Knights of Anathaeum Talisman and Teaching

[Abalon Shallows]

The scent of frankincense layered over everything in steady ebbs from the thurible that roiled it's cargo outwards from the center of the chamber in wisps of the rich scent. Consecration of the room was a point of safety, no divine will did flow to guard against the Dark, yet the will of the magic and the laws of the arcane were being satiated by such careful respectful gestures. Candles of deep purple were half spent, the incense pouring consistently throughout their stable illumination, as the Pursuant of Death did make the place of learning safe for all who would come here, living or otherwise.

A bone white open palm shimmered with the ethereal ghostlight, issuing protections within the room of learning. The books sealed by glass, apparatus confined by lock and key and binding ward, raw components of the domain of unlife which did accept the placations of the smoke as they lurked in darkness. With each word of protection issued softly, like a prayer on gentle breeze, attaching itself to each cardinal direction as Abalon Shallows did turn and bid his will to prevent disaster to those who would learn here. Charms of silver were hooked on loops from the ceiling, pieces of amber locked in silver claws that did spin idly as they were secondaries to the ritual performed. They flickering with that same ghostlight as energies did sink into stone, permeate into wood, singe to the air and with confidence commit itself to the task given unto it.

This chamber was a place of safety to those who ventured into the antithesis of life, Abalon rendered such true with the regularity of the motion of the moons. When the domain was approached by the curious and willing, practised, delivered in speech and by will, there lay echoes of possibility within the weave of magic. Witting or no, each mistake if performed without the proper precautions, could render much consequence.

Boundaries had to be maintained, the structure of reality had to be reinforced, this place had to have allowances for the unsure hands that did first make their gestures to make demands of the magic concerning the ends of things. This was not a place of ambition, but of humble service, to spirit gone and to esprit de corps. Abalon made sure of that in his tutorings.

No wild eyed necromancers that did bid those decayed and forgotten to rise and serve, no covens that did command the spirit to torment. This was a place of learning for those with knightly ideal and goal, to fend against those who would command such things, and further, best them with understanding of what they rendered.

Abalon placed open palm against fist, and did bid a pulse of the gathered smoke entwined with his will and mana to finish the ritual begun some hours ago and reaching it's conclusion in this gesture. The smoke gave out it's last exhumation, the wave of possibility did confide with reality and render itself so, safety assured, the zone of peace geometrically sound. A shockwave of gentle smoke as it found what niches could home it. The echoes of the dead would not reverberate to dissidence, this place would be safe for those who wished to learn how to navigate the threshold of the passed and the vital acting for another quarter of the year.

The Pursuant of Death did look to the candles that lay on windowsills, wordlessly bidding each to die out, their purpose served. Daylight still sluggishly pierce the clouded skies that promised a gentle shower to those who might drill still with blade and shield, daylight in rare solid beam that did see the remnants of smoke that did lick at the feet of Abalon and rise, free of arcane bidding.

The chains of silver with interlocked amber did spiral anticlockwise, their purpose too complete, languidly shimmering with ghostlight as they did settle about their own purpose. Abalon looked to them in with contentment.

He gestured at the door, unlocking it with an upwards digit. The lock performed it's unsealing, numerous mechanical methods asking permission from the runes that marked it.

He did replace the thurible to a glass box, which set against the wall, an ornament and reassurance of the deed performed. The dull black of the device was in contrast to the perfect sheen of the glass that snapped close, confiding it for the time between protection seals were issued.

The door unlocked with a satisfying click and a sound of a chime, issued by the runes to mark the occasion.

Abalon had made summon of one of the newer members of the Order to this place, providing squire with the task of rendering the message delivered at the proper time to the one would be bid to learn, appreciate, and be gifted. Sealed by black ribbon, the letter would provide direction. The nature of the meeting was that of edification, that word written in elaborate script from quill by Abalon himself, and scant else.

He sat himself down until that moment the door would knock at a dark oak desk that held all manner of talismans dedicated to the craft within it. His lilac eyes looked to each talisman that hung from rafters, as the light did catch in glimmers as they twisted upon themselves. His hands intertwined as his back aligned with the chair, and he exhaled through thin lips as he rendered one task completed, and the next, soon to begin.

For what was a chamber of learning without new students to guide correctly?

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

Sitra could not deny her surprise at the summons; the crisp parchment issuing the proclamation of an invitation to learn, appreciate, and be gifted by a Knight Pursuant of Death.

