Chapter Text
Theresa huffed in the transport, a thunderous pout gracing her features, though she would deny all existence of such and instead call it a scowl. It was a rare break from the endless work of rebuilding Kazdel, Theresis all but forcing her from the meeting halls and somehow convincing the Lord Nachzehrer to go along with his overreach.
“War, especially, has its ebb and flow, and I assume rebuilding a nation is the same. While war marches on, its practitioners must unfortunately rest.”
Her dear troublesome mentor had barred her progress, The Nachzehrer Lord’s shroud-form filling the corridor with the familiar comfort of screaming souls and the unique battlefield bouquet that elder Nachzehrer always brought – fresh iron, too-sweet decay, resin and astringent spice.
“A few days without your personal touch will not result in the ruination of a nation. Little Ramale has asked for your presence at the Convallis. Good news, I would hope.”
Theresa had let her Domain intrude upon Nezzsalem’s thought-cloud, feeling nothing but sincerity and concern for a promising student in his words. Even Kal’tsit had agreed, the traitor. So she found herself on a fast transport to the edges of Banshee territory, the Nachzehrer driver still only reaching their destination after three days of hard driving.
“Thank you, Saralud.” Theresa thanked him as she exited, the transport stopped at the edge of a winding canyon, still misty even in afternoon sun, shadows seemingly reaching for those standing at its entrance.
“Ah, it was no problem, Lady Theresa. I hope you learned a few new stories from this old sack of bones.” A thin bandage-wrapped hand waved away the thanks, strips of burial shroud carrying out Theresa’s luggage; nothing but a well-worn rucksack.
“You fought at Nezzsalem’s side for almost three centuries now, how could I not listen?” Deceptively strong ring-clad hands took the heavy ruck, packed with gifts. “May I have the honour of enshrouding you with your sud’ara, when the time comes?”
“You esteem these old bones far too mightily, Lady Theresa. How could this lowly aspect of War refuse such a boon?”
“Easily, I would hope. I wish that my war-weavers would one day fashion me silks and embroidery, as opposed to armourweave and burial shrouds.”
“We would not be Nachzehrer then, but ahh, what a feat it would be to consume war itself.” Saralud bowed, the wind picking up the cedar oil and resin-spice elder Nachzehrer so often anointed their bandages with. “Enjoy your time in the Elegiac Court-in-Exile, Lady Theresa. A transport will await you in two weeks.”
“Two- I thought we agreed on one week, Saralud!”
“Mm, at my age time is so relative and goodness my hearing must be going along with my joints!” His swift climb back into the driver’s seat put lie to his words, armoured door slamming shut atop stray burial shroud strips as Theresa lunged forwards.
“Saralud! See if I don’t get the children of Babel to deface your sud’ara!” She pounded the armourglass window in a fit of pique, stepping back as the transport’s Originium engine sputtered into life.
“I would welcome such a magnificent war-crest, Lady Theresa!” A hearty laugh accompanied an insolent salute, only growing louder as Theresa responded.
“Traitor! Villain!”
Saralud’s reply was drowned out by tyre noise and engine exhaust, a bandaged, jauntily-waved hand extending out the window once he was safely away.
“The cheek, the nerve of- of all of them! Hmph!” Still, Theresa picked up her pack, shouldering it and tightening straps across her travelling clothes, light armourweave and tough linens in white and black.
Theresa couldn’t help a thread of worry; It wasn’t like Ramale to take such extended leave from the Hall of Houses, her steadfast presence offering a more considered opinion on matters that was sorely missed, far too many of the more moderate seats empty now. Still, she was here now, and the black-gold path stood waiting.
A garland of woven thorn-vine donned, diaphanous black tel’arv silk veil falling like morning dew across her vision, revealing royal purple incantations weaving phantasmal paths, one set edged in gold. The mists caressed her lips, shadows guided her footsteps, and the forest itself seemed to bend out of her way, perpetual autumn-bronze leaves falling as a royal carpet for her route.
A teasing breath blown in her ear as she reached a white stone bridge, fog-shroud parting with gentle exhalation, illusory twin moons lighting the path forward, casting her form in long shadow behind her. Each step echoed bone flute and elegy, the sound of crashing waterfalls growing louder with each footfall, Big Sister chasing Little Sister across false firmament until she reached the end of the bridge, a slash of her hand parting illusion-veil to reveal late-afternoon light in the Convallis, thirteen of their war-casters greeting her.
“We greet the Speaker for the Hall of Houses, the Lady Theresa. You are known as friend and liege, in whose presence Elegy is muted, and bone-whistle silent.” Twelve voices echoed, all Banshees in prime war-making age, bone-whistles and witchcrafted steel daggers at their sides as they bowed.
“What’s all this pomp and circumstance? Have not the Lord Ramale and I been blade-sisters for two long centuries now?” A lift of Theresa’s hand actualised gentle Arts to bring her impromptu entourage back to standing. “The Speaker declares that Elegies may continue, let bone-whistle resound as it may, for our restless dead are always awaiting the call home.”
Arts made her voice resound throughout the Convallis, song and bone-whistle resuming their chorus in response.
The thirteenth Banshee approached her in a rush of flowing silks, a flourishing bow with palms shown, before sweeping Theresa up in a hug that was eagerly returned.
“Theresa, forgive the impropriety, but there is so much good news to share this day.” The Banshee held Theresa’s hands in her own, an almost imperceptible tremble running through them.
“What impropriety, blade-sister? Ruqai’yah, you must tell me what’s going on, Ramale only bid me arrive with all haste, I couldn’t help but worry.”
