrasted by its history. Its walls and halls are lined by tablets which for most are but ornamental lighting and to some a tome of an era lost. In the epoch from whence the world was whole it was a repository of knowledge and history, It was but a fairly sized tree that never ceased to grow. So vaunted it was that an ancient race of flight decided to live in it. They would carve out their homes inside it and perch on its many branches. But as any tree would know it does not do them good, its growth waned and it withered though faintly it lives on requiring only for its soil to be blessed with a seas amount of water. The blade of blame does not know who to stab as the tree itself dried up the land around it in its eternal thirst to grow, or perhaps it was the invasion of man that wrought its soil barren; they too thirst not for water but power.

"I know not at all how to get you back Lyra," A heap of cloth sits cradled, a face still absent.

"There must be a way, If I could get in why the hell can I not get out?" Lyra pleas in exasperation, her face hangs low and so does her head. "I want to go home, someone needs me, she's all I have left..." a flash of a memory chanced her, the sight of Darla crying and of them arguing, the weight of guilt pulling her head lower.

A mask eyes her, a muffled sigh goes unnoticed. "I know only one other person from Earth but he had since perished, though unlike you he resented Home," a heavy somber note. "If we're lucky we could find his remains and extract whatever knowledge he had..." A sarcasm that he hesitates to go on with, the echo of pain and longing too evident even for him.

                         "Ah so you're not that dignified after all, nekromancy and graverobbing," Rosh quips as he collects their plates, a clever smile he presents to them.

"Magiks are but tools, the selfsame tools your ancestors used to enforce their royal line, or in a more honest idea, a consolidation of power," he pangs.

                        "And yet here ye' are hale and whole the years unaccounted for, the earliest I've read about you was some three hundred years back as described by a two hundred year old book I've read about in a hundred year old retelling," Rosh sneers in suspicion "That's some odd six hundred years of you plagiarizing this tomb of a home," he adds.

"Its only three hundred you dumb fuck, its a point in time you don't add them up idiot..." Lyra pulls her head up only to shake them in disappointment.

                        "Well at least I'm helping and not wallowing like you lot," Rosh finishes tidying and sets himself seated next to Kaja he sighs tired and clings an arm to him, "If I were to guess this old pile of rags is of noble descent, being able to not only wield magiks but to live immortal nonetheless," The sage stiffens his posture vigil, he remains silent.

"We have to try...at the very least... Where is he laid to rest?" Kaja looks towards the sage, his brows gently furrowed and eyes stern. "I wish not to be mired by memories or what I am, I will start anew. I deserve that much..." Kaja adds his eyes firmly on the sage, expecting a response.

The mask shifts to return the stare, he is muted by the pull of guilt. He remembers a small part of his life though in contrast to some it's more than a lifetime. He feels warmth that melts into happiness though in turn it leaves behind a bitter truth. That he betrayed not only himself, but his own happiness, his love. He remembers why he had never left the tower; it is after all used as a timely prison for those who go against the empire. Yet he knows that his crimes were not against the empire but someone else, " 'Tis mine penance and penitence," he mumbles too inaudibly.

"Please help us, I would dig all the graves if need be!" Kaja begs his hands clasped together.

                   "There's always a way forward, we just need to try and keep moving on," Lyra adds.

The sage is taken aback by Lyra's words and short after an echo rings beyond his memories, a resounding voice speaks "Life is but a compass..." He urgently pats himself, his hands searching around till it laid on his chest where a familiar shape hangs. He took it to hand and opened it revealing a compass pointing up. He feels weight upon his chest and brings out a long dragged sigh. He gazes back at his guests, the only ones he had for many a years past.

"To be swayed by the words of but waywards, I am fortunate that you were not here to witness my debasement Milos... or I wouldn't hear the end of it..." A whisper to himself or someone else, earnest words nonetheless. He chuckles.

"There's a necropolis underneath Nabralia, one of its catacombs is home to unclaimed remains... We may yet find him there, besides I think it's about time I look for his grave..." He turns towards his alcove and then to Rosh "You're very sensitive... and nice, now come help me pack my things,"

Slowly a smile beams through Lyra and a gentle one on Kaja, they both sigh in relief.

"I've set the damn table and rinsed your wares and then abayed them, must I also wipe your arse or are you not senile enough?" Kaja retorts in annoyance though his body continues to do as ordered, he follows the sage.

"We're onto something," Lyra nudges Kaja "A smell step though it maybe... it still inches us forward..." Kaja smiles and follows suit behind Rosh and of course Lyra not long after.

                                                                          The blue light watches, they are expected.