How curious of a thing, to be served by a stuttering squire who had presented the missive as if it were the writ of death.​

Not to mention a familiar thing, for she had her own share of experience with servants and so dealt with the boy of fifteen with a practiced, inoffensive magnanimity that appeared to have soothed most of the youth's anxiety, and had left him standing at attention reassured of having done his duty while she examined the neatly written orders hidden within the sprawling cursive.

To have prodded her from the bedside reading she'd been indulging in was normally seen as nothing short of a slight, bordering on the act of war, yet she could not deny the flutters of excitement and worry alike warring in her stomach like so many butterflies trapped inside a cage. Oh yes, this was something she'd been looking forward to without even knowing it to be a possibility. For she could not deny her own experiences with this domain; her long hours from beneath the cover of night as she studied the esoteric.

All for a good cause, of course. But she could not deny a rather more personal fascination with the subject.

And so after reading the parchment in its entirety - twice at that - she subsequently dismissed the squire who'd originally brought it before her, despite the fact that where she was only in residence of Astenvale for days, the boy in question had been living here far, far longer than that. Yet he still did nothing more than to apologize for disturbing her repose, bowing low at the perceived slight before taking his leave.

An easy enough battle to win, the virtues of age and grace beating out lived experience.

Not all battles would be so simple, she knew that, and despaired a little to stand before this Knight Pursuant in the same way the boy had to her. To that end she made no small preparation to ensure that she did not suffer the same fate, for she was of the Vené Tanyakoettirs and so had the responsibility of confronting everything that stood in opposition to her with a quiet, elegant dignity.

The rhythm of her heart easily kept pace with the hurried and indecisive selection of her wardrobe as she combed through her travelling trunk of clothing, in the search for the armor that she would wear in a very different kind of battle. This was her first real introduction to a Knight Pursuant beyond that of her cousin Bebin, and the first true taste of tutelage besides the typical training in the yard when it came to the intricacies of combat and all those conventional etiquettes of knighthood. She couldn't rush this, nor could she take any chances.

Oh yes, she would at least try to impress, practicality be damned.

When finally she arrived before the threshold of the broad oaken door, she was dressed modestly enough for a Saknne noblewoman; the white blouse she wore sported lush sleeves and narrow, fitted cuffs. Her overshirt consisted of an underbust bodice that had imitated the subdued emerald dye of her long pleated skirts, trailing off into unassuming stockings and buckled, ankle-length shoes. As she considered jewelry a bit much, all that shined or glinted were the polished silver eyelets adorning the front of her bodice. Did it matter whatsoever to Abalon? Probably not.

Sitra had waited instead of immediately setting foot inside, quite a bit more uncomfortable now that she was there - that the moment had come to introduce herself to a stranger who she'd known nothing about, and held very few expectations about in terms of matching personality, nor age, nor temperament.

That was to say that she knew nothing at all of this new mentor of hers other than that he dabbled in death in a world where many would cringe at the mere thought of doing so.

And she wondered about the kind of person who would consign their souls to such a risky world; would he be as they depict them in taverns by drunken bards? Or perhaps she'd liken him to one of those ghastly phantoms in so many fairytales that were read around the flames of a campfire, as a warning to the folly of curious youth? She had stopped herself then, for what was the purpose of contemplating these things? No good would come of unkind expectations.

So instead she took a few careful breaths, forcing her eyes closed while she inhaled the subtle musk of the frankincense in the air, bidding her heart not to beat so loudly. For a moment she thought it had done the job, up until her closed fist rapped the unadorned wood of the door standing between the two of them, asking in no uncertain terms for permission to enter. All those feelings then returned.

Also, yes. She was not simply going to barge in like that.

If and when permission was granted, Abalon Shallows would find himself sitting across from the young squire who had paused in the doorway until further orders were given. The fact that she knew the proper customs might have been some relief, since she otherwise looked every bit as anxious as the squire who'd originally delivered the missive. The feelings that played across her face like an anxious dance were smoothed over as best she could. Yet traces obviously remained, spoiling her otherwise neutral mask and dispassionate, static gaze with a small frown of uncertainty about how to proceed.

Her hands remained hidden behind her back, idle fingers twirling about the black string she'd kept.

 

[Abalon Shallows]

The word, "Proceed," uttered as knock sounded. The door opened with simple gesture from the mage, the door yawning open silently.

