Prologue // Smoke & Fire

All is still and dark, until that peace is disturbed by a slowly-rising lambent glow.

Izah the Golden must stoop to enter the chamber, tilting his head just so to avoid clipping his horns on the stone archway. These ruins were not meant for humans, let alone efreeti. The chamber's shadows are pushed away by the firelight his body sheds, and as shadows recede the stone walls reveal faded—but still colorful—murals adorning them.

A pair of oread clad in stone armor follow their master into the chamber, blades drawn and coal black eyes wary of what dwells in the dark. Ahead, Izah's personal firelight gleams off of a glistening skeleton sitting cross-legged upon a stone plinth, cradling an enormous wood-bound tome in its clawed hands. The body is ancient, possibly once mummified but damage to the ruin has allowed water and insects in that have stripped much of the desiccated form's flesh away.

Izah stops just out of arm's reach from the plinth, gesturing for his bodyguards to fall back. They do so immediately, moving to either side of the arched entrance. Then, with his burning gaze fixed back on the skeleton, Izah calls out. "Laurent!" There is a giddiness in his voice, creeping up into a wide and sharp-toothed smile.

The man who answers the call is a narrow slip of a human dressed in silk and cotton clothes unfit for a jungle expedition. Mud stains the embroidered hem of his cerulean robe and much of his shoes. He adjusts octagonal spectacles on entering the chamber, squinting against the contrast of darkness to Izah's firelight silhouette. He sees the efreeti beckoning with one clawed hand, and circles around.

"What do you see?" Izah asks without breaking his gaze away from the skeleton clutching the tome.

Laurent pauses beside his master, then forms a ring with his index finger and thumb and raises it over his right eye as if holding an invisible spyglass. He utters a soft invocation, "Oahz," and a shimmer of light flickers in that finger ring.

"Abjuration wards, unsurprisingly." Laurent remarks, scanning the skeleton. "Divination, too. Nothing else." He looks the body up and down, then offers Izah an askance glance. "What do you see?"

"The future, Mr. Laurent." Izah says without hesitation as he reaches to claim the book. "The future."

___________________

One Day Later... Che'ej-le Ruins Camp

Southern Arcadia

Lamashan 16

4734 AR

___________________

A warm, humid breeze blows from inland. It catches the sturdy fabric of numerous tents set out across the beach and snaps the fabric like banners. A half dozen longships are beached in the white sand and three times as many laborers work to load packed crates aboard, bound for the massive five-masted galleon anchored off the shore.

Adelard Laurent stands within his tent on that beach, inspecting the bones of a small corpse set on his examination desk. It is no larger than a toddler and the remains are laid out as completely as possible, though some of the smaller bones of the skeleton were lost in transportation from the nearby ruins.

"A child, Ser?" Asks a young halfling seated near Laurent while he picks mud and rocks out of the soles of a pair of the scholar's shoes. He motions to the skeletal remains with his chin, as if his question were somehow unclear.

Laurent glances at his servant, then shakes his head. "No, no. At a glance, but not so. Not halfling, either." He adds, and Laurent's servant affords a small nod as if appreciative of this confirmation. "Based on the whorl patterns in the bone, likely a gnome. This is indicative of profound bleaching."

"Bleaching?" The servant asks, turning a shoe over in his hands. He no longer watches Laurent while he works.

"Gnomes are precocious things. Experience-seekers. It's—" Laurent hesitates, taking a moment to distil a larger topic into something more digestible. "If they stay in one place too long, they lose all their coloration, grow sick, and die."

"Ghastly," the halfling says in a hushed tone of voice with a shake of his head.

"This one," Laurent continues without remarking on the somber nature of the degenerative disorder, "was likely centuries old. From the looks of it they lived with the bleaching most of their life, which is extremely uncommon."

"Is that what all this was?" The halfling asks, then gestures with a muddy shoe to the jungle beyond the tent. "The ruins. Gnomes built all that?"

Laurent nods, picking up the isolated skull—sand mandible—to inspect. "If you can believe it. A whole city, all those pyramids, stretching for miles through the jungle." He turns the skull around in his hands, fingertips following the curvature of the brow.

