Chapter Text
Nearly two years later…
It wasn’t the first time Archaeology Guildmaster Silvarius Ivanov nearly tossed something that was very much not junk mail into the junk pile out of sheer habit. It also almost took a dip into his fellstalk-tarromin tea too before he unwrapped the letter with a familiar draconic-style seal. Their first meeting, following the black stone’s curse, already seemed so short and so long ago. A slight smile across the shadow-scarred undead face.
An invitation from a friend, one long awaited in fact. Finally, the preparations around Orthen were complete to start the dig. And Mr. Mordaut, a not-so-old friend, wanted to have tea and cheese to celebrate the occasion. (Well, he’d be having the tea and the dragon the cheese, but that was beside the point.) It was seemingly no time at all before he found himself in the makeshift office amidst the Anachronian ruins with a wheel of brie and an even fresher pot of tea.
“Seems things have finally calmed down enough after a certain someone’s machinations, and a certain other’s cleanup efforts to finally begin the work,” Silvarius observed, glancing up the gleaming red muzzle and spectacles of his new digsite manager.
“Indeed...at present, we have two active sites, a crypt in the west and some sort of outpost in the northeast, with a third currently under investigation with the help of Slayer Master Laniakea. We suspect there may be more, but we may need your expertise once again to pave our way in that department, eh?” Mr Mordaut mused, flicking his wings and licking some of the cheese off his claws before leafing through the digsite documentation.
“Indeed...though this is definitely one area where I have much more learning to do. Sliske had some dealing with the Dragonkin, and the black stone incident, of course, but I suppose I’m up to the challenge,” Silvarius said, sipping his brew of choice and stretching his own warped claw-like hands. “...Maybe not peacetime is the right word, but it’s good to work with you not in a time of...less immediately impending crisis.”
“Well, if anyone is a quick and adaptive learner, it’s you, Guildmaster!” A roaring chortle, and a couple puffs of smoke from the dragon scholar’s nostrils. “And of course, we’ll be here to assist you, as always. Perhaps the crypt would be a good familiar start, no offense intended?”
“I think I’ll be opting for a change of pace this time. Outpost it is.” Silvarius smiled a slight smile that seemed for a moment, to bring some color back to his undead flesh.
That color did not remain long with the slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression on the guildmaster’s now aghast face; a very rare sight for an undead to have ‘seen a ghost’. Yet that is exactly the expression that Archaeology associate Allison observed as Silvarius scanned over the parchment within the debris of Orthen’s northeastern outpost.
“...Is something wrong, Silvy?” the pink haired young woman inquired, leaning over her supervisor’s shoulder. There was silence for several moments as the Guildmaster composed himself enough to speak.
“...Allison, right now, the most helpful thing you can do for me is to send messages, as quickly as possible, to Zorial Diamond in Priffdinas and Alcana Theresus at the Monastery of St. Domus in Edgeville to meet at the Anachronia base camp, Mordaut’s office. I may have just found something of great and grave interest to us in particular.”
Allison simply nodded; the ink was already flowing on parchment, and soon the familiar skull-faced mail carrier was on his way as the undead Guildmaster had an additional reason to not sleep through the night. Or the next several, for that matter.
It was both an eternity and not long at all before the four of them were clustered in Mordaut’s makeshift office; the scholar dragon himself, the weathered wight, the curious Icyene, and the young paladin. All eyes were on the Guildmaster, who had an immaculate notated transcript curled in his fingers, who adjusted his trillby and cleared his throat.
“So...what did you find that was so terrible?” Zorial inquired, breaking the silence before the wight had a finger slightly raised to speak his first word.
“Maybe terrible is the wrong word...An important clue, relevant to us is what I’d say.” He cleared his throat once more. “It was...pages from the journal of a particular Dragonkin assigned to look after the spiritual well being of the outpost. With work as grisly as dissection, I can certainly understand that concern…”
He glanced off to the side, then back to the three pairs of expectant eyes. He rustled the pages somewhat, far more pronounced in the mostly still silence.
“An unlikely friendship developed between this one and the outposts’ main caretaker, Skeka, in word and in deed. A sounding board through grief, sharing poetry, going above and beyond what his duty demanded as a cleric and spiritual advisor,” the guildmaster continued. Another long, unbearable pause. A deep, labored sigh.
“...Sadly, they seemed to be driven to the point of seeking darker powers beyond the veil after Kerapac’s folly shackled them to their curse and doomed their people.” Silvarius finally looked up from the page.
“...What was this dragonkin’s name?” Alcana asked, crossing her arms and tilting her head.
“...Would you believe me if I told you we knew it quite well already?” Now the wight was gazing intently at his friends, hoping they would simply read the answer in the reflection of memory in his eyes.
Zorial’s eyes went wide, as gears like the ones her inventive mind tinkered with clicked together, and she held up a finger.
“...It’s Kranon, isn’t it?”
Silvarius simply nodded.
“You...don’t say…” Alcana muttered, stepping away ever so slightly.
“Hmmm...There’s certainly a lot to unpack there,” Mordaut commented, adjusting his glasses.
“I think there are several immediate takeaways, from my perspective, “ Silvarius continued, then stacking the annotated transcription on the table and leaving it to the site manager’s care. “One, that we all have firsthand experience of the devastation of both the forces that drove this, the Elders, and this...shadow force that shall remain unnamed, can wreak upon us as mortals, though that’s no news to Zorial here, of course.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice indeed,” Zorial affirmed, shuffling slightly. “It’s...not exactly something I can avoid thinking about.”
Alcana simply remained silent, looking down, as the wight continued, now crossing his own unoccupied arms.
“Of course...this may seem obvious, but while it helps us empathize, none of this excuses what he tried to do with the ritual. That’s coming from someone who’s a bit more familiar with the whole 'being stuck to a horrible curse for centuries on account of someone else’s sins' business.”
“So...what do we do?” The paladin looked up slightly. “It just seems like we keep finding what DOESN’T work…”
“Well...we can’t dwell on the past, and turning back the clock was one of those failed solutions,” Zorial mused, shrugging. “We just have to keep moving forward, right?”
“Sometimes there’s no fancy trick to it indeed,” the wight nodded. “Our fight...is far from over. But it’s not one we’re facing alone.”