The desk at the end of the room was occupied by the Pursuant who wore robe of white and ornaments of withered bark and vine. His lilac eyes blinkless, instinct to blink lost to the weave. Ossified of skin, Abalon bore the pallor of bone.

He regarded her blankly, revealing nothing by curl of lip nor frown of brow, blinkless eyes holding lilac hue consistent, unflickering, unwavering. The talismans above did intertwine themselves about their chains as they spiralled from clockwise to anticlockwise, amber glimmering in the daylight that struggled to pierce grey cloud.

The window began to issue soft taps as a light drizzle began to descend, and if reminded of the passage of time by the movement of the climate, Abalon did speak, soft as the tapping of the rain against the window.

"Tradition and custom of our Order dictates much," Abalon began. "Denial of knowledge in the arts I pursue to those still fledgling in wisdom to our ways is prudent. In favour of the wisdom of the domain of life, of the manners of conduct of arcane vitality before my sphere of speciality be broached. Such does yield much good in the shaping of good praxis within any squire. Indeed, rare is the day that I allow a squire to stand so here. Yet understanding of the nature of your arrival, I did summon you to appreciate what events play out due to the consequence of your undertaking."

He gestured upwards, to the talismans that hung from rafters, as if explaining much by open palm raised.

His hands returned to the center of the desk.

"My name is Abalon Shallows," the Pursuant said matter of factly, the drizzling rain abating for a heartbeat as he did speak his moniker.

"And your presence allows many a duty of our Order to proceed. It is duly noted, and for such, you have my thanks."

Finally, a long blink from Abalon, slow, as if entering a dreamspace for long moments.

Those lilac eyes returned their stare, as gems inlaid in sockets of chalk.

"From binding of book to repairing of stone, from sealing of sanctuaries to offering succour to the needy, all has cost in labour, time, and of course, in coin. This place is of learning and of duty. Of daring and of loyalty. Not everyone can say that they sustain the Order in their initial step into our customs."

He inhaled, as if remembering a tense thought that refused it's grip on his train of thought, a brief stab of delay to his words. He spoke out of requirement, not in wish to smother praise, but to render context. And with this spirit in mind, he did wish for context of his own.

"How might that fact affect you I wonder?" Abalon asked, gaze unyielding, motionless as his frame, the drizzling rain forming patterns upon the glass, water gifted by gentle winds from ebbing grey clouds.

The talismans all turned upon themselves as if willed by Abalon's question in quicker pace, twisting as amber did glint as their potency grew from the time afforded since that final action of the ritual.

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

Sitra did not know what to say to that, and so chose silence instead. There was no point in arguing for or against the fact that her family's coin had gone towards the maintenance of their estates; that it had provided the origin of this meeting between the two of them. Not that she kept her silence for the lack of something to say, but because she could very well understand the implication, and could hardly protest against it.

And though she was loath to admit it, it was nothing less than the truth that she was in this chamber of learning only because of her father's patronage, rather than any merits she herself had displayed. This Knight Pursuant knew that as well, yet he spoke so matter-of-factly that she could detect no hint of disparagement nor accusation in his tone. Only a statement of the reality as they both knew it, however crude.

Not that it made it any less of an awkward, unhappy thing for her naïve ears to hear.

Abalon's expression was equally as unreadable as his words. His ossified white skin offering no tells to her practiced eyes.

All nobility were conditioned at least a little bit to decipher those hints that were hidden within the subtlest of human emotions; in the way they reacted as they spoke of this thing or that thing; how their eyes told secrets that their pursed lips otherwise did not spill. Sitra openly wondered what he was while she tried to do just that. For if he was once elven or human, then few traces of that lineage remained from within the confines of his strange appearance and lilac eyes - like someone had played an odd joke and inset gems into the sockets of a lifeless marble statue.

Having resolved herself to neither deny his claims nor discover what he thought of them, she simply opted to bow her head low in a polite gesture of acknowledgement and humility. When he had finished speaking of her indirect assistance to the Monastery as if rehearsing a tired old litany in an equally monotonous cadence and moved on instead to his name, she finally straightened her head from its short, humble bow.

Then came his question.

"My family has been all too happy to assist with funding in the past, Knight Pursuant Abalon. They were once generous patrons of the Anathaeum order," several generations removed, that was true. Yet this was not a detail she felt any interest in divulging, nor was it a detail that she expected this Abalon not to already know, given his intimate knowledge of what her father's tribute had paid for. "However I have to admit my confusion, when you ask me how this may affect my tutelage or the scope of my studies. You must know better than I do, since I did not come here seeking an easy reward for the goodwill that my family's coin might have provided. Nor was I the one to have provided it."

