The+Excoriate

"Few who've manifested a Siberys mark were ever seen by the outside world again. Many went insane from the experience; the rest were put to work by their House elders, becoming virtual slaves valued far more for their mark's power than for who they may have been before. Regrettably, even my own House has been guilty of such behavior...in the distant past." ~ //**Merrix d'Cannith**, interviewed by the Korranberg Chronicle, 997 YK//

** Thomas, 8 Eyre 998 YK (before dawn): **
//When an arcanist dreams, Dal Quor screams.//

Thomas couldn't remember where he'd first heard that rhyming couplet. At Arcanix, the school for wizards in Aundair, to be sure. But who said it and when...that eluded him. Its meaning seemed clear: Wizards -- and yes, Sorcerors, even Witches and Warlocks -- already manipulate reality. //After all//, Thomas thought, //what is a spell other than the caster defying the physical laws of the universe in some small way?// So when such a soul went to the dreamscape where what's "real" is fluid and ever-changing, he or she had the advantage of experience.

Not that his arcane expertise had ever helped Thomas in his own dreams, so far as he was aware. He knew Dal Quor, the realm of dreams, was a real place, ruled by nightmare creatures called the Quori, who had something to do with the Kalashtar and the distant continent of Sarlona, and had fought a long ago war with the Giants of Xen'drik. He knew the real Dal Quor was almost impossible to reach ever since that war, yet every soul on Eberron visited when they slept...except the Warforged who never slept and the Kalashtar who never dreamed.

Thomas knew so much, things that would terrify even his companions, hardened adventurers who had fought horrors from Xoriat, dragons and demons and evil cults. //I'm the only one of us who knows how close Sharn came to utter destruction at Czervanth Tower when the rift to Xoriat opened//. It was a clever solution he and the others had devised, with the help of the Duergar Kostas Knyarri: Tearing the doors off of Arthur Zimmall's chambers -- doors scribed with an anti-Xoriat ward Zimmall had maintained and strengthened for more than a century of his profanely-prolonged life -- placing them on top of the rift and then sealing it from below with a shield made of //byeshk// metal, which had properties against the creatures and works of the Plane of Madness. But it was a temporary solution at best, a bandage on a wound that might still fester. //The shield was secured with// glue//, by the Twelve! And then we left, because something worse was pending//.

Something worse always seems to be pending. And that's what terrified Thomas -- the things he didn't know. This was the fear that he took with him to Dal Quor every night, that this battle he'd just won was not the climactic end to a story, but the start of another chapter. Where was Guurgaal? Who was behind the Swords of Liberty? What is the link with a short-lived Dhakaani dynasty 75 centuries ago? How are the illnesses that struck down King Boranel and nearly killed Lhesh Haruuc related? //Why am I thinking about this as if I'm just a character in someone's narrative?// He scratched his left shoulder idly. //What's happening to me now?//

//If the Quori are screaming, it's probably with laughter//, he thought.

Not that he hadn't tried to change the narrative. By day he'd immersed himself in making magic items his friends had asked for, except for the Fifth when he'd joined a mission to hunt down a force of dangerous fugitives. He'd spent the night in the field with Golandar, Choraan, Ariel Elenwyd, some cleric of Dol Arrah, the House Deneith representative called Nomad, and a mix of Cyran militia and King's Swords (from the fighting branch of the King's Citadel); the next day they'd returned with thirty-five Dwarves and Orcs, all mercenaries employed by the late Red Owl, captured without loss of life. Before that, Thomas intervened with a Brelish quartermaster tasked with killing horses injured in the combat. The grizzled fool, with a wooden leg no less, had wanted to start a fight with Choraan over his Dire Wolf's need for fresh meat. He'd saved the fool's life, and also saved Choraan from having to justify killing the fool to the King's Citadel. Nina had been there, too, with her animal companion -- //Was I seeing things, or had her Wolf grown big since I'd first met them in Zarantyr?// -- but had rebuffed his attempt to recruit her for the mission.

After coming back from the mission, just after dark on Far the Sixth -- after another cloudy day with misting rain -- Thomas had used magic to fly above the cloud cover. He reached an altitude where he gasped for breath, the cold wind cutting through his energy resistance, but he got a glimpse of the sky...and wished he hadn't.

