Legend of Ransera

Salt water runs through both of your veins. The magic in your rock is blood-magic. A kind of water, but not my water. Apologies to both.

Sivan had fallen silent after his compliment. Now he watched and opened his arcane eye as well, though he didn't delve too deeply into the gem without permission. It was some sort of thaumaturgy, which could involve any number of other disciplines.

When asked a direct question, "My father was born, lived, and died in Silfanore as far as I know. He never expressed any specific ties to Limánia, though he took me down to jump off the quays as a boy, to learn to swim."

You must teach Sivan to swim, friend-of-Sivan. He still splashes about like a baby seal.

"Well..." Sivan blushed. "Ah... blood magic is a complicated thing. I suppose I could summon a blood spirit to help you decipher the purpose of your gem, if you like." This was not an outcome to the meeting he had expected, but he did enjoy a magical mystery and if the Neptori ambassador did express a desire for his help, it would be doing his patriotic duty to aid him.

To Tyrann's sembling eye, the gem bloomed aetherically. While not a dragonshard, it did mimic some of those characteristics. Rather, it was an elemental lodestone—Earth aether made manifest—and keyed with blood. Haera had keyed it specifically to the blood of Arsoren Sol'Miaren before his deal with the God that had made him and several of his people the first Humans on Ransera. If he meditated upon it for some time with his Rune, he might intuit more nuance than she had let on, but for now, it seemed as though everything she had said of the bauble was true: it lit up for Arsoren Sol'Miaren—or whatever her strange blood matrix considered to be the essence of Tyrann's ancestor.

"We are all of us made of salt water," the alchemist attested. "Mixed up with all manner of things. Even the tiniest portion of our bodies hold salt water. I don't know that the Neptori are any more or less salt water than Hytori; to assume would likely be specious. There are any number of possible reasons why you might be less salt water given that it is your natural habitat and so it is all around you and accessible."

He spread his clever hands wide, always happy to share what he knew and admit ignorance where it was his to own.

At first, he was going to comment on the name Val'Istra, but then the envoy mentioned Velitar-aimo and he froze. He might have paled a shade or two, but shook his head slightly and smiled.

"Of course." He drew closer and indicated the trident. "If I may?"

You may.

That drew a chuckle out of Sivan. It was a point, though. He ought to have asked the living weapon rather than the one who bore it. Holding firmly to one of the tines, he pressed his thumb down on the point until he pierced its pad. Then he stepped back, brow furrowing in thought; he pressed the bead of blood into the palm of his hand and light exploded from the point of contact, pure white and sanguine, writhing out into what eventually became a series of concentric rings of scrivened sigils that revolved around Sivan.

His lips parted as if he were going to say something, his eyes—sclera, iris, pupil—were scarlet, and stared through Tyrann.

While Sivan's soul was only partly there, his body otherwise a fleshly statue, Eutriaina apparently felt the need to try similar phosphotechnics, and bands of aether, various shades of blue and green and silver and white, coruscated around them, although what looked like sigils were really just random designs. The spirit didn't know that language.

They disappeared just as quickly.

He's coming back, Eutriaina said quickly, quietly, apparently not wanting Sivan to know they were aping him.

The red drained out of Sivan's eyes even as the scant blood cupped in his palm seemed to distort out into the air, forming a circular plane from which then resolved into an elven shape. In its place was a bone-pale waif in a white dress. Blood covered most of that dress, most of her. It seemed to continually flow from wounds, though the stains didn't spread over new skin, new cloth, or anything else.

Her toes didn't quite touch the floor. Despite her dreadful mien, she didn't seem threatening, but rather a victim of violence.

Vérë, she declared. Licking her lips with gusto, she looked from Sivan to the gem, and only then did she glance at Eutriaina, to whom she nodded respectfully—they hummed in response, and then to Tyrann.

An afterthought: Oh, of course. You said I might be disturbing... Be. Not. Afraid.

Then she glanced back at Sivan for approval; she wasn't exactly practiced at reading Neptori for emotional response unless, of course, it was to measure the tide of their blood.

Sivan didn't name her; names held power. She was ghastly, to be sure, and her curious, slightly mischievous behavior at odds with that harrowing sight. However, she did not seem malicious or threatening, only disconcerting. Then again, Sivan didn't know what Tyrann feared.

