RP:A Memory of Light

From HollowWiki

Part of the The Seven Sins of Sagittae Arc


Summary: Grief-stricken by the holes in her memory, Quintessa attempts a ritual at the Mage's Tower in Xalious. The results of this procedure go far beyond her expectations when a connection is forged with the imprisoned Seteth, courtesy of one of the seven legendary crystals.

Mage's Tower

Quintessa furrows her brow as she tries to clear her mind. This meditation thing sounded easy enough when Magik told the young mage about it, but she wasn't having much luck yet. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. With everything that was going on it was impossible not to think about the events she had witnessed. Quintessa's thoughts kept drifting back to fight she had with Karasu and the hatred in her pink eyes... But was that hatred for Quintessa or for Kaaname? The vampire's smug face manifested in the changeling's imagination, cold, manipulating, always talking down to his daughter. Thinking about him made her angry, so she pushed him out, trying to clear her mind again. She thought of something peaceful and placid- Had Magik told her to envision the ocean? Quintessa tries this, picturing the waves washing up on the shore only to slip backing to the sea to begin the cycle anew, but near the beach Quintessa saw the Tranquility and the memory of almost dying there filled her mind. Khitti had recused her then and the secret that the changeling had been harboring or so long was made known to her. Would Khitti expose her and ruin her political career in Vailkrin? Quintessa sighs, yet again pushing these thoughts from her head as she grasped for something- anything that wouldn't make her think of the troubles in her life. The forest maybe? Birds tweeting pleasantly in the Sage forest quickly give way to earthquakes and chasms. Mountains perhaps? Hordes of Xicotl minions climb over the rocks and difficult terrain with ease, closing in on Vigilanti Semper while Quintessa and a small group of warriors fight to to the last one standing before they are all swallowed by darkness. The young hex blade growls in dissatisfaction, her mismatched eyes shooting open to gaze at the empty meditation center. Quintessa had been trying so hard for so long that everybody had left without her. "Fine, it's better this way anyway." As one last resort Quintessa reaches for her alchemical extracts, grabbing a tiny vial of essence of nightshade. If this didn't clear her mind, nothing would. Downing the vial in one drink, Quintessa closes her eyes and allows the visions take hold


Wizard's Tower

Days into nights; nights into days. Always the darkness; never the light. Nothing stirred, but nothing was calm. Had he seen his final sunrise? Was sunset but a fleeting dream? The stone walls creaked in the wind and muddy water came down in slaps through the rusted iron bars up above. When had he last eaten? His thirst had been quenched by the mud, but he couldn’t recall a single meal. Nor could he remember the taste of bread. Seteth’s muscles ached in ways he couldn’t believe. Perhaps it was his own stubborn disbelief which kept him alive, though consciousness was too much to ask. In and out his mind flitted, in and out, in and out. First he was here, surrounded by stone and the stench of death from unseen prison cells beyond his own. Then he was there, anywhere but here, lapsing into fits and startles called sleep, thinking of forests and mountains. But the forests gave way to quakes, and the mountains crumbled under the dust of nameless creatures whose hunger seemed even stronger than his own. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, there was a castle, and there were people of pronounced vigilance inside it. But with each passing hour, Seteth’s dreams grew dimmer, until sunlight had vanished from his thoughts just as surely as from the reality of his setting. Days into nights; nights into days. Always the darkness; never the light. Nothing stirred, but nothing was calm. It was only when his captor came to see him that Seteth was reminded he was not the only person in the whole of the universe. His captor, the wizard, the man who had stolen him and tossed aside Quintessa. “Quintessa,” Seteth suddenly said, blinking to no avail within the shadowy cell. At once, he remembered she exists. Then there were three people, at least, in the universe – the wizard, the changeling, and the thief himself. But the word, the name, it came out in crumbles, like a cake splattered against concrete. Seteth could not find the strength to truly speak. Nor did the wizard suffer him for trying; the silhouette of a spindly, old man of incredible power tilted slightly sideways to permit his oak cane range for smacking into Seteth’s throat. The thief bounced back, head against the stone, and gasped for air. The wizard only ever did one thing – he would wheel a gorgeous crystal in the rough shape of a diamond close to Seteth from freedom’s side of the bars that kept him captive, and he would shine the brilliant light of that crystal upon Seteth, blinding him to sight and reason alike. It always hurt, and the wizard always took joy in that. It never did a thing but bleed him – Seteth could feel the blood drip from his scalp, and his shoulders, and elbows, and between the clasps on the slave collar he’d worn for as long as he could remember. Or longer. The bloodletting, as the wizard called it, always seemed to embolden the old man. It weakened Seteth, of course, who would then fall back into the fits and startles called sleep. Days into nights; night into days. Except today. Today, something else would happen. The wizard wheeled the crystal to the prison bars and shone its light upon his prisoner, and Seteth did not bleed.