Sitra looked away from the distant vista she was considering, back to Abalon. "Nor was I the one to have accepted it."

The implicit accusation must have been clear to Abalon, even when Sitra tried her best to ensure her voice remained leveled and conversational. She was not so ignorant as to pretend that it didn't render her an advantage otherwise denied to her peers, but she also wanted to make it clear from the beginning that if there was any game being played, then both parties benefited from it. The Knights of Anathaeum were hardly a unique brand of hypocrite if they were so willing to reach out for succor, even as their craws remained stuffed with their own stifling sense of morality.

But she tried not to be cruel about it despite the sting of Abalon's final words, choosing instead to match his own forthrightness as she took the ensuing silence as an allowance to step forth so that she could inspect the glinting of the talismans upon the table and hanging from the rafters with a vague, distracted sense of curiosity. She decided that it was better than to continue speaking; the possibility of saying something ill-advised hung on a knife's edge, she knew, and so did not want to push her luck.

That said, Sitra's eyes were enraptured by the twirling amber display of magical potency, something so long denied to her starving soul. Oh, it was true enough that she studied the arts from time to time and even possessed an amateur's understanding of runes and their portents, but never grasped the intricacies of it in the way that Abalon might understand the craft.

That was part of the reason why she was here, after all. Ranna knew just as little of the arcane.

Only a handful of precious seconds had passed since any words had last spilled from her lips, and it looked as if she was parting them to speak again; her face softening as the stick was promptly withdrawn and replaced with honey, still very much intent on making certain this meeting didn't completely fall apart after her small act of defiance.

"I will not deny my joy of having assisted my order, however indirect. And I will not deny that it provides me certain advantages refused to others, that is something we both know well to be the case. It is why I am standing here now, as you said." Sitra spoke with a surprising modesty, for none could deny that she could act well when necessary. Her almond eyes shared the same sense of the theatrical - they were both warm and filled with an undeniable guilt, steady as well as knowing - when she laid them upon what she assumed to Abalon's own.

Even if she'd never seen eyes of his hue before.

"Still, I cannot answer your question with any certainty. Perhaps you may tell me how it might affect me?"

This was a new situation for her and it required some study. Sitra resolved herself to listen a great deal, and talk only a little after this. If she could help it.

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Abalon received the reply with with dutiful ear and unphased feature, scarcely moving from breath drawn much less reaction. Statuesque as the apparatus that was contained behind glass that motionless did wait for their time to be unsealed.

"On the contrary to your statement, such may well disadvantage you, I seek to ameliorate."

He spoke plainly, as a doctor might provide list of ailments and cure in the same breath to question asked, drilled before the moment malady was to be solved within a body. He allowed some small motion in his frame as such news was delivered, leaning slightly to the left.

"The craftsman and artisan before all things does not wish their work warped, from without and within. It is in this spirit of things do I speak. Before my time here within the Order, I have seen practitioners of the domain of death be shaped by background that afforded them exquisite lens in which to focus, and in process, blind them to possibility beyond their scope. Humility to one's own predispositions can prevent much malady and warping. So many times was the utterance of, "I have done much," has rendered so much action moot, so many times the thinking of, "I seek what is owed to me," rendered the once wise foolish. And honest council can become hesitant and muted for many reason, despite it's own accord. I thought the Order deserved to hazard you a fighting chance of greatness, and I thought it best to make you aware of such potentials, without being explicit as their source. You're well suited I am sure of the particulars, should imagination serve. Your path be scarcely begun, yet you must carry much awareness of wayward tread so early in the path, if you are to walk it correctly."

 

[Sitra]

Sitra quietly considered the words that were spoken, the fingers of her right hand pausing rather abruptly before they managed to brush against the spine of one unremarkable leather-bound book or another, deciding suddenly against it as she retracted her hand altogether and set it to rest along the other upon the front of her skirts.

Still, she wandered a few paces around the room before coming again to a halt a few feet from the front of Abalon's desk.

The rain fell a little heavier outside, each drop of rain taking on a percussive note against the thin panel of the outside windows, as if its timing were chosen to accentuate the mood of the meeting. With the clouds letting loose a mournful rumbling to signal yet another renewed downpour, but she didn't mind. She had always been fond of the rain and would watch on for hours from the comfort of her villa, back in Saknne.

