Beneath the Midnight Veil (Laroa, Private)

[Peach]

Continued from the temple

Sharp eyebrows rose over globes of twilight as the woman put her hand on such a ferocious beast. It was as if it provided her guidance, something that one of such a noble house could provide themselves. How did Laroa tame such a creature, bend it beneath her like a simple pet? The King backed away a few steps, his breath coming more quickly to his fragile form. The elven lady could plainly hear soldiers surround her father, sharp ears taking in many things that the sense of sight could. She was crippled without it, but not too hindered to live life. This escape from the light had sharpened her other senses, bringing her even closer in touch with the world. What would it be like if she retrieved her beautiful orbs once again? An image sharper than the Esh'laheir could ever imagine. But for now, with only the fur and rippling of feline muscles beneath her slender fingers, some things were at a loss. She couldn't see the guards eyeing her suspiciously, wondering at how the wild cat had gotten through the gates.

Laroa could only feel their discomfort, their animosity, as their bristling weapons prepared to strike for a second time that brightening. "Leave it," Skapheddin commented in a slightly trembling voiced, an affront to the courageous tones that he was attempting to preserve. The display that he made of striding up to the tiger and scratching it behind the ear was meant for the dark elf to see. If he had known that his efforts would be at a loss, it most likely would not have been attempted... "There is no need to thank me, my child. Your room has remained untouched aside from cleaning. It still belongs to you." His expression of care was, this time, quite genuine. Thinking of that almost-sacred space set aside, untouched by the hands of time stirred his emotions more than this veiled woman could. He couldn't wait to get back there, to move his old body and grace those chambers with the vivacity of youth once more.

Simple musings were shattered at the ghastly sight that had so recently been thrust in front of him. Cries could be heard from all angles of the room, and the swishing sounds of fabric as hands clapped over gaping mouths. Such a horrible wound, the worst that any could be afflicted with! The emperor gripped his daughter's shoulders as he stared in shock at the scars that should not have been. "What evils have been committed to you? Who has done this? Healers, Thaumaturgists, I need you now!" The low and gravelly sound of his voice had led into a feverish pitch as he shouted for assistance, indeed receiving much in return. Laroa could feel the hands of many a mage guiding her down the hallways of the temple, without even the merest glance at the statues of holy beings that lay about them. This was much more important than prayer. It was an affront to the society of Ethgan'tor itself. To hurt a child of the city, yet not mortally, was to tease at honor, at the justice that would now need to be fulfilled. Whoever had done this vicious deed had not the foresight that those with intelligence did. The wrath of the very skies would be called down upon his weak and mortal skin.

The Esh'laheir could feel herself being lifted, made to lie on a cushioned and comfortable platform. For the blessings of the most talented in the land, she had stumbled into exactly the right place. Finger tips grazed lightly over the newly formed scar tissue, and warm breath grazing over her face told of close inspection. "Tell me the nature of this. How was it afflicted?" The voice was female and lilting, as if it were made for laughter instead of such seriousness. A firm grip, belonging to her father by the reassuring words he spoke, closed over Laroa's own delicate fingers, her torso propped up by a few pillows. More footsteps could be periodically heard rushing in and out of the room, fetching things for the complicated procedure that was scheduled to come. A cup full of steaming tea was placed into the noble's hands, and ushered gently to and from her mouth as she took drinks. The herbal brew was relaxing, taking some of the sharpness off of the situation. "Do not worry about telling her... None will hear of this, I promise you."

[Laroa Linalantava]

Tamed? She had never tamed the tiger, would never even have tried to take control of such a powerful animal. It had come to her one darkening on the shores of Silrosia, had approached her and lain in front of her like a big cat, as if it had always belonged to her, as if she had always been its mistress, as if they were meant to be together until the end of time. She had been lost then, had just left the underworld and found herself on an unfamiliar beach, but the white tiger had led her back into the civilized world. It had become her eyes, her ears, her link to the outside world, a world she could no longer see. Even though the animal was gentle for now, it could rip a grown man apart in seconds if she commanded it, could kill as surely as its mistress had once been able to kill.

She could not see the guards, not anymore, but she could hear them, could feel them, could hear that her father was breathing faster now. They were afraid of the powerful animal at her side, were wondering whether it was dangerous or not. It was not, at least not for the time being. She stroke the brilliant white fur, felt the rippling muscles beneath her fingers and smiled, even if it was only for a second, felt a moment of calm amidst the anger and the hatred.

"Do not worry ..." she said in her cool, clear voice, a voice that had once commanded hordes of undead. "The tiger will not harm any of you. If she had been able to see how her father walked up to the animal and touched it, she would have smiled, but she could not, and he, he did not know what had happened to her yet, did not know the source of all the anger she had bottled up inside of her.

Her old room ... How long had it been since she had lived in the palace, since she had lived in Ethgan'tor with her father? It had been more than a lifetime, an eternity ago. She had changed since then, not only on the inside, but on the outside. She had been not much more than a girl when she had left, but she was a woman now, a woman who had been hurt and betrayed, a woman with a thirst for revenge who had devoted her life to Aeternia and cast the dark gods out again. From now on she would live for no god, would only worship herself, woud be her own goddess. In the end it was the better, the safer choice. Jorel had done nothing for her, had not helped her when she had been forced to flee from Vortex and give the work of a lifetime up. And Aetheria, Aetheria was made up of fools.