Ohh...

Taking a cue from the diplomat, the top of her flopped like a rag doll into a sort of a bow. Though—probably?—incorporeal, her body, such as it was, seemed to be a collection of injuries. For a moment, she dangled as though broken at the waist. With a bit of struggle, she returned to an upright posture.

There was little difference between sclera and iris in her eyes: the blue was so pale as to be nearly white unless closely examined. Those eyes were dreadfully bloodshot. She smiled; no fangs bore she, but she looked as if she should be in such intense pain, so sweet a smile ought to be deceiving.

Oh, Salty One!
From the shores of the Blood Sea I come, I come,
To help rather than to harm... redrum.

...words are difficult.

She floated closer, being unaware of the concept of personal space. Her dainty fingers passed through his chest as they pulled the gem closer for inspection. He felt no ghostly chill, but his blood pumped harder, faster. Whether that was a function of whatever magic embodied her or just being anxious was unknown.

She leaned closer and closer, squinting at it, then she licked the stone.

Mmm... O Velitar, thy works are sweet.

That was, apparently, what amounted to a spiritual whisper. With a regretful sigh, she let the gem slide out of her grasp to fall back to Tyrann's chest. Floating backward, her form blurred into a glowing mist, and then reformed into the shape of a regal Hytori man in an heroic posture.

The gem shines for me when it recognizes me.

I am still me. The voice was masculine, though it became apparent the spirit was merely taking the shape of some elf. Me. Aye, still me. That means something different to me than it does to you, though.

Haera had intimated that blood was merely the blueprint of a person, that time and experience counted toward who they became as well. To Sivan, this man looked familiar, but he couldn't say how.

I know not his Name. I have only the memory of his blood. But you taste like him. The regal elf turned to Sivan. You taste more like him.

Musing for a moment, Sivan finally turned toward Tyrann.

"I wasn't even sure the Aimatikoi existed. Val'Istra... one of my best friends is a Val'Istra. I could ask him... if the Abbess did not tell you whose blood memory she crystalized for you." He paused, then turned to the spirit. "Spirit, do you mean to say that Lord Tyrann and I have a common—it would seem Hytori—ancestor?"

The elven warrior reached out and tapped the tip of his nose.

Boop.

The blood rushed to his face not because he was embarrassed, but apparently drawn to her touch—inasmuch as she was corporeal enough to touch anything—as iron filings to a lodestone. He rubbed his nose, looking to Tyrann.

"Well, I am honored to share blood with you. What a strange coincidence. Do you have any more questions for our friend?" It wasn't a great loss of energy to provide the bridge from her realm to theirs, but he had been in a hurry and she had demanded real blood. If she stayed for too long, he would grow woozy. The sacrifice didn't bother him, but he didn't want to appear weak before Tyrann. The Neptori treated him so familiarly, he wanted to feel as though he weren't too low to reciprocate.

The ghostly image of Arsoren Sol'Miaren winked coyly at the Neptori ambassador, then looked sharply at Sivan. A quick conversation passed between them, silent, and then the blood spirit disappeared.

"Well, I sent her to ask after his upcoming availability," Sivan said. He clasped his hands together. The tawdry topic of coin had been arranged without Sivan, and he had been given leave to release the artefact to Tyrann, so, "Have either of any more questions for me?"

We are content with this one. And we remember how to find you at need... A tendril of aether reached out toward Sivan like an octopus' arm seeking. It found something, and slid along it. Sivan put up his hand and Eutriaina found him. Then the tenuous bond dissipated.

"I summoned them, and taught them to follow the resonance left behind. If something should, Gods forbid, happen to you, I can find them. Or, I suppose, they can find me and lead me to you if you find yourself in distress." He spread his hands wide. The future was unknown to him, but anything was possible.

"Oh, and Eutriaina won't be conscious all of the time. So you needn't worry about keeping them entertained at all hours. The trident is now like a body for them, or a house, rather. They will dream sometimes. Others, go dormant if nothing excites their interest. They should sense your need, however, if need of them you have."

Time was blocked off for him to ensure his client was entirely pleased with his commission, and felt ready to take it home. He was at Tyrann's disposal. Although there were plenty of projects going that could use his attention, none were in a critical stage. Perhaps he would just take the rest of the day off once Tyrann was well pleased.