Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #35: The Invitation]

Log Date: [12/24/12764]

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka, Raikaron Syntaritov

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Hautaholvi: The Exchange

10:22am SGT

“…and they were like these… huge things. Like, bigger than you. Covered in just this big grey sheet, like a cloak, but without a hood. And they didn’t have heads; it was like this big circle of stone masks, at least a dozen or more of them, orbiting around the space where the head would be. And the circles were usually big, with a little bit of space between the masks.” I say, motioning my arms around as I describe the Watchers to Brian.

“Huh. Now that’s some right proper eldritch angel shit, that there.” Brian says. He’s got his burly arms folded on the counter, listening to me tell him about the trip to the Old City, and I’ve got a stool pulled up to the other side of the counter. “Most of the angels and demons I’ve seen, they’re all generally humanoid, but I’ve heard about the weird angels and demons that look like they’re pulled from the depths of the Dreaming. The Watchers sound like that — something you look at, and it just feels alien. Completely unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Something that looks like it was never mortal to begin with.”

“Yeah, pretty much like that.” I say, picking up my fizzwater and sipping from it. “I think that’s a thing with the Witchling’s agents; faces are… weird, for them. The Faceless Ones always have their heads covered by a swarm of animals of some sort; the Watchers don’t have heads, but have stone faces circling an empty space; and the Witchling herself wears a half-mask. It’s like you’re never allowed to see anyone’s real face.”

“That’s assuming they even have a real face.” Brian points out, sipping from his own glass. “Maybe they’re not trying to hide something. They’re trying to hide the absence of something.”

I tilt my head to one side. “I never thought of it that way. Not that I’d ever try to test that theory. The Witchling and her angels are scary. Honestly, I’d prefer to deal with Kolob’s angels; at least I know I can hurt them, and they feel pain.”

“Well, at any rate, I’m glad you’re back now. I missed having you visit to come trade for Blackthorn’s secrets.” he says, straightening up. “I like our little chats. One of the highlights of my month.”

“Trust me, it’s good to be back. After spending half a year in the afterlife of my people, I’m pretty sure that I never want to die and end up there.” I puff. “Hell, I’d rather end up here, as one of the damned, than end up in the Old City.”

“Sure sounds like a tough afterlife to end up in, from what you’ve told me.” he says, starting to put away some of the emotion vials I traded him for any of the secrets he’d collected on Raikaron. “It’s wild to me that you were there for six months, while only a month passed here in Sjelefengsel. That’s some serious time dilation.”

“It is, but I’m glad it was that way, and not the other way around.” I say. “It would’ve sucked to come back and find that a bunch of stuff had changed while I was gone. Plus, I think Danya wouldn’t have been happy with running the House for that long.”

“Have to agree with you there. Danya’s a great manager, but I don’t think she’s comfortable in the executive role.” Brian says, closing a cabinet door. “There’s a level of social… flair, for lack of a better word, that you need to have as one of the Lords of Sjelefengsel. Danya doesn’t have that; she’s all business and no smiles. Doesn’t like putting on a performance for others.”

“She prefers being the power behind the throne, so to speak.” I agree.

Brian smirks. “I thought that was you, Mistress Lady.”

I chuckle a bit. “I don’t sit behind the throne. I’m in the lap of the person that’s sitting on it.”

Brian lets out a boisterous laugh at that. “And she’s shameless about it! I like it. Oh, boy… y’know, I remember the first time you came in here? Timid, shy little thing that scurried around in Blackthorn’s shadow. You’ve come a long way, little buddy. I’m proud of you.”

“That was a little over year ago, wasn’t it?” I muse, rocking my glass back and forth. “Seems like forever ago. So much has changed since then. I suppose I’m a lot different than what I was when I first arrived here.”

“You most certainly are. And I don’t think it’s a bad thing.” Brian says, grabbing a rag and using it to wipe down the counter. “So, I know you and Blackthorn just got back about a week ago, but are there any plans for the holidays? I didn’t see any invitations for the Krysmis party at the House of Regret this year.”

“I’m not sure. We needed some time to recover after getting back, and we weren’t in the shape to be planning for that so soon.” I say, wiping away some of the condensation on the side of my glass. “I don’t think the Krysmis party will be happening this year, or at least it won’t be open to anyone outside of the House. For the Iron Liver… I’m not sure Raikaron plans on doing it this year. He might have a lot of work to catch up on, and I think he brews all the draughts himself. I’m not sure he’ll have the time to do all the prep that it requires.”

“Aahhh. Breaks my heart, but that’s understandable. He’d only have a week to prep for the Iron Liver at this point.” Brian says, walking the length of the counter as he wipes it down. “That’s a tall order for a big event like that, and Blackthorn doesn’t seem like the type to put on a half-assed show. He’s the kind of demon that would rather cancel than deliver a subpar event with his name on it. Especially when there’s other Lords and Houses attending.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame. I was looking forward to watching it this year.” I say, resting my chin on my hand.

Brian smirks at that. “What, you didn’t want to be one of the contestants this year?”

“Don’t get me wrong, the draughts were fun, but I’d rather watch someone else get trashed trying to do seven shots of Dreaming draughts.” I chuckle. “Are there any other times when Raikaron lets people have Dreaming draughts? Like, in, y’know, reasonable amounts?”

