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Date Posted: 00:32:14 03/21/02 Thu
Author: Tristan
Subject: Not the fairest
In reply to: Corum & Yorik 's message, "Definitely rare" on 20:09:07 03/20/02 Wed

Tristan couldn’t help wondering if he was the only one uncomfortable in this place. His wide eyes took in the horrific scenes etched into the brilliantly detailed and colored tapestries, and he didn’t know whether to take Marz’s hand or draw his sword. Both gestures would indicate his nervousness, though, so he simply kept his hands calmly by his sides, and hoped none of the others noticed his fear and revulsion.

The first thing he noticed, aside from the myriad rape and torture images, was the strong, burning scent of magic. It permeated the entire building, seeping out from the walls and oozing from that horrific green statue of the horned demon at the other end of the room. It had a strangely wild, animalistic taste to it, like fire magic, or even sex magic. Very briefly, he thought it almost smelled like Marz when his power flared out of control, and the realization made him smile ever so slightly, though the tapestries and the statue still made him somewhat uneasy.

Before anyone knew what had happened, some sort of fireball suddenly erupted from the ceiling and almost incinerated Jeremy and Saras on the spot. Thankfully, the weepy genie didn’t seem at all bothered by the fire, though unfortunately Marz managed to toss a bit of water on Jeremy before he was completely consumed with flame. (He promised himself it was okay to think that, because the stupid kid really was all right.) He went and stood by Tia, returning Marz’s glare when he yelled at her. Naturally, the little thief wasn’t at all bothered by the ex-gang leader’s bossiness and simply decided to move right on and see what the other stone she was trying to pry out could do.

He watched her touch the dagger to the gem, his eyes shifting to the floor as the slab of marble slowly slid backwards, revealing an underground room of sorts. Curious, he left the wall he’d quickly backed against as per Marz’s earlier orders—and he’d done it without thinking, too. That was just…silly of him—and glanced cautiously within. He felt more than saw Marz come up behind him and ruffle his hair, bringing an automatic little smile to his face.

“Are we having fun yet?” he asked, before moving off to study a tapestry. He walked and moved with his usual cocky self-assuredness, and Tristan knew he was in his element now: the hotshot leader among adoring fans. Well, he thought bemusedly, maybe only one adoring fan and the rest really good friends. In any case, Tristan felt way too charmed by him when he was acting like this, so it was best if he stopped staring at him like an idiot or else he wouldn’t be of any use at all.

He jumped a little when Corum suddenly yelled from within the hole in the ground, saying something about a room with books. Tristan gave him a skeptical look, trying to see down where he was without actually putting his foot on the steps. “Marz said we should check the other doors first, though,” he admitted, even though he wondered if maybe that ugly Jade woman’s book might be down there.

In the end, Marz’s orders—suggestions, he corrected himself irritably—won out, and he wandered over toward the closest bronze door, this one set into the eastern wall. He forgot all about traps, but luckily when he put his hand on the immense diamond-etched doorknob, nothing happened, saved that it twisted a couple times before causing the door to swing open.

Tristan walked hesitantly in, his hand hovering over his sword hilt, but nothing jumped out immediately from the darkness. As he entered, however, a soft, bluish light seemed to pulse into life, flooding the whole room in its dim brilliance. Perched on the walls, leaning on shelves, or simply piled on the floor were artifacts of all kinds. A huge, golden urn with images of prancing satyrs and screaming nymphs, jewels and priceless crowns and scepters, miniature jade statues of awful gods bearing leers on their misshapen faces, and too many other bowls, cups, jars, books and stones to count at once.

“I think I found the relic room,” Tristan called over his shoulder, before turning his head again and continuing his examination of the place. A tall, upright mirror, propped up against the wall in the far corner caught his attention, and he made his way over to it, brushing away the dust and cobwebs from the surface and the bronze frame around it. He almost expected to see the demons from Argus’ world within its depth, but nothing save his own somber expression was there to stare back at him. Without thinking, he pushed a wayward hair out of his eyes and leaned a bit closer. Where had that ugly black smudge on his cheek come from…?

