Chapter Text
“One more turn…” Corva muttered to herself, blowing a lock of curly hair out of her face. She turned the power crystal until she heard the soft click of it slotting into place.
In front of her, a smooth stone bridge appeared where there had only been a dangerous drop. It connected two main paths through the forest, bypassing a dangerous detour through an Elven temple protected by guardian constructs.
This sort of mission wasn’t as exciting as exploring one of the ancient ruins or fighting Fade spirits, but it would make life a lot easier for the Clans. Now they could travel through the forest more safely and easily, without worrying about losing warriors or halla to the dangers of Arlathan Forest. It was good work and got Corva one step closer to getting back into Strife’s good graces. He would forget about that lost map eventually and start placing his trust in her again.
She hoped.
Corva stood, her spine popping. She grabbed her pack and stepped confidently onto the bridge, trusting the magic of her ancestors to still hold her weight after hundreds of years.
Strife was waiting for Corva on the edge of the Veil Jumper camp. He frowned in response to her cheerful wave.
“The bridge is in place? And no problems?” Strife asked. The head of the Veil Jumpers looked down at her, waiting for her report. Rook stifled her first instinct to make a joke or to tease the tall elf; Strife always made Corva feel like a child again, green and silly.
“No problems at all,” Corva assured him. “I didn’t even break a sweat. I’m ready to go back out if you have something new for me.”
Strife surprised her by nodding. “I do.”
Corva grinned. Maybe he would send her out with Bellara, out into the wildest part of the forest. The tinkerer was determined to find the Nadas Dirthalen, even though most of the other Veil Jumpers thought the archive spirit was just an old myth. Myth or not, the hunt would take them into the most interesting – and dangerous – ruins.
“A mage from the Mourn Watch wrote to me,” Strife said, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his pack. “He’s coming here and needs a guide through the forest.”
“A death mage? Coming here?” Rook asked, sounding dismayed. “What for?”
Rook had heard of the Mortalitasi, everyone had. They hid away in the catacombs that ran beneath the entirety of Nevarra. They were a death cult that used blood magic to influence the king and queen. They kept animated skeletons as pets and servants and if you crossed one, they would kill you and turn your body into their undead slave. Rook shuddered in revulsion.
Strife ignored her tone. “There’s a demon in the Necropolis that is somehow drawing power from ritual sites here in Arlathan. He needs a guide to find the sites and destroy them.”
A powerful demon? Strange death magic? This mission sounded more interesting than maintaining the road system through the forest, even if she would need to babysit a creepy death mage.
“You can count on me!” Corva promised. “I’ll get them through in one piece!”
“I am counting on you,” Strife said seriously. “This Watcher says this demon is extremely old and powerful. If it manages to escape the Necropolis, all of Nevarra could be in danger. I need you to take this seriously, Corva. And no mistakes this time.”
So much for regaining trust.
Corva wondered what a death mage would be like.
She pictured someone dressed all in black leather and velvet. Long inky black hair and skin pale from never seeing the sun. He would be very broody and mysterious. She hoped he wouldn’t wear a cape. Capes were so impractical when it came to hiking through the forest, always getting snagged on branches or caught up in shrubs.
Strife led the way through the Veil Jumper camp. It was bustling with activity. Corva waved at Amylia, who looked up and grinned at her before returning to bartering with a pair of Dalish elves. Other Veil Jumpers hurried to and fro; some were carrying empty packs that meant they were just about to head out into the forest, and others were lugging heavy, fully laden packs that meant they had completed a successful trip through some ruins. All around them was the noise and energy of daily life. As much as Corva wanted to be out and adventuring, this was her home and she loved it dearly.
“Let’s keep the details of this mission as quiet as possible,” Strife said in a low voice. “From the sound of it, this demon is far beyond what we’re used to encountering. I don’t want to make anyone afraid. I’ll introduce you to this mage and you’ll head out right away.”
Corva nodded. Strife raised his voice, “Professor?”
At the sound of Strife’s call, a human man turned from where he was conversing with Bellara, passing a book back to the tinkerer. Corva was surprised by how tall he was, even for a shem. He wasn’t draped in black at all; he wore a starched white shirt and a green waistcoat which matched his crisply pressed trousers. Rings glinted from every one of his fingers and gold bracelets and a leather gauntlet adorned his arms. He did dress more like a professor than a sinister death cultist.
The mage had a kind face, with smile lines at the corner of his eyes. His hair was impeccably neat, brushed back from his temples and the black was shot through with liberal amounts of silver. His cheekbones could cut glass.
But Dread Wolf’s Balls, thought Corva, he was so old . He would keel over from a heart attack during the first hour of their trip. How was this man supposed to stop a demon so powerful an entire country was at risk from it? What was Strife getting her into?
“Hello,” the mage said as he approached them, his voice melodic and his accent very proper. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Emmrich Volkarin.”