“Outside of the Iron Liver, I don’t think he offers the draughts anywhere else.” Brian says, throwing the rag into the sink on the back counter. “He’s very choosy about when and who gets to have them. I’ve tried to talk him into trading some of them to me so I can have them on the Exchange’s shelves, tempting other clients, but he stonewalls me every time. I’ve made crazy offers for just a single bottle, but he wouldn’t budge. I think, to him, the draughts are something you can’t put a price tag on. It’s a labor of love, not a mercantile product — probably similar to how an artist views their art.”

“But all of the contestants got a bottle of the stuff that knocked them out, right?” I point out. “If they know how rare the stuff is, some of them probably tried to resell it, right?”

“Oh, without a doubt. I’m sure Raikaron’s aware some of them would do that.” Brian says, coming back over to my section of the counter. “I’ve even tracked down and tried to buy some of the bottles off the contestants in years past. Haven’t been able to get one because some of them like to keep it as trophies. Others think they can wring a crazy payday out of me and won’t settle for a more reasonable exchange. Some of them give their prize bottles to their Lords, looking to curry favor or get a leg up in their House. And some of them just really like the draught that knocked them out, and wouldn’t pass up the chance to experience its effects again.” He leans his meaty forearms back on the counter once more. “One thing’s for sure; it’s a devil of a time trying to get your hands on one of your bottles if you didn’t get to participate in the Iron Liver. There’s a reason it’s such a lucrative event for the House of Regret. People will pay through the nose for a chance to get a spot in that contest, not even to win — just for the guarantee of knowing you’ll get a bottled draught for having participated.”

I shake my head. “That’s wild. All of that, just for a magical drink brewed by a creature of the Dreaming?”

He shrugs. “They’re good drinks. Compelling drinks. Drinks made from dreams. And to put it simply… those just aren’t easy to come by. Although…” He scratches idly at one of his horns, eyeing me carefully. “…you do have intimate access to the brewer himself…”

“Oh, no you don’t.” I chuckle, leaning back. “Don’t even ask. If he’s already told you no, then I won’t have any luck trying to get any of those draughts for you.”

“Oh c’mon, little buddy!” Brian cajoles, thumping an arm on the counter. “That’s what you’ve got those feminine wiles for! Work that charm, I know you can bend him around your little finger!”

“Just because I can doesn’t mean I’m going to.” I say, picking up my glass and draining the rest of it. “I rather like Raikaron, and I rather like being Mistress Lady. I’m not going to abuse my position and my influence just so other people can profit off my relationship with a demon Lord.”

Brian blows a raspberry, waving a hand. “You and your principles and your standards and your honor. What is this, Kolob? That’s some namby-pamby angel shit.”

“It’s loyalty; maybe you should give it a try sometime. I hear Lords like rewarding it.” I say, slipping off my stool and grabbing my briefcase off the counter. “Anyhow, jokes and banter aside, I should get going. There’s a few other errands that Raikaron wanted me to run while I was out and about, so I should probably take care of those. It was nice getting to catch up with you, though.”

“Same to you, little buddy.” he says, grabbing my empty glass. “In seriousness, though: if there is an Iron Liver this year, shoot me a text. I’d never pass up a chance to attend, even if I’m not participating.”

“If it is happening, you’ll be one of the first to know. Can’t make any guarantees, though.” I say, starting towards the Exchange’s doors and waving over my shoulder. “Have a good one, Brian!”

“You too, little buddy!” he calls, giving me a wave as I push through the doors of the Exchange, and head back to the limo waiting for me on the street.

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

The House of Regret: Raikaron’s Room

12:40pm SGT

Submerged.

It was something I often did when I needed to meditate. When I was distracted, or I could not focus, I would find a body of water — or draw a bath, if I did not have a natural body of water at hand — and I would submerge myself in it. The outside world would fade away, and all that was left was the ubiquity of water — distorting light and color, dampening sound, enveloping you in a protective layer that separated you from the world around you. The quiet and isolation that came from being submerged would free me from distractions, and allowed me to calm my mind so I could meditate on things of deep or solemn import. Things which, even with my considerable years, I may not fully understand.

And that is where I am when I hear my name, faint and distorted, and open my eyes to see Danya’s hazy outline rippling above my bath.

After a moment to gather myself, I sit up, breaking the surface of the water and taking a breath as I run a hand over my wet hair. The world comes back, everything sharp and clear as I leave my liquid cocoon; the air is cold on my skin, though probably on account of the water being warm.

“An interesting time to me taking a bath, my Lord.” Danya remarks drily, shifting the data slate in the crook of her arm. “Had I known, I would have saved this for a more opportune time.”

“It’s not a bath.” I murmur as I wait for the water to drain out of my ears. “I needed to meditate, and there were too many distractions.”

“I see.” Danya says, arching an eyebrow. “I apologize for interrupting. Shall I come back later, then?”

I don’t answer right away, hooking an arm around one of my bent knees under the water. My thoughts are still swimming about, circling the matter upon which I had been meditating. “What do you know of the ve’skachje, Danya?”

Danya’s eyes narrow in thought. “It sounds familiar, I have certainly heard it before. It is… it is a dance, no? Yes, it is a dance, a vashaya’reian dance, correct?”

“It is, yes.”

“I thought as much. Yes, it’s starting to come back to me now; I remember it from one of my dancing classes. The reason I forgot it in the first place is because I’ve only danced it once or twice before, and that is because it’s a devil of a dance. Looks amazing, but requires discipline, flexibility, good form, precision, and a partner that has all of those in equal measure. You have to give it practice to dance it well, and it is…” She pauses, mouth working around for a moment as she searches for an appropriate descriptor. “…some parts of it would make the clergy vaguely uncomfortable.”