He'd even taken on a mundane task as a favor to Governor Oargev: Every evening at dusk the young former prince decreed a bonfire be set in the New Cyre town square, made up of broken wood and other debris work crews had gathered that day. Since it had rained every day since the battle, Thomas personally made sure the wood was dry enough to catch, and had ignited the bonfire each evening with pyrotechnic magic that entertained the crowds and got the evening's revelry off to a good start.

The thing he hadn't been able to do was board Dejarn. Aside from those he had told (who understood the bigger picture and practiced discretion), supposedly no one outside House Cannith knew of his excoriate status. But as Dejarn was Cannith-built, and crewed and maintained by scores of Canniths, from 'Marked scions to simple members of the Tinkers' Guild, his attempt to see the wondrous floating fortress up close was "administratively denied."

Instead, Thomas had sought other diversions. On the three nights he had stayed in town, he had bedded three different Cyran women; Shar, Vonda and Jaesa. He'd met each one at the evening bonfire, and each had been more willing than the last to express her gratitude to one of the heroes that had saved their town and people. Inquisitive as ever, he talked with them, hearing their stories. Jaesa was part of the Governor's household, a bard in training reporting to Oargev's top advisor, an older man called Essyn Cadrel. Vonda was the daughter, sister and widow of Cyran soldiers, and had herself been injured in the fighting before being saved by the old Hobgoblin Ambassador, Ka'vanau. And Shar had been traveling towards a new homestead farm to the south with her sister to join her sister's husband when the Swords of Liberty army was coming north. They'd turned around and fled back to New Cyre, with a treasure still in the back of their wagon: Two sacks of Cyran belwheat recovered from the Mournland.

Thomas had been fascinated by this: He knew Oargev had been sending expeditions into the Mournland hoping to find clues to the Mourning itself, and was paying bounties to anyone with new information. Thomas himself had earned a bounty, when he had personally given the Prince -- now Governor -- the //schema// needed to create the so-called "Mourning Stones." Anyway, one of the Cyran teams had come back from the Mournland with a dozen sacks of Cyre's signature grain: Hearty and nutritious, with a nutty flavor, belwheat made for distinctive breads and pastries. He remembered a bakery in Fairhaven when he was young, and how the Cyran bakers' fortunes had gone up or down depending on Aundair's relations with their homeland. With Cyre's death the only source of belwheat was northern Darguun -- farmed by Cyran slaves, which made it next to impossible to import under the restrictions of the Treaty of Thronehold. And so Oargev had been excited by the find, more so when no strange magical auras had been detected and a small test had produced normal-looking stalks. This season he had asked for volunteers among the dozens of homesteader families heading out for spring planting, hoping that if the grain could grow and wasn't warped from four years in that awful place, they could reclaim another piece of Cyre's heritage -- and New Cyre would have a new source of revenue. Shar's brother-in-law had raised his hand, but now there was no word from him, and a Brelish-Cyran patrol to the south had come back with no survivors and reports of burned farmhouses.

//I wonder if the Murnies had also volunteered//, Thomas thought. //The remains of their homestead to the north and east had been untouched by the fighting just ended. Perhaps sacks of this precious grain are still there//. He shook his head at the irrelevance of it, and slowly brought his focus back to the here and now. Before dawn, in the bedroom of a borrowed home, sitting at a desk with his spellbooks, wearing just his smallclothes. The smell of Jaesa still lingered in the air -- perfume and musk. Having to study for his spells at dawn was a great excuse for sending a woman on her way, he'd found. Jaesa, a spellcaster herself, had seen through the excuse but had left anyway, giving him the space he needed to study. Or try to study. This morning, something was wrong. His skin was crawling, tingling and itching. If Jaesa had noticed, she was practiced enough to not call attention to it...but now it was just Thomas, his random thoughts, and the pain. He'd tried a healing potion, and when it didn't work he'd roundly cursed House Jorasco for yet another substandard product. Then he'd examined his own aura and found it...confusing.