“Move over, peacock,” someone suddenly called, and he turned around to glance over at Rowan, who must have entered the room behind him. Tristan blushed and stepped back, embarrassed at being caught primping, and tried to act nonchalant. When no one was looking, though, he tried to rub at his cheek with his shoulder, but could only hope he’d gotten it clean again.

“There’s an inscription,” Rowan spoke up again, his finger moving just above several words embossed upon the bronze area above the mirror. “It’s in another language, though. I can’t…ahhh, there we are.” When he accidentally touched the words, they shimmered slightly before reforming into Common. “Speak, pilgrim, what you would see, and to thee it shall be granted… Well that’s rather trite. A sort of visionary trick to dupe the poor faithful, huh?”

“Aren’t you going to try it out?” Tristan asked, irritated by his presence as always. By now, some of the others had started to enter the room and gather around the mirror.

Rowan glanced at him, raising one eyebrow while smiling almost secretively. “If I were you, I would try to be a little nicer to me.”

Before he could get over his shock and collect himself enough to reply, the elf turned away and addressed the mirror. “All right then. Show me my sister, Laurel Goldleaf.”

His reflection shimmered dizzyingly, just as the bronze words above had done, and within seconds it cleared again to reveal Laurel, sitting at the small kitchen table in the west tower. Beside her sat Justin, his usual lewd look in his face. The mercenary’s lips moved, but no sound could be heard. However, they didn’t need to hear what was spoken, as the druidess immediately turned and made a quick gesture with her hands, an angry look on her face. Immediately, Justin’s beard began to turn green as if it were made of grass instead of hair, and tiny little flowers began to spring forth and rise up, pushing against his upper lip and nose…

After those few seconds, though, the image faded, becoming once again the reflection of whoever stood in front of it.

“Try it again,” Tristan suggested.

“All right. Mirror, show me…Ravin Rue and his team.”

Nothing happened.

“It didn’t work.”

“Brilliant observation, pussy cat,” Rowan muttered, running his fingertips along the frame again, but still the mirror remained clear. Finally, he stood back and shrugged. “Maybe it only works once per pilgrim.”

“I want to try it!” Jeremy shouted, but Tristan was still closest, and stepped in front of all the others.

“No,” he said quietly. “I want to try it.” A sudden wave of possibilities surged through him, and he thought of how wonderful it would feel to see his father’s face staring back at him again. Tears came abruptly to his eyes, and wiped them angrily away, annoyed by his sentimentality. He could try to see Odarin if he chose, and maybe decide once and for all if what he felt when he laid eyes upon the older dragon compared in any way to the feelings that engulfed him every time he looked at Marz. But when he finally opened his mouth, something completely different was waiting, hovering on his tongue, and before he stopped himself, he’d already said it.

“Show me Eremis of Moltare,” he said.

Immediately, the mirror began shimmering again, though this time it took much, much longer before the image began to clear again. What he saw made Tristan suck his breath in without realizing it. Eremis was there, as if he were right before them, lying naked on a bed. The wan expression on his face made him look…almost lost, like he’d once held something dear to himself but could no longer put his arms around it.

“Eremis,” Tristan whispered. Unthinkingly, he moved forward and pushed his hand against the glass, surprised by the warmth that began to emanate from within.

There was a flash of light, and his eyes closed automatically. Everything was dark, dark and quiet, and then he felt his body again, felt it in a way he had never known it before. It was weak and tired, although all the pain from his injury had disappeared as if healed by magic. His hands felt softer, and his skin felt strange, tingly, almost as though some one were running their fingers along his body, only from the inside out. One brief second ticked by, and his eyes snapped open—to stare directly at the blue ceiling above his head.

The next second he was hurtling back into nothing, coughing and gasping for breath on his knees on the floor of the rector room in the temple of the ruined city. His body convulsed automatically, as though instinctively missing something, something his brain was screaming for because it had felt it so sweetly, so blissfully perfect, for that one, single second…

“Oh god,” he managed to say, hissing through his teeth while trying to steady his breathing. “I felt him, I—He’s on drugs. Something…I don’t know what, but it’s…” He glanced up quickly at the mirror, but saw only his startled, wide-eyed self again.

“Where did he go?” he asked, reaching out to touch the glass again. “What happened?”

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