The Secessionist and the Oligarchs

[Carly Jr'ana]

Third Cycle of Spring,
Month of Immanis in Era II of the Celestine Mandate
Era XIV Post Fractum
Paradigm: Twelve New Constellations Discovered

The suns were just at the horizon now, their golden glow hidden from view by the city of Prime. What made this morning special were the clouds, the way they were struck by the light set them on fire, their golden orange haze shining down upon the citizens of the Empire. Carly took a moment to pause and look up at those clouds this brightening, to drink in their beauty, and then she was off. She had need of supplies, and someone was bound to be setting up shop already. Through the student district, the streets of St. Gabriels, into the wide safe streets of St. Michaels, onwards to the south of the city, the merchant district, the Market Parish.

Here it was a simple matter to buy a box of coloured chalks, she simply handed the money over after having tested the chalk for consistency and strength. Then turning on her heel she headed not in the direction she had come from, but towards her latest acquisition; a small shop that sold a beverage known as tea, amongst a variety of wines and more interesting spirits. Hidden within Rynshaven Parish, amongst the docks and trade companies stood her little beverage house. A place she had gone to painstaking lengths to make appear trendy, and safe. Sitting on the bottom floor of a much larger building, in the corner, she had bought relatively small shop and segregated it into three rooms. There was the kitchen/storage area, easily viewable over the counter, there was a small private room beside this, and then there was the majority of the shop filled with tables and chairs, benches and stools. Perhaps most curious of all were the windows, rather then glass they were constructed of waxed paper, coloured, so that when the light shone through they cast a muted glow upon the patrons. Shutters made sure no one could simply walk through the shop in the darkening.

Today however, it was much too early to open the shop, Carly slipped through the main door and through to the small private room out the back. Here she had lain out sheets of parchment, glued them together, and arranged her chalks. Her books and notes were strewn around the room, an order to the chaos, bringing one sheet forward she considered it and placed it back before taking another. This sigil would be her true master piece, the one that would prove to the world and herself that she was capable of being a Master Ikomancer, however no one would ever see or hear of it if she pulled it off. But it would enable her future, this shop, the mercenaries who would occupy it, and this sigil would all lead to a convergence of fates. It was a great plan, a bear trap so large the prey would mistake it for the sky.

Carly had always held a deep grudge against the Empire, an irrational hatred for the land dwellers because her family had died here while studying them. She wished the fracture the Empire into tiny splinters; forge it into a mirror image of Aeternia just to teach them all their pitiful worth. Men who believed they were capable, powerful even, of anything, when mages were really the ones with the power and they had struck down the Rakyra. How ironic then that someone who wished to see the Empire splintered would now be weaving her web around a cadre of secessionists to deliver them into the hands of that very Empire. A feint to the left when she intended to go right would be a good metaphor for this plot. The rewards received from their capture would go to fund her own movement, their sacrifice to enable her future.

She had drawn a border to the image, snippets of what she knew of the secession in Jaedaxia, regal looking men holding themselves proudly, their faces smudged into oblivion, possibility. There were images of the Empire coming, these men on the run. And down the very bottom of the border was an image of her Beverage Shop, her tea house, and it looked so welcoming and safe. Within this border, which she had wasted much of the last of her chalk on, she would draw her sigil. It was already planned to the last detail, the direction of the stroke, the way she would curl a line, or the exact shade of colour. She had palettes drawn out for each meaning of the runes, some Ikomancers used stone, others used ink and paint, Carly used chalk and charcoal. This was her medium.

The hand moved and drew its first stroke, red; it was the colour of a revolution, of the blood that flowed in the hearts of men and upon the battle fields. This was Lopeter and it represented the revolutionaries. This was followed in succession by Bhunha for the trap waiting to be sprung, Evo for the summoning of the revolutionaries to that trap. Genas and Salucha were combined in a muted grey to represent trust, blind unwitting trust. Ikos, its mysterious purple colour shot through with all the colours of the rainbow to represent the chance that they would come, Bhun and Chanu represented the shop and what it’s sold, and the men’s sudden thirst when they should pass it, their reasons for entering. The runes were drawn in order; the two pairs formed the arms of the mosaic. It was a mosaic of Dharv, for capture, for that which could be taken. All the runes floated in a backdrop of red, the red held in check by thick black borders. The runes that made up the mosaic were held in check by thick black borders, defining them, holding them. They were captured by the Dharv.

This was her Sigil; it had taken her … candlemarks, many candlemarks. It had taken a full cycle to plan out. The Sigil consisted of nine runes, nine runes which was her limit as an Adept. Carly took the moment to sit back on her haunches and consider the Sigil, her work. She looked upon her creation and saw that it was good, no, not just good. Great! She looked upon her creation and marvelled at it. She could trace the complicated relationships between all the parts just by looking at it, like it was a map of exactly what she was thinking. She wanted to cast this Sigil now, but first she required sustenance, she headed through the little side door, the tiny cramped corridor, into the kitchen area and made herself a sandwich from her personal supply of food stashed away in a cupboard. She watched the shadows of people passing by the shop’s coloured windows as she ate, wondering just how popular her tea shop might be. She had plans to curse the street to make people thirsty when they entered it, and her ever helpful money making Sigil to place upon the shop itself. It would need to be fairly popular for the secessionists to enter it she thought, and they could hide in the backroom where she would drug them. Then her staff, trained mercenaries, would tie them up and they would be escorted out under the cover of dark. Simple… simple enough, she thought. And suddenly she was holding nothing, sandwich all gone.

The little elf padded back to private room and her Sigil, sitting cross legged before it and taking it all in. She had created it with a sense of perspective, the runes elongated as they got further away so that they entire thing appeared as if it were sitting flat before her eyes. She laid her hands in her laps and began to hum, sink into her meditative trance and seek that state of Clara that would allow her subconscious better access to casting her intentions in the world. Her intent spun through her mind, the names of the men, who they were, how they would be captured, and the image of them entering the shop one by one, in groups, captured. Her head spun with it all but she kept going. Andrei Richelieu de Mer, Christophe Loraunne, Richard Yduin, and Victor Palotte. They would all come, they would all be captured, they would further her own goals, so trusting of the little beverage shop in the bustling merchant district. At some point, late into the darkening, she fell asleep. After waking up she would place the entire Sigil into the fireplace and burn it, forgetting it existed. This brightening she would set about for staff, experienced in serving beverages and severing limbs…

The Night Lily Palace was a notorious place to buy all manner of strange objects, participate in the slave trade, and hire mercenaries. Unlike the bounty hunters who frequented the Hall, these mercenaries preferred steady work, guaranteed pay. And they were often less savoury, no better then bandits turned legitimate. Carly had need to mercenaries who looked like they could be running a respectable tavern however, she needed men and women. A small company, perhaps five or six, who could keep their mouths shut and stop their tongues from wagging. The officers of such mercenary companies she considered would spend their time in the more upmarket face of the Palace. The mercenaries themselves and the officers of the smaller companies would spend their time in the other face. So Carly found her way to the dank little alley that stretched behind the Palace and entered through the large arch way, sparing a glance at the slave cages. She sought out one of the guards there and inquired as to where she could find men for hire, not for sale.