“It is an unusual dance. Discipline and structure form the foundations, but those foundations exist so that passion and expression may be built upon them.” I murmur, my eyes remaining on the ripples in the water. I lift an arm, watching the water slink through my fingers like a translucent hand slipping through mine. “…a chase, a pursuit. A courtship. A challenge. There is something inherently competitive in the ve’skachje, is there not?”

“One could describe it that way.” Danya says, turning her head a little. “Are you alright, my Lord? You seem quite preoccupied by this.”

“I had a dream last night.” I say, turning my hand and watching the water droplets slide along my skin. “A dream with exceptional clarity and coherency. I can recall it in perfect detail, even hours later, and what I saw…” I curl my fingers closed, folding my hand in to rest my knuckles against my lips. “…unsettled me.”

Danya adjusts the data slate in the crook of her arm. “There is not much that unsettles you, my Lord.”

“No. There is not.” I concur, slowly tapping my knuckles against my lips as I continue to ruminate on the memory of my dream.

Danya tilts her head to one side a little, as if she was trying to catch my gaze. “Would you like to talk about it then, my Lord? Perhaps sharing what you saw will unburden your soul, as it seems you are quite burdened at the moment.”

“I’m not quite sure I want to yet, as I myself do not quite fully understand what I saw.” I exhale, starting to stand and wading to the edge of my bath, picking up my towel. “The Dreaming has spoken to me, but I am not sure what it is saying. That is why I am troubled — it never speaks idly. There is weight, importance in whatever it is trying to tell me.” I start to step up out of the bath, toweling myself off as I go. “Or perhaps it is trying to warn me.”

Danya turns to find my bathrobe, and bring it to me as I am drying off. “Well, should you need someone to share it with, I will gladly listen, my Lord, though I cannot promise to interpret the dreams of a Dreaming creature. Considering Jayta left in high spirits this morning, I take it you have not yet shared this with her?”

“I did not want to dampen her mood.” I say as I finish toweling off, and take the bathrobe, slipping into it. “And I saw no point in troubling her with something she would not understand, nor be able to offer insight into. I will have to seek answers elsewhere, from sources that have more wisdom than I can presently muster.”

“Reasonable enough. Now, far be it from me to impinge upon your ruminations, but there are some matters which require your attention; it is why I sought you out.” Danya says as I start tying the waist of my robe. “I will make them quick, so as not to trouble you further, but they do require your administration. The first is the matter of the Iron Liver; we have had several parties asking if it will be happening this year. In my opinion, if we can crunch the staff between now and the end of the year, we can make it happen, but there are several factors to consider: staff will be somewhat overworked by the time of the event, and this will be our first time hosting it in a new House. Hosting and event quality may suffer as a result. And of course, there is the fact that you have not had the opportunity to prepare any draughts in the run-up to the event. I understand you have reserves, but I am not sure if you are comfortable with pulling this year’s selection from your personal stash.”

“Cancel it. The staff would not be happy about overwork during the holidays, and with all that has happened recently, I do not believe I would have the presence of mind to properly host the event.” I say as I move to the racks and hang up my towel to dry. “If anyone asks, it is because my journey in the Old City weighs heavily upon me, and I am still recovering from my ordeal there. People will be disappointed, but I am not willing to sacrifice the quality of the event even if it means skipping a year.”

“Understood. We will adjust our messaging to those who are asking.” Danya says, tapping at her data slate. “The next matter I needed to bring before you regards other Lords; namely Envy and Lust. They wish to meet with you in the wake of your venture to the Old City.”

“Both of them at once?” I ask as I leave the bathroom and head back into my bedroom.

“Separately. Lust reached out first, and then Envy reached out a little later. I don’t believe that either of them are aware that the other has requested an audience.” Danya says, following me back into my bedroom. “If you would like me to, I will deny the audience with Envy. I understand you have much on your plate at the moment.”

“Tempting. If only we could do the same with Lust.” I say as I head to the side of my circular room and give a wave to one of the walls. The wood panels shimmer away, revealing the many outfits of my wardrobe behind it. “I will not deny the audiences, but schedule them for after the start of the new year. Like my staff, I have no desire to overwork during the holidays.”

“Understood. I will schedule those audiences accordingly. The audience with Lust will take priority; she does not like being made to wait.” Danya says, fingers drumming against her slate once more. “Finally, the Sovereigns are wanting a report on the Old City, and your observations during your time there. They have made clear that they expect a complete report by the end of the year.”

“Understandable, I suppose. It is not often that one gets an extended glimpse into the Old City, and returns to tell the tale.” I say, trying to figure out which red-shaded tie would pair well with a jet-black vest and a whitecollar shirt. “I can only imagine they want insight into the immortals that live there. An assessment of the Old City’s martial strength.”

“Preparations for a war, my Lord?” Danya says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, no. No war to be expected presently. The Old City has no plans for going on the march, and Sjelefengsel has no interest in invading such a desolate hell.” I explain as I start picking out a set of slacks. “The Sovereigns ask because they want to maintain a decent understanding of the forces that the Old City has at its disposal. In the unlikely event that there is a clash between Sjelefengsel and the Old City, knowing what the Old City has at its disposal will help inform how Sjelefengsel handles the conflict and the tactical decisions surrounding it.”

“Plans laid for a day that will never come.” she remarks.