She remained calm, indifferent even though the people all around her cried out in shock, barely moved as her father gripped her shoulders. She could not see the things they were seeing, did not know what had really happened to her face, her eyes, how the wounds looked like. She could only see darkness, could only feel darkness. She lived in eternal darkness. A hand was raised, touched her father's as she spoke, "I've been betrayed. I thought that he honestly cared for me ..." She felt the anger rise again. It took hold of her, almost overwhelmed her. She would hunt the fool down, would make sure that he died, would call Ethgan'tor's wrath upon him. He would regret that he had been born, would regret that he had played with her like that, that he had pretended to care for her only to abandon her and hurt her beyond measure. Nobody had the right to treat a child of Ethgan'tor like that. She would not be betrayed again.

She could feel herself being lifted, could feel soft cushions under her, let her fingers run across the platform, wondering. There was a voice in the darkness now, soft and reassuring. Was it a priestess, one of the healer's that had been called to help the queen? People were coming and going, but to what end? Did her father really think that they could give her her eyes back, give her back her sight? It needed a skilled thaumaturgist to accomplish such a feat. She drank from the tea, took a couple of sips before she answered the woman's question, "I was betrayed, betrayed by the man who saved my life and took advantage of my feelings ..." She stopped, shook her head. There would come a time when she would tell her father the entire story - the version that did not mention anything about her involvement in thos events, about her necromancy and her old beliefs - but for now she needed healing above everything else. The story could wait until she was alone with her father. She would make sure that the traitor would be punished. "He was a necromancer, although I was not aware of it at the time ...” she continued softly. “... used his dark and tainted magic to summon tentacles and rip my eyes out ... Can you heal me? Can you make the damage that has been done to me undone?"

[Peach]

Necromancer! It resonated through the room, echoed by every voice who dared to utter it through waves of shock. In the Bright Temple, that word was a curse, topping any disgusting insult that an adolescent boy could think of. To betray the gods that created them and follow the ones who would ultimately destroy them... It was worse than blasphemy, than breaking the laws that were given to them by Ioannes. And to use it for such a crude reason, to act as if the Arcane were a simple weapon of steel! This was the work of a child, of one who could never truly understand what the beautiful waves of mana were set on Telath for. What could this crime do, besides cause pain? It had, one presumed, not landed him in any higher position, or given him anything else besides two decomposing pieces of a whole. What could one expect from a Necromancer aside from acting on sophomoric whims? The shaking of heads and down casting of eyes was universal in the small chamber, and Lara could practically feel their displeasure surrounding this being.

And to think, she had actually been in contact with the villain. For a brief and uncomfortable second, the King's hand squirmed, as if he wanted to let go. What if she had been contaminated, cursed by the gods for her acceptance of this brute? He didn't want the weight of such disapproval to fall upon himself. Finally, he overcame the moment of weakness, and clutched once more. Laroa would definitely not be alone in the long process of healing, no matter how sickening it may have looked. "I can help you, yes. Growing your eyes back will be difficult, and they may not even turn out to be functional." The woman could be heard sucking in a breath, as if gathering up strength for the next words. "But at least they will be more... Aesthetically pleasing. And by that I mean no offence, m'lady. Just remain calm while we work. It shouldn't hurt." Manna, the disembodied priestess, was in need of a success. Being unable to purge the Queen of disease, even with her mastery, had brought a great deal of hidden shame on the temple.

If the daughter of this ill mistress was miraculously cured, then it would draw the eye of the public away from failure. And what if no change occurred, or the condition worsened? It made her feel unclean to think about it. Laroa felt two cool hands rest over her sockets, the tickling sensation of magic already started to well up beneath them. Shriveled remnants of eyelids that had healed in a graft to the skin began to stretch and grow thicker once more, the hair follicles stirring back into life to make long white lashes sprout. Still, they did not look as real lids should, shrunken and creased where they were supported only by wads of scar tissue. Manna exited her state of meditation for a minute to survey her handiwork, and prepare herself for a much more difficult step. Somehow, the excess skin that lined the sockets would need to be removed, yet the critical veins that would be regrown to travel through the eye remain untouched. This would call for more finesse than it took to regain something like skin. Doubling her concentration, she reached in with ghostly probes of Ara, feeling for any of those precious blood channels and gently separating the tissue from them. It became blatantly obvious that she didn't have much to work with aside from the deepest structures. The one who had done this was rather efficient...

Working the tendrils of solid Thaumaturgic essence from the front of the eyes to the backs, the healer loosened thin sheets of flesh and smoothed out the old muscle, creating a cavity in which the new organ would rest. With a gentle tug of the threads of light that she had been controlling, the meaty and slightly damp pink pieces were removed. It was eerily similar to Iseril's methods of exacting revenge, in fact. Perhaps Manna had received a few ideas from Laroa's descriptions. Individuals on all sides of the bed retched as, dripping, the layers landed with a small splatting sound on a tray. Skapheddin began to shake merely from watching the event, although he couldn't seem to tear his gaze away. In some strange way, the whole procedure was quite interesting.

Air rushed into the now completely empty space, greedily desiring to fill the void. The discomfort that must have been felt by this sensation, however, was short lived. Two balls of Ara were produced in sequence and carefully inserted, supporting the eyelids that were soon to collapse. Finally, it looked simply as is the Esh'laheir's eyes were shut, not gruesome and flinch-worthy. Now that she had a field in which to work, the Priestess was able to lift and lengthen the veins, positioning them through the temporary substance as in the blue print of a building. "Are you still doing alright? Would you like some more tea, or perhaps a cool drink? I have good news for you. The regrowth has gone quite well so far... You may very well have your old eyes back in a matter of hours." Manna needed time, herself, to ponder the next step. The anatomy of the eye was highly precise, and any minute mistake could throw off the whole process. The collective breath of the room was held in anxiously, awaiting a positive response from the former Archmage. One could almost cut the tension with a knife. "Do you need the procedure to be spread out over a longer period, Laroa?" Her father brushed a few strands of sylvan hair away from the elf's face. "This must be very stressful for you."

