Chapter Text
Truthless Recluse watched the color drain from Shadow Milk’s face at the realization that he had lost control of his other realm. His hands tightened around the cold metal of his staff. He only had seconds to go through with his plan, he couldn’t start second guessing himself now.
Shadow Milk launched himself at the Truthless Recluse just as he leveled his staff with the soul jam on his chest. Squeezing his eyes shut tightly he let out one last shaky breath before slamming the staff into his chest with all the strength he could muster. There was a bright flash of light as the Truthless recluse felt the soul jam shatter into millions of pieces before everything abruptly went black.
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The Fount of Knowledge didn’t often find himself needing to go into the nearby town to run errands. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had last ventured into town. He had no need for food and could mend anything that needed it without so much as blinking. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make something out of nothing and seeing as he had just about run out of his favorite ink, the journey into town was a necessity.
He had chosen to take route through this particular part of the forest because it was seldom used by villagers and pilgrims who tended to prefer the more direct gravel road to his spire. Despite the longer length of this path, and the complaints his legs would no doubt voice later in the day, the solitude was preferable. Here he could really soak up his truly beautiful surroundings.
With how much time the Fount spent holed up in the spire he didn’t often get to truly take the time to appreciate the beauty of the world around him, he liked to take advantage of those chances when they arise.
Unfortunately for the Fount, his peaceful walk through the forest was, rather rudely, interrupted by a bright flash of light and a cookie clad in white robes falling, quite literally, at his feet.
He quickly dismissed his staff before kneeling down to check on the stranger, quickly assessing for any injuries, making sure that he wouldn’t exacerbate any potential issues by moving them, when he was sure it would be safe, he gently rolled them onto their back.
Upon first glance, he didn’t recognize the stranger, which was odd, but he was immediately distracted from digging into the implications of that by the glint of the blue stone sitting proudly on the stranger’s chest. A blue stone that looked suspiciously like his own soul jam.
Now, it wasn’t exactly unheard of for followers of knowledge to own jewelry depicting the soul jam of knowledge as a way of signifying their allegiance to the virtue. What was strange was the fact that the Fount had never seen a replica so accurate to the real thing. He felt almost drawn to the object.
Cautiously, and perhaps foolishly, he reached his hand towards the stone, fingers gently gliding over the cool surface. He could feel it’s magical potential buzzing just below his fingertips, echoing the hum of his own soul jam. He retracted his hand as though it had been burned, cradling it against his chest while he mulled over the implications of this discovery.
There were only two real options as to what the object before him could truly be. Option A, someone had managed to create the technology to almost perfectly replicate soul jams completely under his nose and this was one such replica. Or option B, this wasn’t a replica, the stranger somehow had a soul jam of their own. Neither option was particularly encouraging.
The ink could wait he decided, as he carefully positioned his arms under the stranger’s limp body. This was a more pressing issue. Cautiously he shifted the weight from his forearms into his chest and struggled back to his feet.
He quickly decided that taking the stranger back to his spire would likely be the best course of action. There he could make sure they were properly recovering from the clear mana depletion from whatever spell had brought them here. It would also help him to figure out what was going on with the whole duplicate soul jam thing to have the stranger close by.
Despite the fact that the Cookie in the Fount’s arms wouldn’t be all that much taller than him were they standing, they were quite a bit heavier than he had anticipated. The walk back to the spire was also more of an undertaking than he had anticipated. Between the weight of the stranger in his arms and trying to also balance their staff and make sure that their hat didn’t tumble to the ground where it would be neigh unretrievable, it was slow going.
Eventually he made it to the living room on the ground floor of his spire and, unable to carry the stranger up the multiple flights of stairs to the significantly more comfortable bed in his own room, unceremoniously dumped the stranger onto the couch. Upon relieving himself of the weight he almost immediately collapsed to his knees. His whole body would be so sore the next day, oh well, that would be a problem for future Fount of Knowledge to handle.
He shifted forwards onto his knees and rolled up the stranger’s sleeve, drawing a simple healing array on the exposed skin. It occurred to him that perhaps he should have done this before dragging them through the forest, but he was confident his hastiness hadn’t served to exacerbate any issues. He gently rubbed off the array before replacing the stranger’s sleeve before he turned to doing his best to wipe the dirt and debris from their pristine white robes.
He waited on the floor with his back against the couch until eventually the screaming in his legs had quieted to just a dull ache before even considering picking the stranger back up to carry them to his bed. Eventually, mostly because he had grown painfully bored of waiting and doing nothing, he carefully picked the stranger up once again and cautiously made his way up the staircase to his room.
The Fount’s room was nothing to write home about, bookcases piled full of mostly his own writing covered the majority of every wall. Up against one wall, and next to the closet, was the bed where he set the stranger down, using one bedpost to hang their hat, uncertain if there would be a place that they would prefer him place it.
In general, the Fount wasn’t too broken up over forfeiting his bed for the sake of a stranger seeing as he didn’t often use his room for it’s intended purpose. The most often used piece of furniture in his room was his desk and even then, he often preferred to do his writing in the library. In fact, the only reason that the bed wasn’t covered in a fine layer of dust was because the constructs he had made to help keep the spire clean prevented any dust from accumulating.
The stranger groaned softly as they settled into the covers, startling the Fount and making his breath hitch. When it became clear that they weren’t waking up, he relaxed, pulling his chair up to the bedside and grabbing his journal and a pen and began writing, resigning himself to waiting until the stranger woke up.