“One would hope. It’s a precaution taken for actors that are not always rational, or do not act in accordance with the proscribed standards for the community they are part of.” I say as I start getting dressed. “I will see to it that my report on the Old City is composed and sent to the Sovereigns by the end of the year. Thank you for letting me know.”

“Of course. And while we are on the topic of the Old City, my Lord, may I posit that your dream might be a product of your recent ordeal in that afterlife?” Danya theorizes. “Such a long time spent in a taxing environment—”

“I have considered it, Danya, but this is not a product of the Old City.” I say as I pull my shirt on and start buttoning it. “This is something different. The Old City is the past; the Dreaming is warning me of something yet to come, I just don’t know what it is. I know it’s trying to tell me something; I just need a way to understand it. A different angle, or maybe some context that I’m missing.” As I finish buttoning my collar and start on my tie, I go on. “I will need some time in my garden to reflect. Perhaps I can eke out a revelation or an epiphany before Jayta returns.”

“Of course. I will leave you to it, then.” Danya says, inclining her head. “Do you plan on attending the House’s festivities this evening? In their reduced form, it should be easier to handle the socializing.”

“I should be able to participate for a time.” I say as I start knotting my tie. “I may retire for the night earlier than usual. Sometimes the remedy for a troubled mind is the same rest that disturbed it in the first place.”

“An astute observation, my Lord. Here’s to hoping that you will find the revelation you need or the peace of mind you are seeking.” Danya says, starting to step away. “I’ll excuse myself now. Should you need my consultation, simply let me know.”

“Understood.” I say as she steps out and closes the door behind her. After I complete my double Windsor and slide the knot up to my collar, I pull on my vest, button it, and check myself in the mirror.

It’s a small comfort, but I’m glad to see I look just as elegant and immaculate as I was before my journey in the Old City.

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

The House of Regret: The Garden

3:38pm SGT

Beneath my Dreaming tree, I stare up at the lanterns, and wait for a visitor from afar.

With the holidays being so near, I am not sure if she will answer my summons. Holidays are typically eventful times for creatures of the Dreaming; they are a time when emotions are heightened, and dreams and nightmares flourish. In the Dreaming, my kind are usually kept busy by this fact — with the Waking and Dreaming serving as mirrors to each other, it was no surprise that eventful times in the Waking translated to busy times in the Dreaming. Still, I hope that my guest will answer the call; I did not know many other family members that I could reliably call upon.

I am encouraged when I hear faint noise in the warm, hazy twilight formed by the shade of my Dreaming tree. It has the sounds of an eating establishment; the clink and ring of cutlery, the murmur of dozens of conversations bubbling in the background, punctuated by the occasional sharp laugh or loud exclamation. And all of this noise is filtering around from behind the tree; a scene that is clearly there, but just out of sight, hidden from view. Still, I can hear pawsteps over grass, and a moment later, Miqo comes around the tree, dressed in her manager uniform for the Neko Cafe.

“High Dreamkeeper. I am honored that you answered the call.” I say, extending an arm to one side and bowing respectfully.

“Well, it’s not often that you call me, much less on Krysmis Eve, so I figure it must be important.” Miqo says, glancing around at the garden surrounding us as she does so. “Garden’s looking healthy as usual, that’s good to see. A few more soul lanterns in the canopy, seems like you’re still hard at work. It’s a little toasty, though. Do you keep the garden at early-summer temperatures year-round?”

“Yes, I find it provides a nice respite in the winter and summer.” I explain as I straighten up. “I apologize for the timing, but there are not many others that I felt I could reach out to about this particular topic. My staff would not be able to help, nor would my peers and superiors in the higher Circles of Sjelefengsel.”

“Is that so? Sounds dire.” Miqo says, unbuttoning her collar and her sleeves, possibly on account of the warm air around the tree. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Not dire, persay, just… highly specific.” I say as I fold my hands behind my back. “It pertains to the Dreaming… and my great-grandmothers.”

Miqo raises her eyebrows as she rolls up her sleeves. “All of your great-grandmothers? Or just a specific two?”

“Just the specific two.” I say, turning and starting to walk as Miqo keeps pace beside me. “I never met them; they died before I was born, so I don’t know much about them. I was wondering if you might know anything about them, since you were alive at the time.”

Miqo also folds her hands behind her back, just above the base of her tail, as she walks alongside me. “I remember a fair bit about them, yes. I would have to do some thinking to recall some of the smaller details; after all, that was… roughly four thousand years ago? Maybe a little bit more than that. But I do still remember Kyto and Raiko, from whom your name is derived, I believe.”

“It is, yes. The root of the name is something that has been passed down through every generation since her.” I say as we pass from the shade of the tree, and the air around us grows lighter as we leave its twilight influence. “I know their story, but it’s a story that’s been passed down. Told by people that weren’t alive at the time it happened. And I wanted to speak to someone that actually knew them when they were alive.”

“What is your sudden interest in your great-grandmothers?” Miqo asks, glancing at me. “Prior to now, you had never expressed this sort of curiosity in them. Did you come upon some information about them that changed your perception of them?”

I don’t answer right away, considering how to phrase what I’m about to say. “I… the Dreaming tried to communicate something to me last night. I had an experience while I was sleeping that was solemn, and unsettling. It had exceptional clarity and coherency, and even now, I can recall it in perfect detail. Part of it was that I bore witness to my great-grandmothers dancing the ve’skachje in their youth, but the longer I think about it, the more I am starting to think it was not a dream.” I pause to let that sink in before I go on. “It felt… like a memory, but that doesn’t make sense, because they died before I was ever born.”