And to be fair to Abalon, she did not see it as all doom and gloom. For while his assessment was a rather severe and ruthless thing, it was nonetheless sincere advice that she could appreciate being told. How many times had she made the same arguments, and how many times has it been made for her for one reason or another? Too often to count, yet it was easy enough to forget with enough time and not enough exposure to the consequences beyond her peripheral.

These were all pitfalls she had fallen more than once into during her youth and would no doubt do so again, even as she told herself in quiet tones that she'd do no such thing, this time around. As a matter of fact, she had thought she addressed her own privilege earlier, but that was more to do with the most obvious and material examples. What Abalon spoke of now delved deeper into the heart of the issue.

She turned her gaze away from the window; once more back to the unnerving stranger.

"Yes, I imagine you mean to say that it would not do if the craftsman were blindly unreceptive to criticism, be it from others or from himself." Sitra spoke at some length, her hands at once returned to her back as she stood upright, straight-backed. "Or perhaps I am wrong, but I think I understand and I do value your advice. I know I have my own share of stubborn pride, and I hope I don't seem so proud as to let it get the better of me, or to lead me astray from the path I mean to follow."

Surprisingly enough she accepted the counsel with what appeared to be genuine gratitude, rather than the mild, biting spite from before. She was still not quite certain of where he meant this conversation to go, and again tried her best to gauge what it was by searching his features for a brief, flickering moment. His expression was as empty as ever, save for the faint stirring of his body seemingly too long at rest in the chair.

Having no intention of giving credence to her imagination, or of what she might've seen in that dispassionate mien, she forced herself again to stop with the impromptu interrogation. For the second time already.

"I'm certainly not so proud as to pretend to always see when I stray, so I do hope to find honest counsel in you."

For a lingering second or two, it seemed as if she had wanted to say something, decided against it - then said something else instead. Upon her lips danced a small, polite smile. "For edification was one of the promises in your letter, was it not?"

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Abalon made affirmative nod, small, barely perceptible. He turned his gaze to the talismans that did hang, and made slow snatching gesture at the air. As fingers closed upon themselves in languid motion, the talismans did still themselves from their turning, each piece of an amber an eye that did fix it's gaze upon Abalon, as if irritated. Amber set within each grasp of silver glimmered as the rain did fall, despite lacking the presence of confident ray of sun to illuminate it so.

"Indeed. Look to the talismans, if you would be so kind."

Abalon rose.

And with it did a wellspring of ghostlight about his hands emerge from his will, eerie and pale, akin to the moonlight upon still waters. Such mana born light lingered for a moment, an exhalation of the body that bore the strain of it's creation, a throwing of sleeved hands outwards, fingers spread, and did such light as serpent strike each amber locket in perfect sync. Lashing out at each talisman hanging in perfect unison of timing as a swarm of pale light.

Each talisman hanging did a chime rise as it was struck, as crystalline whine against the minor entropic energies that did will out from Abalon. The ghost light did fade as the amber did devour it, marking itself by such forging. The amber so giving chorus of tone were thus convinced and secured in their purpose, so marked by the affiliation of their defense system. Their hue was marked by purples for the effort, as if fragmented from itself within the grasp of silver, yet more than what it once was for it's stress.

Abalon spoke on, explaining what had transpired, as his hands did slowly return to his side, magic summoned dissipating as cool words did replace it's presence.

"These pendants are designed as wards. What you just witnessed was their awakening to their task. Each one had the potential to ward against but one facet of mana born threat. Their element of defence determined by what first cause them distress. Simply put, before the impulse you witnessed, they were tabula rasa. Now, they serve as wards against the entropic. My field of expertise."

Abalon gave pause as he allowed the talismans time to reveal themselves. They remained motionless, yet almost somehow agitated by Abalon's presence and glance.

"When I first gave out these talismans, I gave them to those who might confront those who wield the entropic for wayward sake against our number. The necromancer, the lich, the harvesters of souls, and the rest. They were more potently made in those days. A veritable shield, worthy for fierce contest. Yet, by providing such boons, did I make error in doctrine. For while they did much to ward, they are not without limit. And when those talismans did reach their limit, and relinquished their favour, the user was oft too reliant on that protection to navigate the danger they were oft shocked to be suddenly alone to fend against. The shock of that which we rely upon's absence can oft be painful. By becoming comfortable to safety that advantage provides, we sometimes make our future folly certain."

