[Mkguild] Imprints (1/1)

[C. Matthias]

I promised I'd have a short story for Metamor 
Keep!  This one is all of 1 part!  And big thanks 
to Ryx who did editing and even contributed a bit of writing.

This story does contain some minor spoilers to 
Ryx's storyline, but the journey on how he's 
going to do what he says should be pretty darn awesome anyway!


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Metamor Keep: Imprints
by Charles Matthias

March 19, 708 CR

The library at Metamor was filled with musty 
corners hidden from the light in which secrets 
waiting to be rediscovered secluded themselves 
from all but the eyes for which they were 
destined. It was a place of mysteries and 
seemingly endless in its capacity to surprise any 
literate man or woman who strolled its close-knit 
shelves and huddled nooks. Despite the old 
close-packed stone and the awnings that seemed to 
lean over the unwary, the Keep library was 
regularly frequented by the curious, the learned, 
and the wary traveler in need of a quiet diversion.

And while the archives in the Lothanasi temple 
were also fashioned from stone with high arching 
walls and close-packed shelves filled with old 
tomes and scrolls, its gas-lit halls were almost 
always filled with studious acolytes busy 
copying, illuminating, cataloging and 
cross-referencing the many books, maps and 
scrolls. Its secrets were constantly plumbed and 
investigated, each new day bringing about some 
acolyte's discovery of ancient lore well known or 
once known to the Lothanasa. While the secrets 
were better kept the further down into the 
archives any ventured, this was a library eager 
to surrender its knowledge to any who came. And 
for the young raccoon acolyte newly assigned to 
reading anything and everything within its 
depths, the archives were a welcoming delight 
that offered itself up without complaint.

Elvmere had been intimidated at first when he'd 
been told two weeks ago that he was to search the 
archives for any knowledge that could be obtained 
about the plague afflicting Metamor. He'd done 
nothing in the temple except tend the sacrificial 
birds apart from a few jaunts to help the still 
weak Rickkter tend to things he had trouble doing 
himself. This was his first assignment that 
didn't smell at least partially of bodily waste 
and he wondered why some one such as himself 
would be trusted when other acolytes had far more 
knowledge of the contents of the archives; many 
of those same acolytes were even assigned the same task!

Nevertheless he methodically worked through the 
tomes following one avenue after another from the 
moment he woke to when he fell back asleep. He 
was not permitted to return to the main level of 
the temple and so he slept in a secluded corner 
in a pile of his own clothing, neatly reduced to 
his feral form to find some comfort. One of the 
other acolytes brought him some food each day, as 
well as vellum, ink, and some quills. With this, 
Elvmere found that he rather enjoyed his sojourn in the windowless archives.

Once word had reached him that the Fallen 
possessing Priestess Merai had been driven out – 
by Father Hough no less – and that the source of 
the plague had been located and destroyed, 
Elvmere's studies ventured from the purely 
medicinal and from healing magics – which if not 
for listening to Murikeer talk of his art as 
they'd journeyed together would have left his 
head spinning - to more general topics; he was 
also allowed to return to the acolyte's chambers 
to sleep each night and clean himself. He wrote 
down his thoughts on each subject he encountered 
in the archives, turning from one book to another 
however the mood struck him. And so he continued 
as the days slipped past, his green eyes weary 
but ravenous as his paws traced along each 
yellowed page, claws dancing across each finely wrought letter.

And so, engrossed as he was in his latest 
discovery in a musty, and rather monstrous, old 
tome and scribbling down a cross reference to 
another entry in still another monstrous tome in 
a complete different area of the archives, 
Elvmere did not at first notice the sound of the 
ancient wooden door at the top of the main stair 
opening. Despite the Spirit of the Keep, Kyia’s, 
ever present shifting of the main body of the 
keep there were some things, very simple things, 
sometimes neglected. Oiled hinges were one, yet 
Elvmere took no note of the tortured squeal of 
the door being drawn open, and then pushed 
closed. The normal scribes, typically the age 
regressed whose smaller, more dexterous hands 
were more skilled at illuminations, were still at 
their morning prayers and would not intrude upon 
his reading for another hour yet.