He threw on a robe, checked his other wearable magic items, grabbed a couple wands and vials to stuff in the robe's pockets, and stormed out of the house. He'd barely used any spells the previous day, so he still had an //Overland Flight// memorized, and one he'd added to his usual repertoire. Even as he walked Thomas was casting, and without breaking stride he was airborne. The clouds were dark gray, with a few patches of lighter gray where they were lit from above by Eberron's moons. He flew upward in a tight spiral, keeping an eye on the brightest glow, presumably made by Zarantyr, the closest of the twelve moons and the one most responsible for coastal tides. The air was cold and wet, a sign that the day to come would bring still more rain, perhaps even the thunderstorm that kept threatening but never actually hit. He unstoppered a vial, and hovered as he put one drop in each eye. His vision grew sharp, and details his unaided eyes missed were now clear.

After about ten minutes of climbing he was in the clouds. His hair, beard and robe were soon soaked. An //Endure Elements// took care of the discomfort and he continued to climb in a soothing silence, broken only when his spiraling path took him against the prevailing wind. After another five minutes he felt himself gasping for air, just as had happened before. This time he was ready with a simple //Air Bubble//, cast around his head. //Good thing I have two more ready//, Thomas thought as he took a few deep breaths.

Finally he broke through the cloud layer and was in the open sky. The stars were a welcome sight, as was the Ring of Siberys, a golden band arcing to the west from horizon to horizon. Thomas set to work, looking carefully at the visible moons.

"Lovely night, doncha think?"

Startled, Thomas bit back a scream and looked frantically around. Not five feet away a tiny form hovered, wings beating rapidly, its long tail lashing back and forth to help hold its position: Druziel, Jarvis White's companion. Thomas drew a wand and aimed as he growled, "Sneaking up on me, Imp?"

Druziel backed up a couple of feet. "Sneaking is how I move," he said, a hint of affront in his whiny voice. He did a quick loop, silently, as if to demonstrate the point. //Also to show he's more at home in the sky than I am//, Thomas thought.

"You followed me," Thomas said, following the Imp's movements with the tip of the wand. In the //air bubble// his voice had a slight echo, but Druziel seemed to have no trouble with breathing or speaking. He touched the flight spell with his mind, moving just fast enough to offset the wind and stay roughly level. This close, Thomas could clearly see the rings on the longest claw-tipped fingers of the Imp's hands, the amulet dangling from its scrawny neck, the bracers and belt that had resized to fit the tiny creature's wrists and waist, and the weapons -- sheathed blade, tiny crossbow -- securely hooked to the belt. //Jarvis gave him magic items?//

"Of course," replied Druziel, breaking his brief reverie. "But please, don't let me interrupt you. Don't wanna waste the time you have left on your spells, Wizard." He crossed his spindly arms and waited, wings beating in a near-hover to keep him the same distance from Thomas. Just out of reach.

After a moment, Thomas grunted and lowered the wand. He looked at white Zarantyr, a waxing half-moon to the west; King Nymm, a golden orb in waning gibbous to the northeast; and silver-gray Eyre, full and nearly overhead. He concentrated, and soon was able to pick out on its surface the shadowy anvil shape that gave Eyre its nickname. //Somewhere, a House Cannith enclave is celebrating//, he thought, //and superstitious blacksmiths have begun work on particularly difficult projects//...//except that Eyre shouldn't be full tonight. It was full on the Third, and this is early morning on Sol the Eighth.//

He looked again at Zarantyr and Nymm. They were wrong too. Zarantyr should have set by now, and Nymm's small but bright disk should be showing a half face. He glanced at the other moons he could see: Bright Barrakas rising just as gray Therendor was setting, the waxing crescent of Olarune, dim Sypheros, pale blue Rhaan rising just beyond Barrakas' glow, a point of light among the stars around it, and orange-red Aryth, a full moon partially hidden by the Ring of Siberys.

A perfectly normal night sky...five nights ago. This confirmed what he'd glimpsed the evening of the Sixth before the thin air had forced him back down. The itching sensation returned, and he scratched his left arm and shoulder as his thoughts churned with the enormity of it all. He rotated until he faced Druziel, his back to the wind. The hem of his robe, still wet from passing through the cloud layer, flapped slightly.

