What is this place? The size was an impossible thing to the width of the exterior, yet here it was, before him. The roof so high he saw only darkness, and floor, so sleek and cold. Unreal in its entirety.
He was made mindless to it. Utterly so.
Steps echoed about the floor. He startled. Instinct took over, and he rolled to a nearer stand. Within the blue box, he noticed, a silver ring was placed inside. That mattered little to him, as soon, a figure, following one a many such paths of blue light emerged.
This one, dark hair, stranded white wore a coat of noctis black, blue so black it could be nothing else. This man, slow of motion, held a dagger. His eyes saw this, and he saw him reach to one such mirror box glowing blue.
He reached in with the dagger, depositing the weapon as though the matter solid was but a wall of water. Merrin, in his curiosity, strained in from his side. Hand slapped glass, resisted. So only he can take and put things in! Merrin grew aware that this was the mine caster.
All evidence pointed to the singular truth.
The slow caster awaited the glass a moment, but turned after some time. Merrin waited, then deemed the likely useful time had passed. He left with the lightened path, and Merrin saw this as the sole means of navigation through the dark halls.
Where exactly will I find money?
Things had taken a particular unforeseen turn for him. How was he to search through such an extension? He was not of multiform. How was this going to happen?
There is a riddle…Should I tell it to you? A man asked, then smiled, That was it…—Words of an Aspirant as recorded by Princess Ivory.
Merrin had waited enough—now was action. He propped himself, eyes roaming the dark vastness, dreamily lit by trails of blue. Frostblue. The lack of knowledge about the place was unnerving. The darkness was unknown. What was in it? Merrin imagined in all eventuality, there were Excubitors there, watching him.
Cold broke through his person.
But I can't be sure.
The absence of proof does not mean the presence of falsity. His thoughts whispered, and he heaved a calming breath.
Almighty, help me. Merrin thought, then took up the Ashman ways. The dark was home to an Ashman, the silence was their calm. Even if this tenebrosity was made unnatural—caster means, he would still steer it.
He closed his eyes and delved into the wealth of experience an Ashman had afforded him. Gently, he tapped his fingers on the sleek face of the ground. The muffled thud sounded, and Merrin listened.
Sound travelled. This was known. Things and objects walled against this sounds—beasts, normal ones, unlike the fallen, used this means. They made sounds to track, to see in the darkness. Ashmen had learned this.
Not that Merrin needed the sound to see this darkness; no, he needed to know it. Where was what? The size of it, shape. All this knowledge would bring a procession of thoughts that may lead to money.
He tapped again and listened. Soon, he discovered the flow of sounds washing from his point. It was like a wave, flowing outwards in calm ripples. He tapped again, and the current stirred. Again, he tapped. Again, the sound flowed.
The depth of sensitivity to sound was something honed by all Ashmen. At a young age, all were sent into the wild. Against the darkness of mist and rain. They had to survive, thrive, hunt, and return. This taught many and killed more. Merrin was the former. He learned a great many traits from this.
Often, he found it strange how reliant on the lamps lowlanders were.
Merrin opened his eyes. Discovered. A smile curled over his face. Somewhere at little distance was something. A four-legged hard thing. He thought it a table. Luckily, it was there the money was.
In the relief of the possible acquisition, Merrin deliberated how good a trait this was. Sound finding. Sadly, outside these waxed walls, silence was a rarity. He calmed the thoughts and crawled on.
For once, he did not bother with the world's heat.
He passed by many stands, blue light shone from within, and he saw that things floated in these glass squares. Why though? There was one, merely a sphere of silver sheen. Surely, they had value to be kept in such extravagant ways.
Or maybe that's just how they do things
Realization of the extensive knowledge on the whys and hows of the lowland surged foreign enough. He envisioned, heard stories back then, but here, living amongst. A difference ruled prevalent. An experience unrestricted by the spoken words of a limited mind. He stopped and softly tapped on a stand. The sound waved out, rippling like a sporadic lake. He heard the shapes around. From the slight bounces of tunes, the obstruction of Resonance, he made the forms in his mind.
This created a conclusion; there was no human life around. Good. But Merrin had the alertness stemming from Caster fear. Means to escape the senses had to exist. He had to trust in the ingenuity created by access to such power. Almighty power. There was a great chance of discovery. So, in tandem with the sound finding, he watched for men.
This was all he could do. For now, at least. He reminded himself.
Then, the sight of what he sought blurred into attention. Centered there, amid unknown vastness, was a desk. A four-legged dark thing boarded by distant stands. A path of blue crisscrossed beneath it—not leading to it. The table seemed kept in the center.
A command post, perhaps.
Merrin stood, probing. After a self-ascertained moment had passed, he shuffled close, eyes shifting to the array spread over the table. There, sheets, strange golden things sprinkled over. He found drab froststones. And for a moment, the notion of appropriation led. All he had to do was refuel the force from himself. But, that was a wrongness in consideration. Taking them opened him to investigation, discovery…Death.
He shuddered but reined in the further exaggeration of motion. This brought a calmness within—a sweet wash of heightened awareness of which he roamed the table with. A moment later, he spotted it. A black pouch, siding a stack of white sheets. Those wrote things, he guessed, but as an Ashman, he did know a great deal many things, but reading…That trait outran him. At least, this language did.
He heard something.
Merrin, in a flash, took the pouch and rolled by the nearest stand. He peeked out, awaiting the noise maker. There was none. As time passed and sweat trailed down his brow, he saw nothing. And this brought the uncertainty of whether that was an imagined echo or one of trueness.
I can't be sure…He resisted sound finding. The trait, as good as it was, was a double-blade. As he could find others, same could they do to him. So, in the absence of options, he waited.
And so he did.
It is by an in-depth understanding that one must examine the nature of religion and the means by which it affects Tenecity. It is a great, useful tool. It made strength and weakness. Many forced themselves into slavery for it, and many found salvation from it. Now, I invite the contemplation of the nature of Preservation's religion—Collective analysis of Preservation. Author unknown.
How long had he waited? Merrin pondered, breathing one with the silence of the hall. Here he remained, awaiting the phantom thing that produced noise. He had heard. He knew he had. But as moments passed and the certainty of discovery grew more…certain, his mind invited the contemplation of fault within the determined cause.
What if he heard nothing and instead now locked himself in positional stagnation? What if now, the outside Excubitors discovered his high stone and quested for him? What if What if?
Such thoughts were a tool of distraction. He wanted calmness, but his situation screamed noisier than any. Merrin heaved a breath—a silent one.
He thought. I need to leave now. No point in being here. The Excubitor. The Mine Caster. I can be found.
Cold washed him, and in an instant, faster than thought processed, Merrin rolled into a Stand. Taking a stance hidden beside the small pillar. Fear had taken him. He knew this as closely as he knew his own awareness.
Someone is here…Someone is watching me.
He stifled a gasp. How did that happen? He was calm, silent, observant. He listened to the mildest of sounds, to the smallest shifts in the darkness. Yet, somehow, someone had found him.
The caster? He disregarded the notion. The caster, surely, was a potentiality, but Merrin felt otherwise. This person, whoever he was, toyed with him. For long now, the stranger was aware of his intrusion in the hall, but remained hidden. Even if that was contrary to the case, the thing had found him but chose secrecy.
That said something.