“Nothing but joyous tidings, Theresa. Come, come! Drop your pack and let us away!”
“Ah, there are gifts-”
“Benevai, take the Lady Theresa’s luggage with us.” A snapped-out order, the youngest of the retinue stepping-to, a murmured acknowledgment of the order.
Theresa shrugged her pack off into the waiting hands of the young Banshee before gesturing for Ruqai’yah to lead the way. Swift steps and fluttering pennants led the way, Theresa noting a gradual increase in the number of wargear-clad Banshees dotting hidden paths and alcoves, most of them humming strongly with Originium-resonance to her Arts-sense. Deeper into the Convallis oppressive Arts menaced, the promise of whispering daggers held ready.
“Surely, you’re not marching to war once again?” Theresa had to ask, the familiar keening thrill of Banshee-crafted Originium splinter-daggers echoing in her passive Domain. She hadn’t seen those fell weapons since the worst of the Eastern Crusade, the long blades carried only by those Banshee warriors who had, or were planning on casting their bloodline Arts to self-destruction.
“Not yet, hopefully not in my lifetime.” A shake of her head, wing-crest folding tight against her hair. The rear entrance to the manse of the Great Banshee beckoned, borrowed Gargoyle witchcrafts making an almost seamless hidden passage. “Mm, we’re here. Crones, I bring the most esteemed of guests.”
“Esteemed indeed. Your Eminence, Lord of Fiends, little Theresa, this elder crone Fai’ruz greets you. It is good to have your blessing, and that of the Black Crown.” An aged voice echoed forth, rockface sliding back soundlessly to reveal one of the elder Crones with open palms, wargear-clad, a long splinter-dagger sheathed at her side with pen and bone-whistle. “I apologise for the insult, making you sneak through the back entrance like a thief.”
“All this for glad tidings, could it be-”
“Hush, while the Convallis is peaceful, the walls have ears.” The crone nodded at Benevai, dismissing her with a look. “Ramale will much appreciate the gifts, especially if you have brought wine.”
Theresa picked up her pack once more, and Ruqai’yah pushed her forwards. At her questioning look, Ruqai’yah responded.
“I have duties elsewhere, Theresa. We’ll catch up another day.”
“It’s a promise.”
The stone door slid shut and the corridor lit up in wisp-light, only wide enough for two abreast. Thrumming incantations hummed to life, defensive warding gaining strength as they were reactivated.
“Lady Theresa, please follow me. The Great Banshee awaits your presence eagerly.”
“Not even a hint, Fai’ruz? Am I even allowed to guess?” Theresa put on a pout, already knowing what the response would be.
“I would not dare place limits upon the words of the Lord of Fiends.” Smile lines deepened beneath her veil as Fai’ruz gave a teasing smirk. “Curbing the nosiness of my daughter’s sworn sister is another matter entirely.”
“Walk quicker, old crone.” Theresa would deny that the expression she wore was anywhere close to a pout.
The hidden passage emerged into the kitchens, and Theresa was led past unfamiliar hallways, the sweeping, clothlike curves of Banshee architecture forming elegant arches and spacious rooms. A spiral staircase led her to a well-lit open space, sunset casting ruddy glow over a solitary silhouette seated just inside.
“Theresa, dear blade-sister, it’s wonderful to see you after so long.”
The bloodline witchcrafts of the Banshees carried her mellifluous greeting to Theresa, her passive Domain unfurling in response to caress not one, but two thought-clouds.
“I knew it!” A hissed, joyful whisper as Theresa shed her pack and swept forwards, enveloping Ramale in a loving embrace, taking utmost care around the child swaddled in her arms. “The two of you are well?”
Ramale gently redirected the ghost-touch of Theresa’s Arts, her wing-crest gently stroking Theresa’s cheek. “It was not an easy birth, but my little miracle was worth every pain, every drop of blood.”
“Her name?”
“His name, is E’phaniel.” An indulgent, beatific smile, as if Ramale herself couldn’t believe it either. A son. A male Banshee.
Theresa’s jaw dropped.
“Ash and shards, miracle indeed!” Theresa darted around to get a better look at him, kneeling down to get closer.
Ramale shifted, a gentle caress of finger along cheek disturbing E’phaniel from dozing, bleary crimson eyes opening, considering the new face in front of him.
“Oh my goodness, shards and souls- he’s so cute!” Theresa most certainly did not squeal as she reached out to little E’phaniel, ring-clad fingers waggling in front of him, a round of peek-a-boo finally eliciting a grin. “Ramale, Ramale, beautiful blade-sister, fellow life-taker, soul-render, my dearest comrade-in-arms, surely the position of Sword-Aunt has not been filled yet?”
Theresa gave Ramale a soulful, expectant look, idly teasing E’phaniel with woven Arts-construct, bright white circling above him like a mobile.
“And what if it has?” A sly smile underneath veil as Ramale turned slightly, E’phaniel cradled closer for a moment.
“I will ask whoever they are politely to rescind their false claim. If they refuse, I will duel them. I will duel them to the pain.” A beatific smile, a promise of savagery unending behind beaming eyes.
Ringing, melodious laughter, infectious to the point even little E’phaniel let loose a giggle. “Then, my dear friend and liege-lord, you will be happy to know the position of Dodhak’rhev is yours, and yours alone.”
“Mm, then all is as I expected.” Her hands held out; an expectant look given. “May I?”
“Is that even a question? You are to clothe him in his first sets of wargear, how could I deny?”
It goes without saying that little E’phaniel started crying as soon as he was in Theresa’s arms.