Despite being, for all intents and purposes, 
banished to the archives he was not denied 
company. Many of the other archivists came to him 
with all manner of questions, but seldom intruded 
unduly. Yet their voices were often pitched very 
low, hardly above a softly thrown whisper, 
whereas they who had just entered showed no such 
respect for the quietude of the archives.

“
 and his face!” someone chuckled, the masculine 
voice pitched low but a far cry louder than a 
whisper where the loudest sound in the archives, 
beyond those hinges, was the turning of an 
ancient vellum page. “I was not sure if he was 
going to swoon for lack of breath, or soil 
himself from both ends!” Elvmere blinked down at 
the words on the page before him, comprehension 
of the ancient, crabbed text almost lost among 
the intricate illuminations, dashed into chaos. Swoon? Void themselves?

“I don’t exactly recall, I was too busy trying to 
find somewhere to put my own nose.” Another 
speaker laughed jocularly. Elvmere’s ears 
twitched and he raised his head, but his desk was 
at the back end of a row of tall stacks so he 
could see little. He knew that the speakers 
numbered two; one shod with soft leather soled 
boots and the other unshod with the click of claws accompanying each step.

The first speaker laughed. “Well, I didn’t exactly warn you.”
His short, round ears turned as he lifted his 
head, the long, banded tail shifting behind him 
as he slowly pushed himself to his feet to look 
over the scroll shelves atop his desk. “Hello? 
Who is it?” he asked in his beastly churr, 
raising his voice slightly and almost coughing as 
the increased effort strained vocal chords used 
to whispering more quietly than a turning page. 
Somewhere distant a curious voice raised in an 
exclamation of confusion answered by his timorous inquiry.

Twitching his whiskers in curiosity, but very 
little concern for the two speakers did not seem 
to be making themselves secretive, so he felt no 
threat in their appearance. The slowly moving air 
of the archives, bestirred by some mechanism 
Elvmere had never sought to understand, brought a 
subtle aroma to his nose as those footsteps 
approached; excessive use of a rather expensive, 
sharp perfume overlaying a deeper, more earthy 
musk. The latter was passing familiar to him and 
he felt his whiskers lift in that recognition. 
Likewise he knew few who would so lavishly 
brocade themselves with additional scents. There 
was only one musk about the unseen duo, but the 
sound of claws and the voice, while very 
different than what he had known, accompanying 
that distinct lack of scent ticked over in his memory almost instantly.

He knew their names before he ever saw them move 
around the shelves to his little corner. “Master 
Malger! Muri! It is good to see you both again.”

The pine marten came around the bend first with a 
crooked smile on his maw. “Master Malger? I 
stopped being that for you many months ago.” He 
nodded toward the white acolyte's robe that the 
raccoon now bore with bewildered amusement. “It 
appears you have a new master now, and certainly 
not one that I expected!” Malger was clad, as was 
his normal wont, in the garishly overdone raiment 
of a courtesan; rich emerald green vest and loose 
trews tucked into soft leather boots of black. 
Lace framed his neck and wrists and a sash, also 
black, matched his boots. A flute of fine silver 
was tucked under that sash at his left hip but he bore no apparent weaponry.

“Nor I,” Murikeer added as he strode into view. 
The skunk was modestly apportioned with warm 
tunic and breeches similar in taste to what he'd 
worn on their travels through Sathmore. He had a 
new eye patch since the last time he'd seen the 
skunk, though still of leather, that wrapped 
about the back of his head behind his ears, but 
more finely crafted and inset with small red 
gems. Despite this his fur was unkempt and his 
countenance weary as if he had not slept in a 
week. “Hello, Elvmere. How have you been faring these last few weeks?”

Elvmere gestured at his little table, the pair of 
books open at the far end, the stack of sheets 
he'd scribbled upon, and the crumbs of his 
morning meal of bread and honey. “I've been 
studying many things, though I confess I could 
use a brief respite with my old traveling 
companions. When did you return to Metamor, 
Mas... Malger? That vixen, Misanthe, has she returned with you?”

The marten nodded as he leaned against one of the 
shelves, “Aye, though she did have to die at 
least once to ensure my safe return.” He waved 
one hand almost negligently with a wiggle of his 
fingers. “But she's off on an errand. I'm sure 
any moment a little fox will sneak its way in 
here and curl up at my feet.” He smiled softly 
and laughed. “She is such a sneak that, often, 
the only realization I have that she has returned is when I trip over her.”