Abalon beckoned to one talisman, which did uncoil itself from rafter, amber fixed upon Abalon's vision as it did float towards him in small weaves in air.

"You are not expected to face such proponents of entropy so early in your career. Yet, there are always those who wish to venture into the domain forbidden to squires before their readiness. Should you find your fellow squires bring forth things of the domain of ending, this device shall protect you from their misstep. As well as foe beyond your stations' doing, should that misfortune arrive premature. I give you this talisman as might a healer provide bandage, wishing not it's use, but assured that it might staunch and buy time should something untoward occur. It is sadly inevitable that the curious might seek that which is withheld for good reason. This ward protects, but a kind encouragement from one such as yourself, to guide such errant squires with penchant to deathly curiosity to my door, might work best."

The talisman floated before Abalon, and lost all levitation in slow shudder. Abalon caught it in open palm, gently, cradling it for a moment. He arranged the chain within his grip, and held it aloft for Sitra to take.

​

"To each domain it's dangers and potent deeds. To each station, privilege and unique onus, each task tailored yet uniform, each duty universal in charitable motive to the path the Order bids us walk."

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

With the answer to her question given, Sitra could do no more than as she was bid.

To observe the scene playing out before her with no small degree of fascination, liking especially the concept of imprinting something upon what was referred to as tabula rasa. The theory was not an unknown one to her, but she'd not seen it play out in a literal, tangible way before. At least not like what she was being shown here, tonight.

The concept itself had excited her, and had led her mind astray with so many possible questions that she could hardly pay attention to the remainder of his explanation. She was not so caught up in her wandering enchantment as to not hear the explicit warning being provided however, and made sure to nod along as he spoke this time of the danger wrought by too much dependence on a thing; her eyes briefly diverting to Abalon's own, before returning again to the demonstration.

As much as his discussion about entropy and the domain of death was one that resonated with her previous dabbling in the arcane, she could not help but to discover yet another subject of study in this presentation of how one's physical craft might be fashioned into a magical artifact; a tool in which the possibilities were endless.

She would not hesitate to ask Abalon about it in a future discussion.

No doubt he'd be happy it had naught to do with her fascination with the esoteric and occult, at least not outright.

Perhaps he'd even be pleasantly surprised, in the same way Sitra had been as the talisman was offered to her with an expectant, if silent invitation to receive the gift. Her hand reached out tenderly, at least at first, before she ultimately took it from the Pursuant's own and possessively held it by the length of its chain, between her forefinger and thumb.

It was beautiful craftsmanship, that was not something she could deny. Even if it was a rather simple thing, nothing more than a silver chain holding in its grasp an amber stone that had previously glowed with the potency of whatever Abalon had imprinted on it; the swimming light being devoured in turn by the stone she was now examining with a cant of her chin.

Sitra finally brought her gaze upwards, speaking once more with a genuine appreciation, even if her following words might've been construed as a tad blunt. "I will heed your wisdom, Pursuant Abalon. Please do not mistake my interest for foolishness, or a desire to see others carry out foolishness. And you have my word that I will speak out when I witness such conduct."

Regarding the talisman with some hesitance for a few more idle seconds, she proceeded to enclose her hand around the gift, relegating both of these things to a cradle of an open palm as if she was desperately worried not to drop it. For her it was a precious thing, one of the first times she'd ever had the opportunity to lay hands upon a practical example of what she once only knew in the abstract.

She didn't intend to drop or misplace it, that she knew for certain.

When Abalon had spoken his final words as if they were a mantra, though not one previously known to her, Sitra had answered it with a vague inclination of her head in what was presumably assent that she understood. It was something she committed to memory, permitting her later to reflect upon all of what was said in one of her quiet moments. Hopefully in the gardens, were there no interruptions the next time around.

"Thank you. For all that you've told me, and all you've shown me. I will not deny that it has been a balm to my curious heart."

For a moment it appeared as if she was finished speaking, she'd even taken a cautionary step back in order to widen the distance between her and this stone-faced mentor of hers after receiving the talisman she yet held onto as if seeking its protection, already. It was because of what she held in her possession that prompted her to ask - returning to her earlier thought of doing so.

"I must ask, was this something you crafted, or another? I am... interested in the art."

Both questions were not literal, she had meant the necessary alterations made for the talisman to act as it did - along with anything else that went into such work - as well as the art of crafting something of this nature, an empty vessel destined to be imbued with magic and harnessed in the fashion that Abalon had done so with so much apparent ease.