Miqo has been listening quietly and intently, and when I conclude, her dark teal eyes go to me. “You have not told all. You would not have called me away on Krysmis Eve for a dream of your great-grandmothers dancing; there was something else in the dream that is troubling you.”

I press my lips together. “Perhaps it is better if I show it to you, rather than tell you what I saw.” I say as we come upon a shallow pond within the garden. Crouching down, I touch a finger to the surface of the water, a single ripple traveling across and turning it dark. Straightening up, I gesture to the black mirror; an invitation for her to witness it firsthand.

Miqo tilts forward, falling towards the pond, and I do the same. Hitting the surface feels less like falling into water, and more like plunging through a gossamer film and into another world. Our momentum is maintained as we pass through the surface, swinging upright in the dark until we are standing level in a pitch-black void.

“This is how the dream started? In darkness?” Miqo asks, looking around.

“Just the beginning.” I say as twin pillars of lonely light break through the void. They come from somewhere far above, and each pillar highlights an individual: Kyto, a woman with white hair, sitting at a table; Raiko, a woman with black hair, crossing a tiled floor towards her. They are attired in the trappings of their time; clothing that is at once practical and provocative, a mix of equipment and style. And the sound of heels clicking over tile is—

“Crisp.” Miqo murmurs, her arms unfolding from behind her back as she starts towards the pillars of light. “You don’t hear that in dreams very often.”

I follow along behind her as she nears the joined pillars of light, where Raiko has offered Kyto her hand — and invitation for a dance, though judging by the smile on Raiko’s face, it’s an offer made in mischief. Kyto, ever guarded, accepts without a word, taking Raiko’s hand and allowing herself to be escorted out onto the dance floor. As they pass by, Miqo turns to watch them go, her head tilted to one side as she studies them closely.

“I have seen images of them before.” I say as my ancestors assume the form and posture that the ve’skachje requires. There is a certain tension in their movements as they begin; near as I can tell, this was during the time when the two of them were rivals, rather than partners. “Paintings, pictures, artwork. But no videos. I don’t believe there are any recordings that capture them in motion; it is all still images. So I am unsure…”

“No, you are correct. There are no living records of these two; only the still images.” Miqo says, moving in tandem with Kyto and Raiko, watching their tense and measured movements. Raiko spins Kyto close, catching her from behind, then traces her fingers up along Kyto’s arms on either side, scarlet trails of red light following the motions, ending in puffs of crimson glitter as Raiko plants her hands on Kyto’s shoulders and spins her partner around to face her. The low susurration of clothes brushing together, along with the hollow and steady echo of sturdy heels agains tile floors, marks the resumption of their dance. “This is not a dream; this is a memory. Dreams do not have this level of clarity, of crispness and depth of detail. They always have a certain fuzz, an indistinctness in one area or another that is meant to mask a lack of detail or a gap in consistency. This recollection has none of that.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, idling near her as we watch my ancestors whirl about the tiled floor, the pillar of light staying on them and keeping them illuminated while shadowed silhouettes watch on at the edge of the darkness. “I don’t imagine I could have a memory of persons that I never met…”

“There are details here that you could not have imagined on your own, things you would only have known if you had been there and experienced them firsthand.” Miqo says, reaching a hand out to run her furred fingers through Kyto’s hair as she passes by us. “It is a memory, I have no doubt about that. But the way we experience it is from an omniscient perspective. We do not see it through the eyes of your ancestors, or through the eyes of those that may have been watching them. We can move through this memory at will, and see it from multiple angles, which tells me that this is not a memory from a single person. This recollection has been composited from the memories of everyone that may have been present when this dance took place.”

“So it’s an engineered memory?” I ask as Kyto and Raiko release each other to circle each other at a small distance, their heeled steps echoing in sync with each other. In the background, a pianist and a violinist provide the ve’skachje’s duet — legato movements broken up by staccato measures in a way that mirrors the dancers themselves. “Something that was adulterated, rather than existing in its natural state?”

“Not engineered, but certainly abnormal. A composited memory takes multiple memories of a single event and fuses them together into a fuller, more complete representation of that event.” Miqo explains as Kyto and Raiko slowly close their circle, spiraling towards each other until each one can raise an arm, their hands resting against each other as they orbit about that central point. “It is not an easy thing to do, and even then, there are hitches, hiccups where there is simply no information to fill in certain spots or areas in the scene. But this, this is seamless and complete. It’s possible this could have been done by a master, or by someone that was very dedicated to preserving this memory as completely as possible. But I find it more likely this was composited by the Dreaming itself, given how long ago this event occurred. Most of the people that would’ve witnessed it are dead by now, and their memories beyond the reach of all but the Dreaming itself.”

“I can only assume that there is something about this moment that the Dreaming wanted to convey.” I say as Kyto and Raiko both step in, their arms sliding past each other to hook around the other’s back, and pull them even closer. Spinning ever tighter and tighter until Raiko leans back, Kyto tilting forward to hold her inches off the ground, as she brushes her lips along Raiko’s exposed throat… then pulls her back upright, both of them resetting posture and position. “But it is an unusual way to convey it.”

“The Dreaming rarely speaks directly.” Miqo concurs, watching as the pair match each other’s steps without touching each other, weaving this way and that with measured strides. “It communicates to us most often through things that are close to us. Our memories, or the things and people which have some connection to us. And when it needs to speak to you, it speaks through the remembrances of your ancestors. This memory is a gift — and likely a responsibility as well.”