[Laroa Linalantava]

Necromancer! She could practically feel the waves of shock that resonated through the temple, could feel the fear and disgust of those that surrounded her. A grim smile appeared on the Esh’lahier’s face only to be replaced by a strange mixture of anger and utter sadness. Yes, the man that had hurt her, the man that had killed her child and destroyed everything had been a necromancer, not much more than a boy, with an innocent face and green eyes that had almost captured her heart. He had been a necromancer, a criminal, a perverted, twisted creature that could do nothing but cause pain, a madman who lacked any clear understanding of the world and the way it worked, a fool, a traitor to the gods. He would be punished. The thought that she would see him dead had given her the strength to go on, to live in this world of darkness.

“Father … please …” Her voice was nothing more than a soft whisper, gentle, pleading. She gripped his hand tighter so that he could not pull it away, held it, even though thoughts of ending the King’s life and taking his throne for herself had occupied her mind only a short time before. She had changed her mind. She would not kill him now, not ever, would wait until Jalat called for him. She had committed many sins, but had always avoided hurting her family. Murder of a parent was a sin that weighed too heavily on her mind. “Don’t go away …”

Yes, she had sinned. Yes, she had been corrupted, had practiced necromancy to an extent that the half elf who had taken her eyes would never be capable of. But she had been redeemed, had been purged through pain and agony, for better and for worse, had been returned to the state she had been in before she had left Ethgan’tor, had become a blank slate once more, ready to be filled anew. Her father would find no traces of the crimes she had committed, of the demons in her service. She was pure again, just like his queen, free of the ties that had once bound her to Aeternia, but she did not regret any of the choices she had made.

“It does not matter …” she whispered to the priestess. “Just to your best …” She wanted her eyes back, wanted nothing more than to have her eyes back so that she could do the things she had planned and exact revenge on the traitor but if it did not work out … then she would at leats not be forced to walk about with a piece of cloth wrapped around her face because the truth was too terrible to behold. She was used to being beautiful, lived for beauty, surrounded herself with beauty and could not bear it that she was ugly, a monster without eyes, the pale shadow of a goddess.

Truth to be told, she did not care whether the procedure was painless or not. She had been through so much pain, had been hurt so much that nothing could shock her anymore. Even if the priestess had set her soul on fire instead of working gentle magic, she would have stayed, would not have said a word.

Soon enough she could feel a tingling sensation in the place where her eyes had once been, a sign that magic was at work. She did not know what the priestess was doing, could not see anything, could not feel anything, not even pain. She could only guess what it was that the woman was doing to her, could only lie still and hope that she would get her sight back. Retching sounds from those that were nearby told her that the procedure was not exactly pleasant to watch. It seemed to be rather disgusting. There was a moment of discomfort as air filled the empty eyesockets. The pale woman tensed, then relaxed again.

“Tea …” she whispered. “Give me tea … something that will make me relax …” before she softly said, “I’m alright …” Hope flickered across her white face as the priestess told her that she might have her eyes back in the matter of hours. It was then that she could hear her father’s voice. She turned her head fractionally, held his hand. “No, father …” she told him. “It is fine. I just want to have my sight back. I’m not in any kind of pain …”

[Peach]

The Princess' parent was quivering, but no longer from a sickening sight. She could feel him vibrating in her fingers, from the very core of his bones to his snowy skin. His teeth had ceased to grind together, and were chattering madly instead, as if a bout of cold weather had swept through the comfortable halls. In actuality, it was from the obvious terror of a crippled child, one who couldn't fulfill royal duties after his departure from the world, to oblivion or damnation. The thought of losing the last one that he could possibly love as family who cared equally for him. Would she turn bitter and cruel if her vision was lost for eternity? An old crone before her time, like the rueful widower that he was slowly morphing into himself. No doubt, if the Queen did die, he would disappear into an inescapable pit of darkness. One from which he couldn't possibly see the fine city lain out before him. With a sigh, the King put his other hand over the one that held Laroa's, steadying the tremors to the best of his ability.

"Tea, get her more!" He blurted loudly and unnecessarily after his daughter's request. The assistants were already on their way to fix more, scattering the leaves of chamomile and pieces of willow bark into the small thin cloth which would be soaked in hot water. After a few minutes, the noble was given the drink, brewed this time with a hint of honey. The sweet taste washed the fear from her mouth, and hid the bitterness of the bark. Skapheddin sat where he was as this took place, looking a bit displeased at the too-perfect actions of the attendants. Their responsibility had made him look like a fool. And although he did want his daughter to be comfortable, the monarch definitely held himself in high regards. "Good, just make sure you don't burn her..." Annoyed, the healers grumbled among themselves, wishing in unison that parents wouldn't be so overprotective. "Don't worry, Your Majesty. I have not allowed any novices to partake in this."