Murikeer and Elvmere both chuckled, well 
remembering their first encounter with the 
unlamented Sideshow's slave. As the marten had 
lain in prison recovering from his wounds while 
Earl Tathim contemplated what to do about him, 
the minstrel's friends had discovered the little 
fox hiding beneath his bed like a faithful dog. 
And no matter how often or with what vehemence he 
insisted she depart from his side, she had 
remained even more faithful that a devoted dog, 
seeing to Malger's needs even when the minstrel 
wouldn't. In the end, no matter how many times 
they'd tended his wounds or offered encouragement 
or their friendship, it had been Misanthe who had 
truly brought their friend from the blackness of 
despair back into the light of hope.

“If she comes she is certainly welcome,” Elvmere 
replied. He gestured to the scripting table next 
to his own. The chairs were smaller and meant for 
a youth whose body would never attain a manly 
growth, but they were the only ones near. “Please 
sit and stay. There's no need for you to stand like that.”

Both his friends took the seats offered. Malger 
leaned back and regarded the raccoon with an 
amused curiosity. His eyes stared past the bridge 
of his snout and fixed Elvmere, noting all that 
there was to see, which apart from his white 
acolyte's smock and somewhat disheveled 
appearance was not much. “Now how is it that a 
highly ranked member of the Ecclesia could find 
themselves a lowly acolyte in the Temple?”

Elvmere knew the question would come and nodded 
his head to acknowledge the oddity. “It caught me 
by surprise as well. After the Patriarch 
excommunicated me, I learned that there was a 
plot to kill me, and so I was placed on board the 
Sondesharan vessel you left me at, Malger. The 
Sondeckis brought me back all the way to 
Silvassa, even carting me in a barrel at one 
point; there was some Whalish blockade closing the Coral Basin.”

Malger chuckled lightly. “Well there was. Any 
ship that ventured into the Basin was corrupted 
by Marzac. Whales caught on to that and tried to 
keep vessels from wandering into its reach, but 
their actions came far too late to prevent 
hundreds from becoming enraptured by the dark taint of that place.”

Elvmere paled under his fur, his ears lying back 
in distress . “I had heard rumors with that name...”

“It is no more,” Murikeer added with a soft 
smile, revealing little fangs beneath thin lips. 
“There were several Keepers who journeyed there 
and defeated the evil. Kayla was among them.”

“That I knew. Rickkter grumbled about it often 
enough. How is he doing? I haven't seen him since 
he left the Temple two months past.”

“He's still grumbling,” Murikeer added with a 
laugh and a shake of his head. “Only now it is 
about the quarantine. It has not yet been lifted 
even though no one has died from the plague in 
nearly a week.” His whiskers twitched and he 
shrugged, “I would have helped prize out the 
cause of it, or help with purifying whatever 
source brought it about, but Kozaithy became 
stricken and it took every moment, every dreg of 
my skills and power, just to keep it from 
claiming her. I’ve lost one love, already. Two
” 
He shook his head and let out a sigh, swinging 
one hand in a short back-handed flick, dismissing 
the subject, “But it’s touch is lifted, and she is recovering well.”

“One of the Sensates just died a very nasty end 
two days ago.” Malger pointed out with a chuff.

Murikeer's snout took on a disgusted moue. 
Elvmere could hardly blame him; he knew of the 
Sensates by reputation and was grateful that he 
had only been accosted by them once, when he 
first arrived at Metamor and was still quite 
afraid of humans, and crowds. “From syphilis, 
which is not the same thing as the plague, and I 
dare say far more easily avoided.”

“True enough, but it has the rest worried.”

“And well they should be if that is how they 
live,” Elvmere said softly, one furry eyebrow 
raised in admonishment. He had learned, in the 
gossip of his fellow archivists, that the newly 
arrived Archduke from the south was the ruler of 
the Sensates’ Guild, despite that apparent guild 
having existed far earlier than the newest noble 
at Metamor. Elvmere took in their gossip without 
saying anything to clear up their inaccuracies; 
or to reveal that he was a confidant of the 
archduke they spoke of with hushed awe.

Malger waved a paw in the air dismissively. “They 
are my concern, not yours. The Sondeckis took you back to Silvassa?”