Both of us step aside as my ancestors’ dance takes them through the area we were standing, the tails of their long jackets whipping and whirling with each stride. As their steps strike hard against the tile, their heels sends up sparks, catching on the hems of their clothing. Fire begins chewing along their attire, leaving trails of light and sparks with every twist and turn of the ve’skachje, every breathless flourish and caper. Both of them shed embers as they dance, leaving trails of fire in their wake that spread and burn — and around us the scene slowly begins to tilt up towards the night sky.

Though Kyto and Raiko continue dancing, they gradually slide out of view as the star-sprinkled sky above pans over a world as seen from high orbit on the night side. Every inch of land is smoldering as if set afire; the oceans are lit from below by fissures in the crust. The music continues playing; the echo of heels against tile tells us that my ancestors are still dancing; yet all we see is a scorched world framed in a starlit sky that slowly fades to black, and leaves us in the void once more.

“This is what was given to me.” I say in the silence to follow. I feel us rotating, as if we were falling forward again, plunging through an unseen film, until we find ourselves standing on the edge of the pond once more. “But I do not know what it means, nor what I am to do with it.”

Miqo’s brow is furrowed, and she does not answer right away, as if she was still processing what she witnessed. “It is a warning, surely. But an obtuse one. It would seem to me that a calamity is on the horizon, but whether the Dreaming intends for you to avert it or to avoid it is unclear. As for your great-grandmothers…” She folds her arms, looking thoughtful. “…I recognize the world we saw burning at the end. That was Tirsigal, in the Honaus System; it was a Ranter colony world that was quite well developed. Your great-grandmothers spent a considerable amount of time there when they were alive, and I warned Kyto that her rivalry with Raiko would threaten to consume that world if she did not find a way to rein it in. She was able to do so, but not before Tirsigal suffered considerably from some of their clashes.”

“But that was four thousand years ago. Tirsigal was attacked and assimilated by the Collective some eight or nine centuries ago.” I point out. “It’s far past the point of being in danger; it’s long since been lost. So to see it burning would be an extension of whatever message was supposed to be conveyed through the memory of my great-grandmothers, I assume?”

“It could be. Again, this vision is obtuse. Tirsigal never burned the way we saw just now; your great-grandmothers were able to rein in their rivalry enough to mitigate the damage I warned them against.” Miqo says as the darkness in the pond slowly fades away. “To me, the vision shows what might have happened to that world had your ancestors not heeded my counsel. But that would be a hypothetical posited for something that happened four thousand years ago, and I don’t see the purpose in showing you hypotheticals that never came to pass.”

“Do you think it is a warning for me, then?” I ask, folding my arms behind my back once more. “Since I am one of their descendants?”

“Possibly. I cannot say with surety. This is one of the maddening aspects of the Dreaming; often it speaks in riddles, or tells us things that only make sense when viewed through the lens of retrospect.” Miqo says, turning away from the pond. “You are familiar with how wild animals will sometimes flee in advance of natural disasters, yes?”

“A common phenomena, yes.” I say, following along after her.

“They do not know what disaster is coming, but they have sensed something that instinctively causes them to act or to brace for it. So too with our kind; we often sense when calamity is impending. We are rarely given to know what it is with precision, but we can sense it looming on the horizon.” Miqo explains as we continue idling along the garden’s paths.

“But if that’s the case, wouldn’t you have received a similar vision?” I ask.

“Only if I was within proximity of that calamity. If it is a warning about the future, I believe you are receiving this vision because you will be in the proximity of the calamity, or somehow involved in it, at the time of its occurrence.”

“I should hope not. I just got back from the Old City, and that was more than enough tribulation for quite a while yet.” I puff, straightening my posture a little. “I should prefer if things remain quiet for a year or so… do you think that I could take steps to avert this calamity if I can cipher the meaning of this vision?”

“It’s possible. Assuming that it portends calamity, which I cannot even say for sure.” Miqo concedes. “It may be that the Dreaming simply decided to give you a memory of your ancestors and what may have happened had they not heeded my counsel. Why, and for what reason? I could not say; the Dreaming, as you know, does as it desires and sometimes it does things which are simply inexplicable. It’s possible that my younger brother — your ancestor — may be able to decipher the vision; he has a knack for reading the tangled logic of the Dreaming. But he is currently sealed within the Challenger Bastions, and there are limitations on what kinds of visitations he is allowed.”

“Do we know how long it’ll be before he’s free again?” I ask. “Granted, it hasn’t been very long — barely a century at this point, I think — but by mortal standards, they’ve managed to contain him for quite a while.”

“With the Challenger remnants retaking the Bastions, I don’t imagine it’ll be much longer now. My guess would be a decade at most, if not sooner.” Miqo remarks frankly. “The Challengers were not exactly thrifty with the wish-flowers that bound Solebarr to that glade. I imagine the Valiant will not be much different.”

“Mortals rarely are. Give them access to a miracle, and they’ll spring for it sooner rather than later.” I observe. “Do you know the visiting limits on Solebarr’s imprisonment? It seems like he might be the only one that can make sense of what I was given.”

“You would have to go there in person. The seal prevents anyone from warping or gating straight into the glade.” Miqo explains as the path we’ve taken bends back around towards the tree. “And finding it is not always simple. It tends to move around, and only presents itself to those it thinks should be allowed to visit him.”