Patting Laroa's shoulder lightly in response to her bravery, Manna began to look over her work. It had been helpful that her patient hadn't cried out or squirmed, if only at the strangeness of the situation. She wouldn't have to go through the hassle of tying this one down. "If all assistants would clear the area again, please." Quickly, the receding of the youths became apparent by the sounds of their hurried footsteps, and the whispering in the corners of the rooms. It was simply impossible not to talk about something this interesting. The Thaumaturgist approached her work tentatively, moving the spheres and creating new parts of the eye a bit at a time. Although she couldn't know it in her lifetime, the mage was stimulating the growth of Laroa's dormant cells, allowing for things to regrow that had previously simply died due to their complexity.

The pale elf would never have her exact same eyes again, but these minor details wouldn't be missed. Manna was following the shape of the last elven eye that she had seen, back in the days of her training. Twin orbs of light shrinking as she progressed, the mage created the outermost membrane of the eye around the vein structure that she had created, carefully connecting them to the muscles that would control the eye's movement. The second film of particles came next, reinforcing the sacs that would hold the fluids that made up the majority of the spheres. Finally, she was able to begin recreating the parts that would record actual images and play them back to the brain, starting with what would later be known as the Ora Serrata and Ciliary bodies. In like kind, the gel that cushioned the lens, and the lens itself were made, over which the fresh pink Iris sprouted. "What was the color of her eyes?" If she was not albino, the current one wouldn't be correct. "Violet, like the stone Amethyst." It would be virtually impossible to forget her penetrating stare, both beautiful and malicious at the same time.

The very orbs that were being made again were a source of controversy within the house, reminding them of their Hayan ancestry and connection to the shunned Vysstichi. Yet, no other mundane color would do. This was the one that embodied Laroa, what she had become. It was noble, mysterious, original. Wordlessly, Manna allowed it to seep into the iris like ink, guessing as well as she could through the King's words. Quickly, the small vacuum of air and the final section, the Cornea, was created. Both of her cool palms pressed over the virgin spheres as the aged elf motioned with a nod of her head for the heavy velvet curtains to be closed. Only a few shafts of light escaped to illuminate the room. "I apologize, but it will hurt when you first open your eyes. They aren't, after all, used to seeing." An outcry of anger from Skapheddin was hushed with a slightly sharp edge. "You cannot numb them? Make her able to see without discomfort? I would think that such a thing could easily be done."

"That would require me to turn off her nerves, which isn't quite healthy. Especially when it isn't needed." Her words crackled with anger and righteousness. Even if he was royal, this man had crossed the line by questioning her skills. Immediately, she removed her hands, allowing for Laroa to open her eyes. As forewarned, a throbbing pain accompanied this act, along with a sort of blinding light filling her line of vision. Tears poured in great streams down the sides of her face, as if her eyes were trying to flush the pain from within them. Just before the blankness filled her eyes, along with flashing spots as if she had been staring at the sun, the Esh'laheir caught a glimpse of the room. It was simply upholstered, the only furniture being her platform and the chair on which her father sat. The curious faces of the adepts peered from all corners, their faces shining as pale as the moon. Manna, herself, was almost the exact opposite of the emperor. Although as old as him, or even more so, the only wrinkles on her face were light crows feet at the corners of her almond shaped, dark eyes. Her features were rounded, with only a hint of the angular dark elven angles. Long, white hair fell to the floor where it ended in curls, as if it were a waterfall. Her robes were white, trimmed simply with gold, the attire of a priestess of the temple.

"Don’t worry, the blindness is temporary. Would you like a mirror?"

[Laroa Linalantava]

The young woman held her father’s hand the entire time as if her life depended on him even though she had considered killing him only a short time ago. She had no second thoughts, did not regret anything, did not feel guilty. She doubted that anything could ever make her feel guilty. She had not felt guilty when she had been a necromancer and killed people on a regular basis, condemned them to a life in pain. She had only felt guilty when she had not done it with style, when she had made a mess. But despite everything she had not been evil. She had not enjoyed the killing like the mass murderer, the insane follower of Jalat did, but had been indifferent, calm in the eye of the storm, gentle, more a scholar that thirsted for knowledge than a murderess, a demoness.

She could feel her father shake lightly. His teeth were chattering as if he was freezing, as if he was impossibly cold. She only held his hand tighter as if to assure him that everything would be alright, that she would be alright, that he would be able to keep her this time. He would not lose her again. She would never become an old crone like he feared, but find other means to see again if this did not work out. And no matter what happened she would kill the half elf for what he had done to her, would have him executed in front of the temple.

She drank the tea that had been offered to her, maybe a bit too fast to make the bitter taste that the healing, the pain, the fear the hatred she felt for Iseril had left in her mouth go away. It was sweet, far sweeter than the tea she had had before, made her feel better, filled her body with a pleasant warmth. She sighed, barely paid attention to what her father and all the attendants were doing. She did not care as long as they did not interrupt her healing, as long as they did not do any harm, as long as Manna did what she was supposed to do.

As Manna patted her shoulder, the young woman stirred lightly. No, she would not need to be tied down, would not scream in pain, not in front of those people, would not show them how weak she had become since that darkening in Vortex when her power had been taken away. She would do what she had to do and endure. She did not know what the healer was doing, how she restored her eyes, but it did not matter. „Violet …“she whispered, confirmed her father’s words. Violet, a reminder of their ties to the vysstichi, the hated ebony skined elves, a reminder that their races had a common origin, dark and mysterious.

As the healer stated that it would hurt the first time she opened her eyes, the young woman shrugged. She had expected that much. As her father cried out in anger, she touched his arm. „Please, let it be …“ As Manna removed her hands, she opened her eyes, slowly, blinked a couple of times. She immediately felt a sharp pain in her head. Intense, blinding light filled her field of vision. Even though she tried not to cry, tears were running down her face. Just before the world around her became dark once more, she could get a glimpse of the room, a glimpse of her father who had become an old man since she had last seen him. He had become weak whereas the healer that stood at his side was still strong.