“Aye,” Elvmere nodded, tail twitching behind him 
between the table legs. “I spent most of the trip 
back hiding in the hold reading Patriarch 
Akabaieth's journals. It was all I had left. Even 
my Tree was destroyed, so I couldn't hide my form 
anymore.” Murikeer nodded, having heard the tale 
already. “In the journals I found many thoughts 
from my mentor about me, and they always seemed 
to point toward the Lothanasi in some way. After 
traveling with you both last year, I came to know 
that the Pantheon is real and that they do much 
good for the their faithful, just as I have 
always done for those I shepherd in Eli's name.” 
He caught himself with a frown, “Shepherded.” He 
wrung his hands together and looked at them, 
noting the stains of ink adding to the natural 
black and silver fur of his dexterous fingers. 
“So when I reached Silvassa I found Nylene and 
asked her to teach me the Lothanasi ways.”

Malger chuckled and shook his head. “She does 
have a way of rescuing lost Follower souls.”

“She accompanied me by boat to Metamor and taught 
me... many things I hadn't known. When we arrived 
here, we came to the Temple and I told Lothanasa 
Raven of my desire to serve as an acolyte.”

The marten offered a lop-sided grin. “I'm sure that meeting was full of cheer.”

Elvmere let a soft chuff escape his nose at the 
droll observation, “And then, breaking this new
 
choice of faith with Father Hough.” He shook his 
head slowly, but grinned, “That made mistress 
Raven’s dubious resignation to my desires seem 
quite pleasant by comparison.” Elvmere's muzzle 
twitched. “It was a little tense. She does not 
yet trust me and I do not blame her. But I do as 
I am asked and now I continue to study and learn. 
I have not yet been able to speak to Hough again; 
either by happenstance or design our paths have 
not crossed since our last, rather unpleasant, 
discourse. Perhaps it is better that way for now.”

His green eyes glimmered in the light from the 
gas-lit lanterns above them. “And you, Malger? I 
heard you had returned. News of a royal coming to 
court, and to all appearances already cursed, was 
the source of considerable gossip for days. That 
was, what, only a few weeks back?” He waved one 
hand up at the dim, flickering gas lights in 
their glass chimneys above. High enough to offer 
wan light, enough to read by if barely so, but 
not so low as to risk a fire touching any of the 
priceless writings. “I’ve been down here some 
time, I loose track of the days but for when I am 
awake, and when I sleep, and the passing of 
prayers. It all tends to run together.”

“Just before the plague broke,” Malger replied. 
“Poor timing on my part; but there's nothing to 
be done about that now.” Murikeer listened 
quietly, gazing up at the lamp above the raccoon's writing desk.

“Did you settle your family's affairs?”

Murikeer chuckled behind one paw, not looking 
down from his stare at the light above, as his 
long tail flicked from side to side. Malger 
frowned at the young mage before returning his 
gaze to the raccoon. “Aye, and more than that besides!”

“And your servant, Misanthe? What was this you 
said about her having to die at least once, 
saving your life?” Elvmere asked, following 
Murikeer’s gaze upward toward the gaslight 
curiously but noticing nothing untoward about it.

Malger’s gaze also followed their own, a grin 
revealing sharp teeth under the deep brown fur of 
his muzzle and long whiskers. “Quite a story, 
that, and in a way I have to thank that fellow 
Maxamillian, Sideshow, for saving my own life and hers.”

Elvmere’s gaze snapped down, “Sideshow?” he 
chirped in surprise, both brows shooting up and 
his ears pinning forward, “Did he rouse himself 
from the grave to seek absolution for his sins?”

Malger snickered at the thought of that but shook 
his head negatively, “Oh, no, he is still quite 
thoroughly dead.” He waved one hand slightly, “I 
digress. He had about him a tidbit of profound 
magic; a ring of healing that kept even death at 
bay. Misanthe, the sneaky lass, snatched it from 
him when he fell, sealing his demise. She snuck 
it onto my finger the day you found her in my 
cell, though I did not know it for some weeks. 
When she told me of it I returned it to her, and 
that very night she lost her hands.”

“The assassin found her?” Elvmere frowned as he 
listened, blinking at the slow brightening of the 
light around him but not consciously realizing 
that he could see more clearly as enrapt he was 
by Malger’s tale. “What you told me of her filled 
me with nightmares for months!”