“So it’s a living seal. Intelligent, with some ability to act independently.” I surmise. “Interesting. They did not skimp on the precautions when they imprisoned him, did they.”

“The Challengers that caught and sealed him away used what they had at their disposal. It was a respectable effort, and certainly quite an achievement by mortal standards. But by immortal standards, it amounts to little more than a time-out and a slap on the wrist.” Miqo says. “I cannot say for sure whether the seal would let you visit him. But you do have the Fates at your disposal; have you considered sharing the vision with Trinity?”

“I had not considered that, but… that is a fair point.” I admit, drumming my fingers along the back of my hand. “I suppose I could show it to them, and see what they make of it. They usually speak in riddles and implication, but I’m accustomed to that, and it’s easier to cipher the spoken and written word.”

“Then you have your direction.” Miqo says as we return to the twilight shade of my tree. “I wish I could’ve provided more guidance, but I have a feeling this vision was intended for you. Whatever answers it contains, they are meant for you to decipher, not me.”

“Well, it was worth a shot.” I sigh. “Nowadays, there are not many things that are a first for me, but this was one of them. I have never received this kind of… revelation from the Dreaming, and I was not quite sure of how I should handle it.”

Miqo smiles. “You are young. Trust me, you have many firsts still ahead of you, and there is much still to look forward to.”

“I will take your word for it.” I glance towards the tree, and then decide to launch into my remaining question. “Miqo, if I may… you knew my great-grandmothers during their time. I have only ever heard stories. What did you think of them?”

She takes a slow, deep breath, looking away and narrowing her eyes slightly as if she was peering into the depths of memory. “How to describe your great-grandmothers… mm, that is difficult. It’s hard to distill it into a single sentence. Your great-grandmothers were complex individuals. Both of them were very stubborn. Strong-willed, with deeply-held beliefs. Both of them were powerful, but they were prisoners of their circumstances. And no amount of power could save them from that.” She steadily taps a finger and thumb together, as if trying to dredge up more words. “You ask what I thought of them. I looked upon them, and I admired their willpower and their resolve. But I also knew it would be their undoing. I told them that if they wanted to be happy, they would need to yield up the power they had been given. To step away from the roles they had taken. But neither of them could bring themselves to do it. They both believed there was work they needed to do, and that work required the power they had been given and the positions they had attained.”

“Their pride was their undoing?” I venture.

“Not their pride. Something even more dangerous than pride.” Miqo says, her head turning somewhat towards me. “Their sense of purpose. A sense of purpose is a powerful thing; it drives us, motivates us, and without a sense of purpose, a person is a hollow shell whose reason for existing is unclear. It is good to have a sense of purpose; it gives us meaning, and makes a person a fuller, more complete individual. But it can also be dangerous. A sense of purpose can do more than just motivate you. Sometimes it can consume you, to the exclusion of all else. You may lose sight of who you are, even as you think you’ve found yourself.” She looks directly at me at this point. “Something you would do well to remember, Lord of Regret.”

I press my lips together. “My work here in Sjelefengsel is making a difference. A small one, perhaps, but this place needs change. It could be better than what it is right now.”

“Perhaps. But you are descended from your great-grandmothers, and you may inherit more of their qualities than you thought. You know their story, and you need not repeat their mistakes.” Miqo says. “At any rate, I should be going. Krysmis Eve is a busy time at the Neko, and although your vision may be a dark cloud on the horizon, we should not fret the future at the expense of the present. Set your mind at rest and enjoy the holiday, Raikaron, and when it is over, you can give your vision the consideration it deserves.”

I incline my head. “I’ll bear it in mind. Thank you for taking the time to offer your guidance, Miqo — it’s greatly appreciated, especially during a busy time like this. Have a good night, and I hope the remainder of this evening is easy on you.”

“And the same to you.” Miqo nods as she heads back around my tree. For a moment, the sound of the Neko swells, the clatter of plates and cutlery and the murmur of many conversations, and then it fades away, leaving the garden quiet once more. In the ensuing silence, I take a deep breath and slowly let it out, trying to compartmentalize everything I’ve seen and learned today.

Miqo was right — it’s a holiday, and there will be time to worry about the future later.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Raikaron’s Study

8:44pm SGT

I can hear the last echoes of piano notes hanging in the air as I step into the study. Raikaron, sitting at the baby grand piano in the near corner of the room, is lifting a hand off the keys, while the other one holds a pencil that he’s been using to mark the sheet music he has on his lap, and on the piano’s stand.

“Jayta.” he says, greeting me without taking his eyes off his sheet music. “How goes the party?”

“Not as fun without you there.” I say, making my way over to the piano and running a finger along the propped-open top. “This wasn’t always here, was it?”

“I had it moved here from one of the recreation rooms. I find it’s easier to compose when I’m in my study.” he says, setting his pencil down and starting to organize the sheet music.

“You’re writing a song?” I ask, picking up one of the sheets and looking it over. I recognize some of the notation — quarter rests, quarter notes, eighth notes, bass and treble clef — but I didn’t really have a head for music, and couldn’t read it the way that a proper musician might.

“I am. At the behest of Wicked Wolf; it was something she asked me to do while we were at the Congress.” he says, leaning an arm across his knee. His tie has been loosened, his collar unbuttoned; it seems that he adopts a more relaxed demeanor when he’s engaged in creative endeavors. “I had a few concepts sketched out, and now I’m trying to fill them in. The core idea is there, but capturing it is proving… elusive.”