„Yes, please give me a mirror …“ she answered, turned her head in the direction of the healer. „I want to know what has happened to my face …“

[Peach]

Gradually, the darkness began to fade. It started around the edges of her vision, as it had come, shrinking slowly until it became a single ball blocking only a small portion of the world around her. Eventually, that disappeared as well. Laroa was given a view of the sights that she had seen before the tragic accident, one that had been fixed seemingly with ease. Colors were sharp, crisp, and refreshing. Like an ice cold drink of water to a thirsty traveler. Not a single blurry edge marred the scene, and details swam in front of her eyes with the normal elvish clarity. The only problem, it seemed, was that she was still quite sensitive to light. Whenever the Princess looked directly at the small streamer filtering through the curtains, she felt a twinge of pain, and its after effect was printed on her vision like a glowing shadow. Surprisingly, however, it was quite easy to see with the lack of light. She could even detect a strange glow of warmth surrounding the living bodies in the room...

The initial shock of seeing Laroa with eyes once more had worn off, leaving a tense and confused expression upon the faces of the healers. Her father, particularly, couldn't look away. After a moment's hesitation, Manna nodded, and beckoned for an assistant to come forth with the mirror. Careful not to catch the sunlight in its reflection, the elderly Esh'laheir put the device in her waiting hands... The eyes that had once been so familiar were still beautiful, but quite different. Laroa's eyelashes were slightly shorter than they had been before, causing the very orbs themselves to look larger than they truly were. Not that this was noticeable to many, with their ghostly color. They had retained the beautiful almond shape, slightly tilted, that was a common characteristic of her race. The color was what had changed, or rather its luminescence. To put it simply, they shone, glowed faintly like the light of the moon. Not enough to make them look completely Vysstichi, especially since they weren't red, but still a beacon in the night.

The color, itself, had gained the faintest hint of red. No longer were they pure violet, but wine seen through and amethyst glass. They reflected her soul, her past, mixed between the darkness and the light. "Your Majesty... Manna looked apologetically at the King, and on a second thought, at Laroa. "I've never seen this happen before." Skapheddin, too flabbergasted to speak, slowly shook his silver head. "You were very brave, Laroa." One could expect no less from the first household of Ethgan'tor. With a cloth, she wiped the drying tears away from the Princess' face, seemingly unafraid of the strange glow. "Will-... That, disappear in the daylight?" The Thaumaturgist pondered for a moment, running a thin hand through her long hair. "It probably will, but I think that it will always hurt her a bit." With a deep sigh, the King nodded. Even though they were strange, at least his daughter was lovely once again.

"I recognize your success. The temple is looked favorably upon once more." Everyone in the room smiled and mumbled words of thanks, bowing low to the pair of monarchs that had allowed for their place to be restored. Still looking slightly uncomfortable, he dropped the dark elf's hand and rested a careful arm around her shoulders. "Do you wish to see the Queen, now?" His facial expressions didn't betray the thoughts that ran swiftly through the King's mind. Would she be accepted? Would they always need to be covered, throwing her into blindness once more?

[Laroa Linalantava]

Eventually the darkness began to fade again, retreated, disappeared. The Esh’lahier breathed a sigh of relief. She would not be blind, was not weak, was not helpless any longer. She would be able to have her revenge, her kingdom, would get her life and everything she had thought so hard for back. Everything would be alright. No matter what Iseril had done to her, it had been fixed. The fool had not hurt her as much as he had thought, not nearly as much.

The things she saw in front of her were clear, colourful, not blurred at all, almost as if her eyes were better than before. She turned around, took the sights around her in like a woman who had travelled the desert and seen an oasis for the first time in ages, as if she had been starving, without water for an eternity. She let her gaze drift to the window – and closed her eyes abruptly. There was only a bit of light filtering through the curtains, but it hurt, made her eyes water. Even after she had moved away she could see the light in front of her, like a shadow, a ghost of pain.

Maybe it had not worked as it should after all. She could see a strange glow surrounding the people in the room. Where had it come from? She felt the confusion, the mild shock of the healers, not knowing where it had come from. Did her eyes look that strange? Her hands reached for the mirror, desperate to see what had happened. Her eyes were still beautiful, but not quite the soft lavender color she remembered. They were bigger than before - or seemed that way - and glowed faintly inthe dark, like the eyes of a vysstichi. There was a hint of red in them …

„I had no choice but to be brave …“ she told the healer calmly. The mild shock at seeing her changed eyes was gone. They would serve her as well as the ones before even if she would always sensitive towards the light. They would be of advantage to her if she ever returned to Vortex to see what was left of the school. For patterns she had lived with vysstichi, not caring that most of her race considered them traitors and did everything to distance themselves from them.

„At least I can see again, father …“ she said softly, tried to stand up, held onto the king. „Yes, I want to see the Queen now …“

[Peach]

The King was as shocked at Laroa's unfeeling reaction to her new eyes as he had been when they first appeared. Did she not care that a portion of her anatomy now faintly resembled that of the Esh'laheir's most hated foe? Perhaps she was the one being the most mature about it, even though the Princess was younger. While years of life could make one more intelligent, more knowledgeable, it also set them much too heavily in some old-fashioned beliefs. While Skapheddin was partially in charge of an important city, he would never be capable of the power that his daughter could eventually posses. To hold sway in the cities of the Vysstichi and the holy Pale Elves was a thing unheard of. It tore the very fabric of existence that had been woven over thousands of patterns, reinforced with beliefs that had simmered into a full-blown hatred. This animosity was what gave the dark elves one step above the light. A drive to remove anything that would stand in their way, for they believed that they had earned this right through eras of ridicule.