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Abalon received the gratitude with as much affect as a flowing stream might upon the stone bedrock that bore it, for all that his face did change for hearing it. He made small motion with his fingertips against the desk, tapping without making sound. He looked to the black thurible for a moment, and then turned his attention back to the squire, his voice calm, with odd resonance to it as it did undulate.

"Indeed, I made them. The silver is tempered with a sympathetic mana state; the amber reinforced with copacetic resonance to allow the initial stress to guide it's purpose so. You'll learn the arcane methods if you show aptitude, but most of all patience. Have you been introduced the primaries of magic? I don't mean cantrips, I talk of the domains to which we dedicate ourselves in our study and application of the arcane. We're no university of mages, but speciality of later study shapes us considerably, as you have no doubt grasped already. Although there are those who serve with mettle of their arms, and that too is enough for duty's sake be sated. Some lack the gift to weave, but are not lacking in their acts of service to us all," Abalon said, being sure to remember that mages such as himself were often afforded the act of performing their duty by fierce displays of swordplay that was beyond his instinct or reflex.

 

[Sitra]

Sitra had watched Abalon's movements intently, her eyes flicking to the thurible next as his gaze settled upon it. She was still overwhelmed with the stifling scent of frankincense in the room, and the smoke was beginning to stain the inside of her nostrils with a cloying, sickeningly sweet fragrance. Not that she found it necessarily important to comment upon, much too busy going over the Pursuant's words.

The primaries of magic? By whose definition?

Then he spoke of domains, to the study of Astenvale's own understanding of the arcane.

Oh, yes. She'd heard as much from other squires, or from the rare encounter with one of her instructors that had nothing to do with sword practice or the menial chores of hauling firewood to the cook's hut. All pieces of a larger tale that she'd yet to uncover the whole of. And still she remained quiet until he had finished speaking, listening without interruption or interjection as evidence of the fact that she finally decided to tuck her tongue behind her teeth, for once.

Then it was her turn to answer. She chewed at the inside of her lip in thought for but a moment; the reply coming to her after no longer than that. "I am familiar with some of the essentials of magic. But not, I think, what you mean when you speak of domains. I haven't had the pleasure yet of studying under Astenvale's auspices." Her gaze again ended up resting upon the window to the gloomy outside, watching as droplets formed to leave lingering trails down the pane of the glass.

"That said, I have patience enough to wait until I've progressed to that point in my studies."

That was a big fat lie, but it was not a lie that she'd be willing to voice. At least not to this Abalon. All he got was another inclination of her head that signified she had finished speaking; fingers absentmindedly toying with the silver chain she had wrapped around one of her fingers, awaiting his answer to that.

Awaiting the opportunity to begin these studies, or to at least know the date she would be ready.

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Abalon did rise from his seat, robes coalescing about himself as if they were a shroud of pale cloud that was herded by shepherd breeze.

"Essentials of magic," Abalon did say, making slight tremor of the shoulders to implicate mild amusement at the turn of phrase. He cocked his head at the notion, indulging it for a moment, as if a well placed witticism, and decided not to follow his own meandering, instead walking to a sturdy oak wardrobe, vast, imposing, set into alcove which did disguise it's depth. Brass fixings did bind it to it's structure and secured it's holdings.

Abalon made slow approach towards it.

His pale hands did run across the doors.

He did knock upon it with knuckles white by nature, not by strain, and stepped back.

Sound of chimes did ring from within it, low fading peals that sounded out in tumultuous tune within the device. Low shufflings and jostling of something metallic against wood did emanate in odd percussive impulses. As the process began at his behest, Abalon did talk on.

"You'll find no universal language of proficiencies within the Order without mention of domains. Unlike orchestras of sound, where instruments be tuned strictly as to allow players to perform across the realm without becoming disharmonious, magic users be diverse in their...timbres. Their educations. Their instruments. The domains, five in total, serve us to allow learning and teamwork. Your essentials, useful no doubt. The domains, vital."

The wardrobe fell silent as if bid to silence by his elucidation. Abalon did turn to look at the wardrobe and did narrow his eyes at the wood panels, looking for augur by the pattern of the wood. Indeed, the oak grain did seem to dredge downwards. Abalon seemed unphased and unfettered by the nightmarish change upon the doors.