Mage's Tower

Quintessa could feel herself leaving her body. Slowly, up, up, up and away, laving behind all of the noisy buzzing in her brain. All her plots, all her lies, all her insecurities and fears, they could not follow after her. Quintesssa finally felt a reprieve in her intoxicated state. Everything was dark here but Quintessa did not fear the darkness. This pitch blackness was her friend like it had always been. From this darkness Quintessa could see the whole universe stretched out before herself like paint upon an infinite canvas. This was the weave and each thread a road leading into countless other worlds, each world producing an infinite amount of colors to decorate the canvas. Too much for Quintessa to comprehend, she turns away, instead following the sound of her name. "Quintessa." (Quintessa.) (quintessa...) She could feel someone out there, someone close to her, but who? There was pain there- dull and constant. Hunger. Despair. Resentment. Quintessa knew these feelings well, but these didn't belong to her, not this time. "Quintessa." (Quintessa.) (quintessa...) On the material plain Quintessa's breathing was slow and steady as she sat cross legged in a pose. The belladonna had done its job well enough to clear her mind of excess noise, but it had dulled her senses to the outside world. Here she was completely alone and vulnerable while she unwittingly astral-projected from her body.


Wizard's Tower

The wizard’s first impulse was to smack Seteth upon the temple with his cane. “Thus, blood is drawn,” he said in a tone that was somehow sickly sweet. Seteth said nothing, but yelped, not unlike a dog mistreated by the cruelty of man. But the concussion, and the blood it summoned, did not please the wizard. It did not initiate further, magical bloodletting. Nothing happened at all. “An antibody?” the wizard mused before slamming the tip of his cane down hard on Seteth’s ankle. A loud crunch filled the musty cell. If there were a modicum of energy left inside the Sagittaean’s body, this act surely forced it to capitulate. The crystal shone brighter now than Seteth had ever seen; dizzy and aching and dying or not, he had no choice but to invite its light into his eyes. A beam of blue, the shade of aquamarine, enveloped the cell and every cell around it. The wizard guffawed and turned the crystal wayward, but the beam did not wither. “What is this?” As if somehow it would help him make sense of the situation, the sadistic captor struck Seteth’s left arm so forcefully that the wood splintered. If blood was all the wizard had wanted, there was a veritable stream for the feasting now. But blood without the crystal’s magnification and transferal energies was meaningless to the man, who had long since learned the secret to a long and savory life – stealing the precious vitae of others and having a ball while doing it. “Stop it,” another prisoner hissed from a nearby cell. Seteth had thought every one of his fellows dead before his arrival. Evidently, one wretched soul clung as dumbly to life as he did. The wizard flew into a rage, waving his hands across the hall toward wherever that voice had emanated from, and a squeal followed, as if the wizard had inflicted pain to rival Seteth’s own. “I said stop it,” the voice repeated in open defiance. “I will destroy myself right here and right now if you do not cease.” The wizard chortled but withdrew his hands, muttering something about the unanticipated need for a replacement changeling. The word – changeling – intermingled with the crystal’s brilliant beams of light and, in a harsh exhale, Seteth spoke the name “Quintessa.” The wizard’s chortle blossomed into a cackle. “Yes, that was the one,” he responded jubilantly. “Would that I could turn back time, I would exchange your miscreant neighbor for that girl in a heartbeat. Alas, I’ve not ownership of time’s crystal; only memory’s.” It was a foolish proclamation. Seteth, even with the concussion, traced the words “Quintessa” and “memory,” and the crystal abruptly overflowed with the bizarre breed of mental magic it exhibited. The wizard shouted something equal parts arcane and profane and left Seteth and his unseen changeling neighbor to suffer in darkness, taking his crystal and leaving. But the deed was done. In a flash, halfway across one of the vastest landmasses in the world, Seteth’s thoughts became Quintessa’s. At the mage’s tower, the baroness would now see what he saw, feel what he felt, and know what he knew. In the knowing, she would remember what was forgotten.