Laroa was helped down from her high cushioned perch as if she were fragile as blown glass. A potential heir was more precious than any delicate antique, and deserved to be treated as such in the eyes of the Esh'laheir. The guards unquestioningly surrounded the two monarchs as they entered the hallway, creating a living wall of protection from the outside world. "You might want to put your veil on again before we go outside..." Indeed, the sun reflecting tenfold off of hordes of shining armor wouldn't be a comfortable sensation, even for one whose eyes were quite adapted to sunlight. She almost could see nothing as they moved towards the waiting carriage, vision blocked by the tall elves about her. The veil, if she did wish to put it on, blocked out any discomfort aside from shaded eyesight. Laroa was helped into the horse-drawn vehicle firstly, by her father and a single other guard. Skapheddin entered from the other side, and closed the doors on both sides.

Once inside, one could see that it was obviously made for royalty. The cushioned seats were made of soft red velvet, matching the shade of the closed drapes. A ball of dramaturgical energy, hanging by its arcane thread from the ceiling, shed a soft light upon the inside of the carriage. The walls were painted dark blue, with golden trim around the edges. Through a small opening in the curtains, Laroa could see the nostalgic sights of Ethgan'tor passing them by. Every white-haired individual walking the streets turned to see them, eyes open wide in hope to see the famous rulers of their city. Some bowed their heads in respect, while others turned away and scoffed, unable to think of the individuals in the magnificent carriage as worthy of undivided attention. Still, they were given more than enough. Past months in light born cities may have gotten the Princess unused to being a celebrity... But that was something that would never change as long as she stayed in her home city.

It wasn't long before they pulled up and halted in the magnificent, sweeping lawn of the mansion. Flower gardens dotted the soft, well preened carpet of glass, along with multiple marble fountains depicting scenes of glory spurting ribbons of water. The castle, itself, was gargantuan in size, complete with multiple domed roofs and stained glass windows breaking its pure, snowy surface. The doors to the carriage were flung open, and the two dark elves helped out by many hosts of hands. They were led to the large, dark wooden and heavy doors at a brisk pace, which were opened only enough to let the host in and closed quickly afterwards. Once inside, all sounds of the street were abruptly cut off. It was as if they had entered another world of silence and luxury. The foyer wasn't decorated by much besides a host of doors and two curved stair cases carpeted in a soft purple color.

Both stairways led up to a balcony, which held but three arched doorways. A fogged glass window had strategically been placed over the trio, allowing for a gentle spotlight to pour through. "Your mother is in the room up the stairs, and to the right. I suppose you would like to be alone with her for a moment..."

[Laroa Linalantava]

Why should she care that her eyes resembled those of the vysstichi? They might have been her father’s foes, but the darkskinned elves had never been her foes. She had not been much more than a girl when she had left the city, too young to be as set in her ways as the king, still open to new influences, to new experiences.

At first her life in the vysstichi city and necromancy had been a way to rebel against her race’s ways, a means to escape all those petty little arguments that were common among the noble houses, but later she had become comfortable with it. She had learned from the vysstichi, had learned things she would never have been able to learn within the confines of Ethgan’tor, appreciated some of their practices even though she could not understand how they considered half of their people inferior. Those experiences had shaped her, had made her stronger than she was before, and for that she was grateful. She had learned how to be a queen while living underground.

She gave a grateful smile as she was helped down, nodded to the guards that surrounded her at once, like a protective barrier. At her father’s comment she unfolded the veil she had worn since she had left Centripax, seeking to heal the wounds that Iseril had inflicted on her and placed it over her face. The soft silk did not conceal her features completely. They merely seemed blurred. The outline of her face, the curve of her lips, even a brief hint of her violet eyes were still visible. The delicate piece of cloth moved lightly with every step she made.

„Thank you …“ she murmurred softly as her father helped her into the waiting carriage. It had been a long time since she had travelled this way. There had been no carriages, no horses in Har’oloth. She had walked – or cast a gate that had taken her straight to her destination. The carriage was beautiful, like everything in Ethgan’tor. She found herselff looking at the sphere that hung from the ceiling, removed her veil for a few seconds to see if the light hurt her eyes, pulled the curtains back just a bit and took a look outside, at the buildings that passed her by.

Almost every elf that walked the streets turned to see the approaching coach, and everytime somebody bowed the young woman smiled. She had possessed a small manner of fame when she had been the heamistress of the High Collegium of the Dark Arts, but it was nothing against this here. None of the people here were indifferent towards her. She was not used to being a celebrity yet, but she would have no trouble to get used to it. There would come a time when they would worship her, when they would worship the very ground upon which she walked.

A dozen hands reached for her, sought to help her as the carriage stopped in front of the castle. The Esh’lahier paused for a moment, pondering, then extended a slender white hand towards the nearest personand stepped outside, followed the attendants and her father towards the door. Her gaze was fixed on the ground all the time as if she was afraid that the sunlight reflecting off all those white surfaces would hurt her new sensitive eyes.