“Found her, harvested those macabre trophies, and 
cast her overboard never knowing that she could 
not perish by any injury due to Sideshow’s rare little gift.”

“It must have been an ordeal for her to rejoin you, after all of that.”

“A story she has not yet told me.” Malger 
shrugged, the emerald green of his finery taking 
on a deep, rich hue in the steady, clear light of 
the mid day sun. “But she did find me, and 
herself dealt with the Hand at a most opportune moment, saving my hide.”

Elvmere applauded with a bright smile, “Then we 
are safe from that frightening woman’s dark 
desires to see you dead, or to continue gifting 
you with the hands of friends and family?”

“Quite very. As thoroughly deceased as Sideshow, 
and cast unremarked into the paupers’ cemetery.” 
Malger grinned a most gleeful but equally 
sinister smile, “Rather short her hands. Those I 
had removed and fed to swine. May she wander the afterlife bereft of them.”

Elvmere winced, then blinked in surprise when 
gloomy darkness abruptly fell about them. The 
sudden dimming of the light, after Malger’s dark 
tale, sent an icy shiver racing up his spine. 
“Murikeer?” he chirped upon realizing that the 
murky gloom was nothing more than the fitful glow 
of the gas lights he had grown used to reclaiming 
their darkness when the young skunk eliminated 
whatever spell he was working on. “Malger is 
telling horror stories and you bandy about with 
magic?” he chuffed, finding some mirth in his own start.

Murikeer chuckled as well, “I was seeing about 
lighting this gloomy place a tad better, but I 
imagine Kyia has it dimly lit for a reason.” He 
shrugged as he dug into a small pouch produced 
from a pocket of his shirt. “But it’s too dark, 
you’ll be squinting like a mole if you spend too 
much time down here.” Dropping a few small, 
glittering objects into his palm he stared down at them for a few seconds.

Small glimmering lights, like stars, appeared 
upon the dark pads of his palm. Eight in all, 
they cast a small pool of light around the 
sitting skunk and Elvmere’s small corner of the 
archive. Plucking one from his palm between two 
stout claws Murikeer extended his hand. “A mere 
spark, enough to illuminate what you’re reading 
but not blind everyone.” When Elvmere extended 
his hand the skunk dropped the small, bright 
light into his palm. It was little more than a 
clear pebble of river smoothed quartz, hardly 
larger than the claw of Elvmere’s smallest 
finger. “Affix it to your brow and it will give a 
light sufficient to read by.” Turning over his 
hand he let the remaining seven cascade onto a 
blank sheet of velum on the raccoon’s desk. “And more, to share.”

“Muri, your profligacy with enchantments nearly 
got you arrested in Silvassa.” Elvmere closed his 
hand about the delightful gift with a lightness 
in his heart at having such worthy friends. 
Despite their glaring differences; priest, mage, 
and sybarite, the three of them had forged a 
closeness that was like nothing Elvmere had known 
since the death of his beloved Akabaieth.

“A pox on guilds.” Murikeer smiled.

“Or just a skunk’s upraised tail.” Malger 
quipped, setting the three of them to laughing 
merrily in the quietude of the Temple’s archives. 
When they finished the marten slapped one paw on 
his thigh and then gestured to the satchel that 
the skunk had slung over his shoulder. “But it is 
ill-fortune for friends long parted to speak on 
empty stomachs. We brought some things to share with you, Elvmere.”

“I have broken my fast,” Elvmere said with a 
quick glance at the breadcrumbs he'd yet to sweep 
from the table. He'd become so engrossed in a 
history of Kammaloth and Lucien and the birth of 
the Lightbringers that he'd forgotten to sweep 
those crumbs into his paws where his skillful 
tongue could lick them clean, a rather beastly 
habit that Metamor had gifted him with. Still, he 
smiled and nodded to his friends, “But I would be 
grateful and delighted to share a meal with you.”

Murikeer opened the satchel and produced a wedge 
of cheese and three small pastries the smelled of 
sausage. Following them were three wooden cups 
and a flask of wine. “Gregor said he sampled some 
of the goods that the Magyars brought and this is 
his version of it. I can't remember what he said 
it was called; something Flatlander and unpronounceable.”