Mage's Tower

Quintessa was rushing along the pull of some invisible stream. Where was it taking it her? The current ferried her through the stars across the cosmos, faster than any living thing could possibly move. Celestial bodies flew by pass her in the blink of an eye until she saw a quant blue sphere. Closer and closer it came to her until she dove into it, through clouds and star dust she rode upon the voice that spoke her name. A familiar voice. "...I would exchange your miscreant neighbor for that girl in a heartbeat..." echoed from some far off place. Unknown kingdoms and far off continents are left behind in an instant as something mystic- some powerful snaps Quintessa's astral form to a cold, damp place. A dungeon. Quintessa's body shudders involuntarily as she pulls in a ragged breath, the sudden influx of information wrecking the fragile state of her sanity. The holes in her memory finally all made sense! "Seteth." Her body and mind whisper in unison as she takes in the Sagittaean’s surroundings. Quintessa's memories had been restored, but there was much that was still unclear, much that she didn't understand about this wizard and his motivations. How long could she piggyback on Seteth before he realized something was up? Part of Quintessa didn't want to wait, wanted to shout 'here I am, make your move' but the changeling had left that part of her behind. Rationality was the only thing that existed in this form and it was her rationality that told her to wait and collect more knowledge before acting.


Wizard's Tower

A dim red light filled the edge of the hall as the crystal of memory seemed almost to blink in response to the connection Quintessa now bore with Seteth. For Seteth’s part, with the thrill of being beaten half to death now fading, the effects of his concussion seemed to have been granted a belated audience in his brain. He crumpled up against the stone, moving his right arm – the only arm he could move – to cup the fresh blood on his face and feel the wound. Instinct dictated that he hold his hand firmly to his temple now, and instinct saved his life. Yet when he coughed, his hand nearly toppled, and it felt as though his entire body fought to surrender to the gloom. “That doesn’t sound so good,” the changeling in a nearby cell commented – though only after the irate wizard had taken the red-glowing crystal away from the halls and back into the more comfortable quarters of his tower. A tower – through the crystal, now Quintessa knew. Even the things Seteth himself did not know seemed to move like wisps across the cosmos and into her mind’s eye; it was a tower reinforced with steel stretching out from above Vailkrin’s northermost stretch of forest, where arctic winds and frequent snow made the trees, like Seteth, fight for survival. “Neither does your face,” Seteth somehow managed to snark back to the stranger, who laughed before the laughter prompted coughing of her own. “Why don’t you morph yourself into a key and get me out of here,” the Sagittaean suggested, and the changeling’s snort was so pronounced that he could hear it from across the hall. “Even if I could, I doubt that’s how things really work.” A silence filled the cells now, but for Quintessa, the flood of memories would be anything but quiet. The crystal’s glow continued, and a pattern became clearer – wherever the crystal went, Quintessa could now see through its shimmering form and examine its surroundings. Yet she could also see, and think, and feel, through Seteth. The drain on the baroness’ energy would surely be severe, given that she was being shown two fragments of reality; through a man’s eyes and through a crystal’s, simultaneously, stitched together crudely but offering her everything she needed in order to find man and crystal both. “Even if you could?” Seteth’s voice was like gravel. His tongue found mud and his throat was bitterly, unevenly parched. “I can’t transform,” his neighbor explained. “Never could. Only reason I’m still alive is because Octavius wants to figure out why. Afterward, I’m sure he’ll entertain turning me all sorts of things, though I doubt very much a key will be one of them.” Seteth sighed. His sigh was the only answer he could muster. They were trapped here forever, he and this anonymous changeling-who-could-not-change. Elsewhere, the crystal was returned to its sealed chamber and the wizard – Octavius – grimaced. Quintessa would undoubtedly be able to see the patches of his skin where he now bled; through the crystal’s magic recollection, she would be given to understand that age would have killed the man long ago were it not for the bloodletting his crystal – usually – caused, and he suffered his own mortality if and when he was unable to derive his sadistic pleasures from prisoners. “Bring in a slave,” Octavius ordered a well-built orc across the room. Now Quintessa would note an unfortunate detail; Octavius had a standing army. The orc was but one of many, and there were others, too; goblins, ogres, men; even drow. They served Octavius one and all. “Which one?” The orc uttered gutturaly. “I don’t care!” The wizard snapped. “Any slave will do, or else I’ll choose you.” The orc shuddered and exited the chamber, returning shortly with a creature Quintessa might be surprised to see – a razurath. “Carve into it,” Octavius ordered, and the shackled razurath screeched a horrid screech as the orc slaughtered it with a dull ax. The blood siphoned through the crystal and healed the wizard’s wounds.