She walked up the stairs, stopped in front of the glass window and turned to her father. „Yes, I would like to be alone with her for a moment …“ she said. „I hope she doesn’t mind my visit …“ There was no guessing as to how the queen would react to the young woman that had been away from home for so long. Would she accept her, be glad that she was back or turn from her?

[Peach]

As Laroa removed her veil to look at the glowing orb, no pain was evident. Only the light of the sun, it seemed, could cause the anguish that the dark-skinned felt. The pale elves on the street were quite pleased when the heir waved to them, if only for the fact that a monarch finally paid them heed. It wasn’t common for them to peer out of the windows, and even less frequent that a new one arrived within the city. Laroa had a sense of freshness on her side, one that made her more appealing to the hard to please people of the city. A small girl child grinned broadly as the carriage passed, and waved with all her might, only to be pulled back closer to the side of the street by her parents and scolded for such overly zealous behavior. It was obviously different from the attention, or lack of it, that she had received in a city of Necromancers… Perhaps this was why the rulers of the surface-dwellers kept their positions for much longer periods of time. Odd, how the Princess had escaped a world of feuding houses only to become successful in another.

Back in then castle, however, events were passing. The King looked amused at his daughters words, eyebrows shooting upwards and a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. Laroa's mother wouldn't mind seeing the child, at all... She'd likely be more than pleased. All that the Queen had been capable of doing, lately, was griping about the future of Ethgan'tor. The future that she had sought in the throes of death had inexorably arrived, and not a moment too soon. Skapheddin was only worried that he wouldn't have time in his life span to teach Laroa the ways of royalty... Seeing as he knew nothing of her time amongst the Vysstichi, obtaining the proper training for such a position while he ran his own city through a sense of oblivion. "I wouldn't worry, really. Just don't comment on her condition." His face hardened, all traces of the momentary happiness disappearing. "She likes to be treated as if nothing special were happening." The Queen had always been a strong woman, yet Jalat's touch seemed to frighten her into even further bravery... Perhaps to leave a lasting impression on the minds of her relatives, and her citizens.

Esh’laheirian guards positioned on either side of the doors opened them swiftly to allow the Princess and her ferocious feline companion inside. The room was spacious and, thankfully, as dark as night. The curtains had been drawn across the single large window, because the ailing woman had complained of the sun giving her headaches. A candle lit her bedside, casting a painless and flickering sphere of light large enough to illuminate the Queens sickly features. What had once been a vivacious female had been reduced to only a specter of her former self. Light green eyes had lost their sheen and become overcast, sunken into the sockets and rimmed with bruised darkness. Still, Laroa could eerily see quite a bit of herself in the stricken face… As if she had been stretched out and deprived of life-given sustenance for an unhealthy amount of time. Still, the Queen lacked some of her child’s defining attributes. Her face was a touch more gaunt and sharp than Laroa’s own. Maybe the Princess had received these traits, violet eyes and infinite beauty, from her father. Aileana smiled when she saw her daughter enter the room, apparently unaware of the great cat that accompanied her. Although she did, indeed, see the creature, it wasn’t surprising that one of such a powerful heritage could control beasts. "Finally, you have come. The shadows in the corner told me that you would. Come, sit by me. I promise you will not catch it."

Aileana laughed thinly, and motioned with bony fingers for the youth to approach her bedside. "
We have much to discuss, girl. Tell me about your travels, and I will fill you in on family matters. And how your eyes acquired that strange hue, as well." The sickness had robbed her of the ability to walk, but not to hold her emotions inside. She had too much respect for herself to go fawning over a daughter who had left of her own accord. Not much more could be expected from a noble who had never known anything but the throne.

[Laroa Linalantava]

A smile flickered across the young woman’s face as her father told her that there was no need to worry just yet and she nodded. „I won’t comment on her condition, father…“ she assured him, raised her head to meet his eyes and sighed. The queen’s state seemed to have affected him greatly. For a moment, for just a moment she felt honestly sorry for the man that had welcomed her in Ethgan’tor and helped her to get her eyes back. Her hand rested on his arm for a moment. She looked up, into his eyes and then left without a further word.

„Stay …“ she whispered as the guards opened the door to the queen’s chamber. The tiger turned his head. Big, ice blue eyes studied the Esh’lahier for a moment. A deep growl emanated from the beast’s throat, and then it lowered its massive body onto the floor, lay next to the door like a guardian made of white marble, watched its mistress and the woman in the bed closely lest somebody tried to hurt them.

The queen’s room was dark, as dark as the night, as dark as the caverns of Har’oloth where she had lived so many patterns. She breathed a deep sigh of relief, held the veil in her hand as she approached the ailing woman, slowly so that her feet did not make a single sound. Even in the dim light of the candle she could see that the queen was very sick. Those green eyes had lost all their shimmer, rested in deep holes … How long had she been like this? What kind of disease had reduced the once powerful woman to something like that?

„The shadows told you?“ she asked before she softly added. „… mother?“ How could it be that she felt like a girl again in the presence of the woman and not like the powerful necromancer she had been? How could it be that she was still intimidated by her after all those patterns? Why did she want to obey her? She had thought she had left Ethgan’tor and her old self behind for good. She could see a bit of herself in Aileana’s face, an older, sick version of herself even if the woman did not have her eyes.