"And, they're all dead, then?"

"Maybe." Laurent says, unconvinced. "We only found the one skeleton, but that's not to say there weren't graves we missed or... perhaps they cremated their dead, sank them at sea. It's hard to say. The city could just be abandoned, it's hard to tell without taking more time."

Laurent's servant nods, continuing to scrub dried mud from the shoe. "And is that something we have?"

Laurent looks over at his servant, one brow raised.

"More time, Ser."

"Ah. No, unfortunately. Master Izah has found his obsession and we'll be bound for Absalom sooner rather than later." Laurent remarks, setting the skull back down with the rest of the remains, mindful to line up the mandible as best as he can. "I just have some unanswered questions I need to resolve first."

Laurent glances over at his servant, only then noticing what he's been up to. "Wren." He says with a little jut of his chin in the halfling's direction. "Fetch me the gray satchel from my supply chest."

Wren puts down the shoe he was cleaning and quickly does as asked, opening a small chest and retrieving one of Laurent's satchels from within. He hands it over and Laurent produces a box of tindertwigs and a single ash gray candle from within. "Close the tent flap," Laurent adds, and Wren does as told with haste.

The wind still buffets the tent, but with the flap closed much of the breeze is cut out. Laurent sets the candle down beside the cadaver's skull and strikes one of the tindertwigs, lighting the wick. Wren steps closer to the table, but Laurent is quick to put a hand on the halfling's shoulder and direct him two steps back. At the same time, the candle begins expelling a thick, gray smoke.

"Please stay silent," Laurent instructs in a hushed tone of voice as the smoke thickens and rains ash down on the table. He can feel the tension in Wren's shoulder but misses the look of wide-eyed wonder and dread conflicting in the young halfling's expression.

The smoke gradually thickens, then sculpts itself into the shape of a frail-looking gnome sitting cross-legged on the table, long earlobes pierced with jewelry. Studs in his brow, lip, and chin. Dark swaths in the smoke swirl like tattoos across the gnome's bare chest and arms. Wren takes another step back on seeing the spectral form take shape, dread winning out over wonder.

"Spirit, state your name." Laurent demands, and the ashen likeness looks at him with lifeless eyes.

"Zipacna T'loc Zucab." The spirit says gesturing with one thin hand to himself. His voice is hollow and distant, as if echoing from down a long hall.

"How did you die?" Laurent asks.

"Le in ts'o'ok u chukik." The spirit replies.

"Shit." Laurent curses, fumbling through his satchel for a scroll.

He hurries, unfurling the parchment and reading the incantation written across it in gold ink. With each syllable the writing phosphoresces and peels away from the paper as words of light. By the time Laurent is done reciting the incantation, the scroll is blank. All the while Wren watches on in silence.

"How did you die?" Laurent asks again, and the spirit replies in the same tongue. But this time, Laurent can understand it.

"Time caught up to me."

Laurent's brows knit together and he works his jaw from side to side in thought. "Did you die of old age?"

"Time caught up to me." The spirit reiterates.

Shaking his head, Laurent changes topics. "The book you were holding in death, what is it?"

"A riddle."

Laurent snorts at the unhelpful answer. "What is the book's purpose?"

"To teach." The spirit says.

"What does the book teach?" Laurent asks, growing visibly frustrated. He glances to the candle, already burned down half way in such a short time.

"The future."

Laurent grunts. "Does the book tell of events that have not yet come to pass?"

"No." The spirit answers, infuriatingly.

"How—" Laurent catches himself and sneers. "What was your occupation?" He tries a different angle.

"I was a healer."

The answer isn't satisfactory to Laurent, nor was it expected. "Who did you heal?"

"All."

"Gods damn this fucking gnome." Laurent curses under his breath, eliciting a look of concern from Wren.

"Is—everything alright? What is he saying?" Wren asks, wringing his hands together. "Is it bad?"

"I said be quiet." Laurent snaps, and Wren takes another step back and bows his head. Laurent in turn advances on the table and looks at the spectral form of the spirit in the smoke. "What happened to your people?"