"What do you know of this, Imp?"

"I know nothing," Druziel replied with a smile. Thomas glared and the Imp raised his arms in a placating gesture before quickly adding, "'Tis true...but it is possible for me to...consult with greater powers, see what //they// know." Thomas noticed the Imp's eyebrows, black against his brick-red skin, extended several inches beyond his face; so when Druziel raised his right eyebrow he almost laughed.

"Only a familiar can make that offer," Thomas said slowly, "and then only to his master. For you, that means Jarvis-"

Druziel interrupted with a laugh, a high-pitched staccato cackle. "The Gnome is not my master. He wanted to make the traditional deal, but I didn't offer it. Just swore to serve him is all...to be fully honest, he did need me, and I needed protection. Remember, I was beaten twice by you lot -- you destroyed my Imp-ire in Sharn, then killed that aberrant dragonling I partnered with. Figured it was better to join your epic quest than get sent back."

"Back to Baator?"

"The Prison Plane?" Druziel scoffed. "I was formed from the energies of Shavarath. Created for war, I was...." The Imp puffed up his narrow chest and saluted; this time, Thomas couldn't stop himself from chuckling. "...'Cos there's more to war than just combat," he continued, "though I've done my share of fighting. Ask Jarvis if you doubt me. Gone above and beyond the call, I have. Didja know the Red Owl had her own familiar? Nasty little bugger -- you'd call it a Quasit. We fought, I won...you're welcome."

"Interesting tale, but not the point. Why didn't you become his familiar?"

Druziel shook his head. "Eventually he'd go back to Zilargo. As his familiar, I'd have to go with him, only I wouldn't last a day there. Gnomes are scary, especially for my kind."

Now it was Thomas who scoffed. "The Zil are the friendliest people in all Khorvaire -- polite, cultured, hardworking. There's almost no crime in Zilargo-"

The Imp's laugh cut him off again. "From where I hover, the Gnomes are good at two things: Secrecy, and binding. Elemental or outsider, matters not to them. I have no desire to spend eternity trapped in a Khyber shard, thank you. I explained it to Jarvis, and he understood...all too well. If there's no crime there, it's 'cos of Gnomes like Jarvis. If they're hardworking, it's 'cos they're terrified that if they relax, some other Zil will turn them in...and a Gnome like Jarvis will come. //Truuuust// me." Druziel stretched out the word, and even winked, in case his word play had been too subtle.

"Enough about Jarvis," Thomas said sharply. "I can't make you my familiar either. I chose years ago to bond with items, not creatures. And certainly not with an annoying devilspawn like you. If you can't help me, begone!" With a flourish, the wand was in his hand again, and Druziel flinched.

"You're wrong about my having to be your familiar," the Imp said. "I'm free to make my own decisions. I chose to serve Jarvis, and now I choose to help you, Wizard. Ask your question: I'll see what I can do. No tricks, no soul-stealing...by the powers, I'm curious too."

Thomas paused. A wind gust moved him past Druziel; now downwind, he caught a whiff of brimstone as the two turned to face each other again. A moment passed, then the wizard cleared his throat. The Imp cocked his head and held a clawed hand up to a pointed ear, nodding once.

Thomas spoke in the voice he normally used for his most powerful spells: Resonant, each syllable precisely pronounced. "Exactly what magics were used to create this effect in Eberron's sky?"

Druziel nodded again, and clapped his hands. "Well spoken! Direct, to the point, yet demanding an explicit answer...which, with any luck, I'll have for you in a couple of days." The Imp looked about to leave, but then he darted closer to Thomas and said in a high whisper, "Don't tell Jarvis that I offered to help you. You're not his favorite." Then he truly was gone, leaving only a stronger brimstone smell, quickly dissipated by the wind. //Imps don't teleport//, he thought, //but then, most Imps don't have that many magic items. There's a Shavarath angle here I'm not yet seeing. This one could become a problem, and soon.//

Thomas lingered, taking a longer look at each moon, memorizing its position and phase, before starting his long descent -- scratching at his arms, shoulders and neck almost the entire time.

//Back to **Season Four Preview**//