Between Two Towers

Quintessa hovered like a specter as she observed what she could, her mind torn in many different directions at once. She could feel her astral form phasing out, losing connection to Seteth, but she would not allow that yet. In the Mage's Tower Quintessa exhaled slowly as her aura contacted, her mana expunging itself to buy the changeling more time. "Vailkrin." She whispers, her brow furrowing again as she concentrates harder on the enemy wizard's spire. Quintessa's astral form separates from the Sagittaean lad and drifts around the other changeling he spoke too. There was much Quintessa wanted to probe their mind for but the hex blade's sights were set on something higher. She passes though the body of the other changeling as she seeks the red crystal, fighting through the draining feeling that seemed to emanate from it to creep after Octavius. Here she witnesses the standing army he possessed and the power of the crystal in his hands. Regeneration? This was going to be a troublesome foe. Drifting ever so closer she plans on piggybacking on the wizard but she hesitates. A caster this powerful would easily resist such a thing. Instead the Quintessa-specter latched onto the orc, attempting to posses him and subjugate his mind.


Magik enters his 'office', aka the meditation room. He quietly removes his boots and slips into his black fuzzy slippers. Crossing the floor he spots Tessa in her deep state. He quietly walks a circle around her to judge her relaxation and posture with her current pose. Upon arriving at her side, he gently places one hand on her shoulder and the other on the middle of her back. He gives her back a gentle push, ever so slightly adjusting her posture which should result in an even deeper rest and better control over her projection. Satisfied, the Lyastri walks to the far end of the room to the alter to light his special blend of herbs. He wafts the smoke into his own face as he deeply inhales then directs the smoke with a pointed finger towards Tessa's nose. It might not compare to her nightshade but it'll help when she comes to. After a short moment, Magik covers the dish, extinguishing the smoke. After a lap around the room to quietly tidy up forgotten pillows, the slippers are replaced with his boots and he's off to his next appointment.