"Life?" The spirit answers back, and Laurent swears he sees a smile on the corner of it's lips.

"Gods a-fucking-bove this thing is..." Laurent mutters into his palm as he rubs one hand over his mouth. "Is the book trapped?"

"No."

And with that last answer, the candle burns out and the smoky apparition dissipates. Laurent's shoulders sag and he drags one hand down his face muttering, "I don't know what I fucking expected."

"Is—" Wren takes a hesitant step forward. "Is everything alright, Ser?"

Laurent shrugs. "Fuck the shoes. Pack these remains up in the chest, make sure they get on the boat."

"Yes, Ser." Wren agrees with a dip of his head in a humble bow. But as the halfling approaches the remains Laurent adds an addendum.

"And if Cassius so much as fucking sneezes in the direction of that chest, I want you to tell me immediately." Laurent says through his clenched teeth. "Understood?"

"Perfectly." Wren states with another humble bow. He wants to ask more, but Laurent's mood has soured beyond fair reasoning. Instead, he remains silent as he watches his master take his leave and depart the tent. Wren looks back at the bones, nervously.

And he feels as though the bones are looking back.

___________________

Meanwhile...

The Infernus

Offshore ___________________

"I will not return to Sothis empty-handed."

Maralictor Lycara Sandein cradles her horned helm under one arm as she addresses Izah, seated behind his desk in the aftcastle of his ship the Infernus. Izah, though restraining his true size and majesty, still stands a head and a half taller than the Hellknight even while seated.

"Lictor Vox was assured we would return with a full compliment of slaves." The Hellknight reminds, her amber eyes fixed on Izah's more golden stare. "You made a verbal agreement."

Izah looks up at the Maralictor, his attention having been previously captivated by the wood-bound tome sitting closed on the desk in front of him. "Promises made under the assumption this stretch of Arcadia would be inhabited." Izah notes with a raise of one brow and a restrained smirk.

Maralictor Sandein is unamused. She advances on Izah's desk and firmly rests her helmet atop his book. "The Consortium made an arrangement with us."

Izah sits forward, never breaking his stare from the Hellknight's. "The Consortium paid you and yours handsomely for this trip. Slaves were supplemental."

"That was not clear at the time of our agreement, Izah." The Maralictor says through her teeth. "We provided a service to you: security. I have every right to withhold your spoils from this expedition per the terms of our contract if you don't uphold your end of it."

All amusement drains from Izah's face and he reaches out to lay his hand on Maralictor Sandein's black-gauntleted hand. "Maralictor," Izah says with a squint. "You are indeed entitled to take such actions, but I must ask..." The dark metal begins to take on a warm, reddish glow as it heats up, "...who is providing security to you?"

Maralictor Sandein's expression tenses, her jaw clenches, and tears of pain well up in her eyes but she does not so much as flinch. Her free hand moves with a whir-click of spinning gears within the armor down to the sword sheathed at her side. Still, Izah keeps his eyes on hers and nothing else.

"Think that through," Izah says slowly. "You only have the one chance to." He adds before letting go of her gauntlet. Maralictor Sandein immediately withdraws her hand and recoils, teeth gnashing together.

"I am feeling generous today, Maralictor." Izah says as he nudges her helmet off of his book. "When we raise anchor we will go up the coast. My scouts spotted a village a few miles to the north. We will give you a day to make your claim as you and yours will. No more, no less. And we will provide you passage back to Sothis with your spoils."

Maralictor Sandein cradles her burned hand in the other, and the metal has already begun to cool. She takes a step forward, snatching her helmet off the edge of the desk with her uninjured hand.

"Is that sufficient?" Izah asks, narrowing his burning eyes at her.

The Maralictor nods, swallowing dryly, before turning and excusing herself from his office. Izah snorts to himself as she leaves, turning his attention back to the ancient tome on his desk. His fingers trace a symbol carved in the wood, that of a great tree with roots that extend down to the bottom of the book and branches that reach beyond the top.

"Take whatever you want, Hellknight..." Izah mutters to the empty room.

"...the greatest treasure of all is right here."