Both Elvmere and Malger took a pastry each and 
held it in their paws while the skunk sliced some 
cheese for each of them and poured out a small 
measure of wine. Elvmere sniffed the breaded meat 
and felt his tongue begin to salivate. “I believe 
I have had such things as this before, but I 
cannot say the name either. I do wonder how they 
manage to store an oven in their wagons.”

“That is one secret I have not dared to learn,” 
Malger admitted with a laugh as he accepted the 
cup of wine and wedge of cheese. “They guard 
their wagons with a tenacity befitting such a 
hard people. Still, it would be an interesting challenge.”

Both Murikeer and Elvmere prayed silently in 
thanks for the meal, and then all three began to 
eat. The meat was flavored with rich spices that 
left their tongues burning but only after they 
had swallowed each bite. The cheese helped cool 
their tongues, and the wine smoothed everything down.

“So,” Elvmere said between working a bit of meat 
loose from his fangs, “what does his Grace have to say about your new station?”

“Nothing yet,” Malger said as he wiped his thin 
lips with a small kerchief. “He knows of my title 
and my claim to Sutthaivasse; I did not quite 
have heralds announcing my arrival with trumpets 
and pinions, but I did rather enjoy arriving in 
triumph after all this time. Leave it to plague 
to spoil my moment, but I digress. Malisa has 
assured me that her father desires to speak with 
me at length, but this plague and whatever 
machinations it has spawned have kept him busy.”

Elvmere managed to nab the morsel on his tongue 
and swallowed it down. “And what have you done 
since your return? I have heard the rumors of 
your arrival and whispers of your associates, but not of your activities.”

The marten chuckled lightly and shrugged his 
shoulders as he leaned back in the chair meant 
for one much younger in size. “Honestly? I have 
done very little since I've returned. Oh, I 
visited a few of my the Inns in which I once 
plied the trade I valiantly attempted to teach 
you last Spring and Summer, and also some of my 
other friends here at Metamor, but for the most I 
have stayed in hiding like everyone else for fear 
of yon malady. Although I did enjoy seeing the 
little show the Magyars put on yesterday; I 
counted at least four of their number who have 
already become as we a sweet mix of beast and 
man. It did not seem to bother them much.”

Malger shook his head and then shrugged again. 
“So, nothing much of consequence. Nor do I expect 
there to be much of consequence in the future. At 
least until Duke Thomas decides how he wishes to 
approach me. I have played at the horse lord's 
court many times, but I have never been privy to 
his political plans; all I know for certain is 
that he is a good and decent noble and I am 
confidant that an alliance between Metamor and 
Sutthaivasse will be of benefit to everyone.”

“Even if you know not what it will look like?” 
Murikeer chided with a little twist to his snout.

“Even so!” Malger agreed with a laugh. “Even so, 
my lad. I have no idea what will come of it; nor 
if it means I'll have to return to Sutthaivasse. 
The option is open to me of course, but at least 
in the future I will not have to scratch out what 
our talents can provide along the road.”

Elvmere smiled faintly. “I sometimes wish we 
could journey like that again. I do still hum the 
many tunes you taught me and tap with my paws the 
many rhythms you trained me in.”

Malger's eyes alighted on the raccoon acolyte and 
he smiled broad enough o reveal his fangs. “It 
seems there is a bit of a bard in your soul after 
all, lad! Now if we could only improve your taste in clothes.”

“I've never desired anything fine to wear,” 
Elvmere retorted. “This simple smock is as good 
as anything else; though aye, I would prefer the 
traveling clothes and cloak I bore if we were to take up the road again.”

“Who can say what the future holds for us!” 
Malger gestured with one paw at the tall stacks 
of books around them. “There may be more changes 
in your life ahead of you than just your faith.”

“Speaking of which,” Murikeer interjected after 
sipping at his cup of wine. “Have you any favored 
in the Pantheon? You know of my devotion to 
Artela. But of yourself, have you any to which you feel a special calling?”

Elvmere's muzzle turned down in a slight moue as 
he pondered the question. With any consideration 
of the gods to which his mind was now 
increasingly turned, there was always that 
lingering, almost foundation, of his many years 
in the Ecclesia, both before his ordination, and 
through his long service in the hierarchy. He had 
grown up in the Holy Land, or Ainador as his 
fellow Lothanasi called it, and in that place no 
thought was given to the Pantheon. If any though 
was given it was only to curse the foreign demons 
or to suggest that they did not exist at all.