The rain did continue to fall which gave light tattoo of sound against the glass. Sunlight did dim, perhaps by cloud movement or perhaps shy to what process Abalon had begun.

"Patience is always good," Abalon did say in exhalation. He raised hand towards the wardrobe, his fingers turning pale in eerie ghost light of magic, maintaining respectful distance as he waited for his beck and call to be acted upon.

Quiet moments.

And then a lurch within.

Sounds of shufflings from within the wardrobe now began in haste, this time more organised, militant. The wood grain did continue to streak downwards, as if emulating the passage of raindrops upon the window.

"Essentials of magic," Abalon said again, more grave and serious about the phrase, "are oft traditions passed down. What of the Weave can you command so far? I ask so as to not patronise to you the nature of what I am about to check upon. What is the nature of your education in these, essentials, before us, before your arrival to the Order?"

Whatever machinations lurked within the wardrobe did stamp heel in echoing, uniform soldiering. And then silence.

Abalon held hand out as ghost light did fade, the next final step in opening the wardrobe delayed as he did await reply. The reply that would shape his commentary of the sight that was about to be revealed by brass hinged doors and whatever will did move matter within the furniture that had such shifting grain.

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

When Abalon's laughter had sounded in response to her claim of knowing the essentials of magic, Sitra could not help but to offer a peevish frown in the direction of the Knight Pursuant's retreating back. To her it was the most inoffensive of statements; the basis of tutelage on the subject of magic everywhere rested upon the same foundations he scoffed at her for admitting that she knew.

The fact remained that it was nothing more or less than a statement of fact. She had already admitted her ignorance on the subject and that she knew little practical applications - that was part of the reason was why she was here in the first place.

But she was hardly in the position to question the mocking tone that Abalon had spoken in, so instead she chose to stand to the side and observe quietly as her apparent mentor silently went through the motions of some vague, unknowable ritual. She had not thought to move from her position in the center of the room, instead casting her gaze from Abalon to this latest demonstration with the wardrobe. Trying to contain her curiosity with mixed results; her lips were yet weighed down with the frown from earlier, as well as the delay she forced upon herself before replying.

And if he had meant to frighten her with this theatrical, then the results would've been considered mixed once again. Sitra refused to give any ground as he stood with his hand upon the doors of the wardrobe, in the same way that this Abalon hadn't bothered with any of her frowns or perhaps overconfident commentary.

When the sounds had died down and yet the doors were not yet thrown open, Sitra raised a brow.

He was wanting an answer, was he? Very well.

"The essentials of magic, as you might know, are the inescapable rules that govern every practitioner of the arcane. They not only bind us, but your domains, however many there are. Coincidentally, there are five as well." Sitra spoke with a measured tone and a demeanor that promised woe to anyone who might've strung the yolk of shame around her neck; she certainly wasn't so gauche as to transform into a stuttering child at her first scolding. After a moment had passed, she looked in particular to the talismans still hanging from the rafters. "I could speak of transference, or I could speak of leylines. I could speak of a great many things that all early students learn in an academic setting in many places of the world,"

Rather than bothering to measure how her words reflected in Abalon's stoic face, she chose to pivot on her heel so that she might face this cabinet of curiosities in its entirety, her idle eyes wandering its surface as if there was some way to discover what lay within from its... rather unassuming appearance, with no particular trappings or runes that otherwise marked the entrance of the study.

"I won't speak of those things, however. As I feel that your question is rhetorical. I am also aware that Astenvale practices their own understanding of magic."

Only then did she look to Abalon, her countenance as blank as his own after her moment of sudden temper had passed. She didn't want to give room for undeserved criticism, but at the same time she was aware that she was still very much a guest here and had desired to learn all that she could from this man of infuriatingly few emotions. And she was beholden to her host.

The essential foundations of the arcane was something meant for classrooms. This was something else. "As for my personal abilities? I do confess my ignorance. Whatever cantrips or spells I did practice were amateur, and done with assistance."

Whether that was only part of the truth, or was the whole of it, she did not say. For what she spoke of specifically when it came to casting, it was all true enough; the small acts of magic she did invoke were done more out of idle interest or the pursuit of further, practical knowledge than for any meaningful purpose. Not to mention that she was oft helped by those far more knowledgeable, as well as all those fashionable little gemstones or rune-engraved charms sold in the more esoteric markets of Saknne to help initiate the unpracticed.

And if Abalon had not meant to patronize, then she had not meant to sound so sharp with her answers.