“I didn’t know you could compose songs.” I say, setting the sheet of music back on the stand with the others. “Is it usually hard to write something like that?”

“It varies. If one is inspired, sometimes you can produce a song in a matter of hours, and then you just have to sand down the edges and smooth out the rough spots in the days afterwards. Other times, you know what you want to produce, but trying to get it down on paper or on the keys is like beating your head against a brick wall. And that can sometimes go on for weeks.” he says, running a finger along one of the white keys, then glancing at me. “In case you haven’t guessed, the latter is the situation I presently find myself in.”

“Sounds frustrating.” I say, sitting down on the bench with him. “Is there a deadline on producing this song for Wolf?”

“Not a specific one, but it’s rude to keep a hypernatural waiting.” he sighs. “I can feel the song inside myself, but everything I put down on paper just… it comes out feeling not quite right, like I’m missing the mark by just a little bit every time. It’s quite aggravating.”

“Seems like it. Maybe you’d enjoy yourself more if you joined the celebrations downstairs.” I suggest, nudging my shoulder against his.

He grimaces. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t have left the festivities so early. It’s just that recently, there’s been much on my mind, and it’s been hard to shake. I don’t feel like I’d be very good company while I’m thus preoccupied.”

“I suppose this would be a bad time to mention someone stopped by to deliver this to you, then.” I say, holding up a red envelope.

“What’s this?” he says, reaching up and taking it, studying the golden lettering on the front. “Seems a little late in the season to be receiving Krysmis cards…”

“Not sure. It was delivered by a vashaya’rei at the front door. She said she had been sent from the Maelstrom.” I say, watching as he flips it over and studies the stamp sealing the envelope shut. “She said that it was supposed to go to you, and left once I said I’d make sure it got to you.”

“Ah, the Maelstrom. Yes, I think I know who this is, then.” he says, pressing a finger to the stamp. The envelope starts to burn away, leaving what looks like a white invitation with gilt edging and filigree, and a knotted red thread hanging from a punched hole in the bottom of the invitation. “It’s an invitation to a centennial celebration for Azra, the demon goddess of tyranny. She rules over the Maelstrom; it’s one of the smaller hells. Not one of the big twenty-three. Looks like she’s holding it around the new year.”

“So a centennial celebration, is that, like…”

“It’s like a birthday party.” he explains, flipping the invitation over to see if there’s anything on the back. “Hypernaturals live for hundreds of thousands, millions, sometimes even billions of years. Having a birthday every year is… well, a little repetitive. Many deities choose instead to celebrate every hundred or thousand years instead. It spaces out the interval so it actually feels like a justifiable celebration. Makes it an event that’s actually worth attending.”

“That’s… interesting. Only having a birthday once every hundred years.” I say, taking the invitation as he hands it to me. “Guess it makes sense if you live that long. I figure the other Lords have probably gotten an invitation as well?”

“Probably not. At least I wouldn’t think so.” Raikaron says as I look the invitation over, and run a finger over the filigreed paper, finding the texture and sensation pleasant. “I’ve had some dealings with Azra in the past. Run some errands for her, since she’s unable to leave the Maelstrom. I imagine those prior engagements are why I’ve received an invitation.”

“Do you plan on attending?” I ask, offering the invitation back to him.

“Certainly. The celebration won’t require much of me, and there is much to be gained in cultivating a good rapport with a hypernatural, even if she happens to be a demon goddess.” he says, taking the invitation back. “You never know when you might need the connections. I’ll need to find a gift to bring for her… perhaps one of my Dreaming draughts will do. Those are always in high demand.”

“That reminds me. Are we doing the Iron Liver this year?” I ask as he sets the invitation on the stand along with his sheet music.

“We aren’t, no. I have enough draughts in reserve, but we haven’t had the prep time, and I still have work to catch up on from my absence.” he says. “Danya handled most of it, but there are some things only a Lord can handle. I’ve been catching up on those, but taking the time to plan an Iron Liver would impede that, and shifting the duty for planning to Danya would be putting too much on her. She’s already handling a lot as it is.”

“Yeah, fair enough.” I agree. “Is it possible we could… still have some of the draughts?”

His lips quirk in a smile. “That sounds almost like you wanted to participate in the Iron Liver, if we’d had one.”

“I mean, not as one of the contestants.” I say quickly, kicking my feet back and forth. “But the part afterwards, where the guests get to sample the draughts that were used in the contest, like… I think I would’ve liked that part.”

“Fair enough. The Iron Liver is many things, but it does not really give the contestants time to fully savor the draughts they’re being served.” he concedes. “Since we will not be having the Iron Liver this year, perhaps… for your Krysmis gift, we can take a little walk through my draught vault. And you can pick out one that you’d like.”

My fingers curl around the edges of the bench, and it’s hard to hide my excitement. “Really? I can pick a bottle straight from your reserve?”

“None of the exceptionally rare draughts, of course. I keep those for rainy days.” he says, starting to stand. “But anything up to that point, yes, you may pick a bottle for yourself. I will let you know what various draughts do, and how they taste.” He offers a hand out to help me up from the bench. “You can pick whichever one you like, and I’ll pour some of it for us to have tonight — and you can have a bottle of it to save for later.”

“I would like that.” I smile, taking his hand and standing up. “Do you have any draughts that are warm? Since it’s winter?”

“Plenty. We can start with those draughts and go from there… Sunbasker might be exactly what you’re looking for, though you may also enjoy Smugmug, or Pumpkin Spice Raccoon…”