But they did exist, and they weren't demons. He 
knew of the help they gave to man, these 
Lightbringers, and he knew that it was his 
calling to serve them and belong to them as his 
Lady and Patriarch Akabaieth had guided him. But 
that did not mean that for one moment he stopped 
believing in the primacy and the oneness of Eli, 
Yahshua, and the Spirit Most Holy. Any devotion 
he developed for any in the Pantheon had to be 
tempered by that fundamental reality, one that he 
still hoped deep down he could be reconciled with.

And he hoped for that devotion, could almost feel 
it there just out of reach, drawing him further 
and deeper into the vast histories and rituals 
surrounding each of the gods. But he could not 
yet make such a claim. So with a sigh he rested 
one paw on the treatise beside him and then shook 
his head. “Not yet, my friend. I am grateful to 
Wvelkim for delivering me safely across the sea 
back here to Metamor, but since then I have not 
felt any particular call to him. And of the 
others Artela, Akkala, Kammoloth, Velena, and the 
rest... I am still learning who they are. That is 
what I was doing when you came down. The history 
of the first Lightbringers is fascinating and 
helps me understand them and better understand our people.”

“How so?” Murikeer asked.

“When I was in Abaef, I never understood why any 
would believe as we do. I thought the faith of 
the Ecclesia would have swept all of this away. 
It hasn't. But why hasn't it? Part of that answer 
lies in the people who turn their hearts and 
their supplications to the Pantheon. Knowing 
their history helps me understand them. And it 
helps me understand the rituals, which in turn 
help me to understand the gods. There is more to 
this world than even either of you showed to me on our journey together.”

“You showed me more than I expected,” Murikeer 
added with a warm smile. He finished the rest of 
his wine and wiped his muzzle on the back of his 
wrist. “I never understood why Patriarch 
Akabaieth had kept you so close. I thought you 
were like all the rumors I had heard of foreign 
Patildor. I am so grateful to be proven wrong.”

“As was I,” Malger added with slight shake of his 
head. “You'll find the one to whom your life is called. Both Muri and I have.”

Elvmere's striped tail flicked behind him. “You 
speak as if I were a child not yet a man.”

“Well,” Malger said with a warm laugh, “you 
almost are! A man certainly, but a young one with 
years to go before his prime. But a child, no. Just a young man.”

“I am much older than either of you,” Elvmere pointed out.

“Perhaps, but Metamor has made you young again.” 
Malger tipped his chair forward some and his 
whiskers twitched with mischief. “Young enough to be my apprentice last year.”

“Maybe there is some reason for your youth,” Murikeer suggested.

“I have often pondered it,” Elvmere admitted with 
a slight nod. “Whatever the reason I am grateful 
for it. I have another lifetime in which to serve. Unasked for, but accepted.”

“And will you be spending it here?” Malger asked. 
“I would like your company if I should ever go out onto the road again.”

“For now I will be staying here,” Elvmere replied 
as he glanced around at the stacks of books and 
ancient scrolls, marveling at the knowledge they 
must contain. “Lothanasa Raven wants me to stay 
out of sight for now. There are many who would 
recognize me if I were to walk the streets of 
Metamor openly. In another few years, I will be 
just another raccoon and few will recognize me as 
the long lost Bishop Vinsah. It is better for 
both Lothanasa Raven and for Father Hough if that 
is the case. I would hate to be the cause of 
further scandal, but I know there is little I can 
do about it but obey the Lothanasa.”

Murikeer frowned. “You cannot stay in here 
forever. Even with those stones I gave you it will ruin your eyes.”

“Your body as well,” Malger added. “I must find 
some pretext to take you down to the southern 
towns where you won't be recognized, even if only to let you see the sky.”

“You will need to seek the Lothanasa's permission 
first. I am one of her acolytes and a sworn 
servant of the temple. In that I am no different from any other acolyte.”

“But that doesn't mean you need to stay here always.”

The raccoon nodded. “True. I hope that one day I 
can leave here and be known as Elvmere by all. 
But I know that I cannot make that decision.”