She sat down at the queen’s bedside and folded her hands in her lap, looked at her for the longest time before she chose to answer, „I spent some time in Ieffreon after I left the city, mother. I met a man there, another Esh’lahier, a mage of some power and wealth. We had a daughter, Indis. He died only a few months after she was born …“ Her husband had been a necromancer, he had been the one who had opened her eyes, who had intially brought her to the dark arts, the one who had unbound her and helped her achieve the first rank, who had made the rebellious girl who was tired of Ethgan’tor’s politics into something more than just a noblewoman. He had been killed, had been killed by a paladin …

„I went to Enamoria, to Arium, to Arakmat and beyond …“ She told her mother nothing of the Lord Dhor’csar of Silrosia, the Master Elementalist who had stolen her heart and betrayed her, nothing of the necromancy school in Vortex where she had been a teacher. Some things were best left unmentioned. She only spoke of the forests of Silrosia, the vast desert, the mountains of Arium, of all the things she had seen outside of Ethgan’tor. „I spent a few months in Arconis where I had mysticism training, offered my services to Lord Gil’dae, the Headmaster of the Academy …“ she mentioned. „But in the end I left again. Something pulled me back. I realized that I should never have left, that the outside world only brought me pain …“

„As for my eyes … There was a half elf named Iseril Al’lende who helped me when I was very sick. He influenced me with his spells, made me believe that he honestly cared for me and my well being, but in the end he turned against me and took my eyes. He tore my eyes out, stole my daughter and left me blind and unable to defend myself in the wilderness. A man rescued me, and I decided to make my way back to Ethgan’tor and find healing. Manna, a priestess, gave me new eyes … she saved me when I had already given up hope that I would ever see againn …“

Her voice was calm just like the queen’s. After she had ended, she simply sat there, on her mother’s bedside and waited, for a comment, for her to tell her what had happened to her family while she had been away. The expression on her face betrayed nothing of what she was feeling inside, nothing of her thoughts about her mother, about her sorry state. The king had told her not to comment on it, and thus she would not.

[Peach]

That disturbing, specter of a laugh escaped the Queen once more as her daughter questioned her strange words. It wasn't the shadows, per say, that had told her. But the skull-faced man lurking in them, waiting to take her soul as it fled from her body. She wouldn't divulge this information to one so high in her youth, though, so healthy and beautiful... This was knowledge saved for old crones, those who put off death long enough to allow it to come and stare them in their faces. It would be long before Laroa would need to face this time. Perhaps it would never happen. Maybe she'd go peacefully, slipping away in her sleep like in the fairy tales. Somehow, in the corner of her soul, the ailing Queen doubted this. One of her bloodline wasn't the type to go down without a fight, no matter what the situation applied. With a sigh, she closed her fading eyes, content with the two precious syllables that she hadn't heard in patterns.

Ebany would no longer refer to her as such, nor would the people of the city. Skapheddin was too worrisome to consider his own life, and those of whom he loved. Was that why her child had not returned for so long? Because of the lack of compassion, of true caring? Aileana couldn't even feel like a real mother anymore... The delicate and lovely creature in front of her seemed to be something created of her past, and of myth, not made of her blood. A cough racked her body, and the elderly elven woman threw an arm violently over her face to shield it. Her sickness disgusted her to the very core of the monarch's soul. Living with it was like dreaming a constant nightmare, covered in malicious things and bloody deeds. What infected her was a filth that even the most talented Thaumaturgists could not purge. The very thought that good could not defeat evil well enough to protect her mortal body, sent Aileana into a deep depression. She felt helpless, as Laroa had when her eyes had been removed.

But the Queen wasn't merely losing her sight. No, that could be replaced. She was losing her essence, her soul. One that still clutched meekly to a body worn ragged with disease. It had to hold on, with all its might... Listening to what her daughter was saying and actually comprehending it enclosed her whole mind. No longer could Aileana multitask, or think an intricate spider web of thoughts. Periodically, she nodded, indicating her understanding. The stories of lands far away carried the Queen off to places that she would never visit, and for that she was thankful. A last story, for a child of the heavens returning to the womb. "You did no wrong in leaving. All must do this at a time in their lives. It was the choices that you made while gone, that sent such misfortunate things." Pledging herself to what sounded like a Light Elven house was a deed that caused the noble to shift about slightly in her bed. Yet, it would be tolerable, if Laroa no longer held any connections to them.

"You had a daughter?" Aileana's eyes flew open with shock, momentarily burning with their old fire. So, she did understand the pain of losing a child. The deep ache that originated in one's bones when they felt their kin so untimely ripped away from them. But her own daughter had returned. Once again, the dark elf was nearly whole. Ebany held the one last unobtainable piece of her spirit. "Do not allow him escape unscathed after doing such things. Once you have regained your glory..." Pain erupted in her chest, causing the Esh'laheir to wince and inhale sharply. The hand of fate pressing, perhaps. "Find him, and do what you must. It is my last wish for your due revenge to be served." Sighing, she closed her eyes once more, and tried to draw enough breath for further words. The Queen would never know, exactly, what had happened to Laroa. Even then, she had doubts about the minor holes in the young woman's half-truth. Lying was a part of nobility, and something that the former Necromancer would benefit from with time and skill.

"When you left, Ebany was made heir to the throne. We had no other children. It seemed, for a while, that this wish would actually be carried out... He showed skill, indeed, yet never as much as I hoped you would. Foolishness inevitably prevailed, and poisoned his thoughts. Now, he serves a Human master in Frigid River, even had the gall to use our soldiers to overthrow their former government." Her tone ended bitterly, and she opened her eyes and looked over to intensify the effect. "There have recently been attempts on the lives of the Houses in the city. Their arguments have reached a boiling point, insinuating the creation of some sort of rebellion. Times have been increasingly darker, in Ethgan'tor..."