The orc’s name was Hardrada. He was 32, though war had played its tricks on his face, lending him the wrinkles, edges, and scars of a man in his fifties. He came from a long line of orcs, each named Hardrada, save for a daredevil of an orc who lived life to the fullest and deigned to rename himself “Hardrado.” Hardrado, however, had been ostracized from the clan and died penniless and without an heir. Hardrada XVII, the orc whose body and mind Quintessa now knew peerlessly, had been exiled from the clan for a different reason entirely. In his youth, Hardrada had bitten off the thumbs of all his siblings. When asked by his parents, Hardrada XVI and Hariyama-mama, why he had done so, Hardrada XVII had explained that “without opposable thumbs, they shall not oppose me.” This earned him scorn, but it wasn’t until, during a family canoeing trip, he elected to drown all his siblings in the chilly northern sea that he left the clan on a more permanent basis. Hardrada had anticipated happy parents, who would no longer need to split the family inheritance. Instead, Hardrada’s father had to stop Hardrada’s mother from killing Hardrada with a yam filled with knives protruding from its earthy skin. Hardrada barely escaped with his life, though he did manage to steal the killer yam. Later that year, he successfully murdered a portly dwarven merchant with the contraption, which earned him recognition amongst a band of mercenaries who took him under their wing. For over a decade, Hardrada XVII honed his ability to kill people or else at least remove their thumbs, until the relatively weak minds of the entire mercurial organization were conquered by Octavius’ wizardry henchmen. From then on, the orc has served faithfully in Octavius’ command, because – like many others in the tower, his free will was sapped from him irreparably ages ago. “Leave my sight,” Octavius ordered the orc, whose body was Quintessa’s to do with as she would.


Quintessa was empowered by Magik's proper meditation techniques. The herbs her burned brought new clarity to her purpose here. Hardrada XVII was now her puppet, though that would soon change. Quintessa flexed her orcish muscles, feeling the sheer power and strength behind them. The dull axe in her hands felt light as a feather as she brought it out to her side. "I'm curious," Hardrada voice came out in a strangely feminine and sophisticated tone. though it was still the deep orcish voice it had almost been. Quintessa lifts the axe and brings it down hard, trying to split the wizard's head in twain in one swift, powerful blow. "Can that crystal heal you from this!" Fury felt comfortable in this body. Rage felt natural, good even. Crushing this puny wizard would be a glorious act! Quintessa would not expect what would take place in the next moment, however.


Octavius was on the offensive from the instant his subjugated soldier first uttered a single syllable, though he let himself appear every bit as old as he had felt before the sacrificial razurath had granted him fresh supremacy. Hardrada XVII lifted the ax strong and wide, with a swing so mighty that it could have pierced the scaly flesh of a dozen or more razurath all at once. And then the orc froze as it trapped within an invisible web, tip of the ax mere centimeters from Octavius’ balding head; muscles held outstretched, taut, and without relief. Relief would never come to Hardrada, whose hard times, at least, were at an end. Several other ensorcelled mercenaries came running from further down the chamber, intent on tearing this would-be traitor to shreds, but their work was not needed. The crystal of memory’s weak red pulse became a vivid stream of incarnadine. Octavius, contrary to the harshness he tortured Seteth with at every feasible occasion, simply tapped the tip of his cane upon the frozen-in-time Hardrada’s neck. With that gentle push, the orc’s body disintegrated into a gruesome heap of boiling flesh, sundered organs, tough sinew, rubbery fats, and – last but not least – blood, which Octavius drew into himself and grew all the more powerful. “Yes,” the wizard answered Quintessa’s query, “though it shall not need to.” His cackle filled the hall as her link was crudely severed; such rude awakening would no doubt bring her harm.


Quintessa let out a blood-curling scream as her mind experienced every bit of pain from that spell. Her astral form was nearly also disintegrated as it spiraled back to her body, burning like an inferno. Still charged from her banishment, the red-hot energy that accompanied her spirit singed her very aura, causing heat and steam to radiate from her body like heated metal. Her scream continues until her voice is horse, and while no physical damage was done to her body her mind reeled from experiencing death. She crumpled, curled into a ball, and sobbed until the pain had subsided. A long moment would pass before her body unfolded and her sharp fingernails dug into the flesh of her palms. "Octavius!" she growls, her voice low and full of visceral hatred, "I'm going to kill you!" It was far too late for him to hear Quintessa's threat, however, that conversation would have to wait for another time. Either way, this changeling was now properly motivated to see his head upon a pike before her manor.