“I shall visit you as often as I can,” Murikeer 
assured him with a faint smile. “Perhaps the 
Lothanasa will accede to a request from me to let 
you accompany me on errands in the woods. I could 
help you better know Artela. Or perhaps, I could 
even teach you some magic. You are no longer 
under any prohibitions against its use. I'd be 
honored to instruct you in what you can learn.”

“Apprentice to both you and Malger?” Elvmere 
laughed, despite a sudden hesitancy in his heart. 
He had not even considered that magic was lawful 
for him now, but a part of him, that part still 
rooted in the man he once was and the faith he 
had held tightly to his heart, knew it could not 
be so easy as that. “Thank you, Muri. Maybe 
sometime you will have to teach me, but I do not think I am ready for it yet.”

“If you ever change your mind, I will be happy to teach you.”

“Thank you. What of you, Muri? What are these errands you speak of?”

The skunk's long tail flicked from side to side 
behind him as he shifted in his seat. “Errands 
that seem to keep me moving between the Keep and 
Glen Avery, or at least they had ever since I 
returned to Metamor last December. I have been 
here helping Rickkter regain his strength, and 
lately fighting to keep Kozi alive. Akkala heard 
my prayers, she is recovering and will be well 
enough to travel again in a few days. Kozi wants 
to make sure that the last of the refuges from 
Bradanes arrive safely this Spring. I go to the 
Glen to visit my aunt and my pupil Lady Kimberly 
who lives there with her family. Or at least she 
normally does; the poor woman and her children 
were trapped here at Long House while her husband 
Charles was still at the Glen. I would have spent time with them but...”

As the skunk tensed and began to tremble, his one 
eye pressing shut, Elvmere stretched out one paw 
to offer comfort. “Speak no more of that, my friend. It is past.”

“Aye, it is. It is past.” Murikeer opened his 
eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. “I 
haven't yet decided where to settle. I feel more 
comfortable at the Glen, and I have family there. 
But there is much here at Metamor for me to. And 
there is the Legacy to consider as well; I really 
should visit that place again.”

Malger grinned. “I'll come with you if you go 
there again. Just don't rip any more of the 
mountain down without warning me first.”

Murikeer chuckled. “Nae, no more of that should be needed.”

And then, for several seconds none of them said 
any more, each of them watching the others, their 
glances showing the closeness of their hearts in 
a way that no gesture could. Their heads leaned 
closer together as each waited for another to 
speak. How many moments of silence had they 
shared on the roads together last year? How many 
evenings had they spent singing and plying their 
trades to delight fellow travelers or locals 
coming in for a drink and a hot meal? How many more would they ever have?

A warm tolling echoed down the circular stairs 
and all of their heads turned. Their ears lifted 
as the sound of booted feet and youthful laughter 
followed the sonorous chime. Elvmere smiled and 
sighed. “The other acolytes are coming to start 
their duties. I'm afraid you won't be able to stay any longer.”

“Then we shall take our leave,” Malger said as he 
stood and stretched. He looked down, shifted his 
paws back and forth, and chuckled. “No Misanthe. 
I'll make sure she comes on our next visit.”

“Tell her I am grateful for all that she has done 
for you,” Elvmere said as he rose to his feet. He 
handed his empty cup back to Murikeer who put it 
and the other two back into his satchel. “And I 
am so very grateful to you both for coming to see 
me. I have missed your companionship. Sometimes I 
wish we had not parted ways in Silvassa all those 
months ago, but I know we are each the better for it.”

“And marked by it too,” Murikeer said with a soft 
smile. “May the gods tend you, Elvmere.”

“And may they protect all of your steps, and all 
of those you love,” Elvmere replied as he and the 
skunk clasped arms. Malger clasped their arms a 
moment later, nodding but making no offer of benediction.

“Take care of yourself, Elvmere. Keep up your musical practice.”

Elvmere's muzzle twitched into an amused grin. “As you wish, Master Malger!”

All three of them laughed and then his two guests 
returned the way they'd come, disappearing within 
the tall shelves carrying away with them some of 
the warmth. Elvmere sat back down at his writing 
desk and rolled the little brilliant sparks of 
light about in his paws. They dazzled everything 
around, casting their light on all the ancient 
tomes of the Lothanasi and the mighty Pantheon.

----------

May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias


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