A Chronicle of Lies-Book 1- The Dark Sculptor (High Fantasy/Isekai)

Vincent grabbed a torn-up boot left over from his arrival and removed its lace. He attempted to use it to tie his hair into a ponytail, a feat he found rather tricky since his claws were less capable of fine handling than fingernails, and because the hair not only grew from the top of his head, but the back of his neck and between his wings as well. So, he gave up and tossed the shoelace aside. He stared at the goofy creature in the mirror, watching it reflect his own worries.

Thal'rin had kept his promise to let Vincent be, and his wife had done the same. Vincent found it hard to sleep the night he dined with them. The conversations he had with the High Channeler sent the wheels in his mind racing. He kept thinking about their exchange on the rooftop.

“Your mere presence alone merits acknowledgment because of your immunity to The Bane. The Lore of Contradictions only compounds that.”

He knew whatever Falius was, it would not let him be. Still, he had to fight it, he had to resist being dragged along, hoping that he would wake up soon.

Then there were the gaps in his memory, his amnesia. These voids frightened him. He thought having time to himself would give him a chance to probe his past and remember something. Instead, his past remained a tapestry riddled with missing pieces. He needed to do something about these voids. But what? If he was in a coma and his brain was damaged, what could he possibly do? Still, he kept probing in hopes that his efforts would stimulate something, reenergize some damaged pathways. His memory was broken, but he remembered enough to know that getting sucked into this world was dangerous for somebody like him.

But boredom, compounded with curiosity, was a powerful thing. For the next few days, though the room Thal'rin had him housed in was exotic, Vincent became stir crazy. He had absolutely nothing to do. With the alien metropolis outside and their conversation playing through his head again and again, he couldn’t stop his mind from wondering. What did Thal'rin do after their talk? What were these creatures planning? What was the Saedharu?

He wanted to know more about these people, he couldn’t help himself. He thirsted for the chance to venture onto the streets of Meldohv and dwell among its winged inhabitants. How could he not? It was an alien world, a realm pulled right out of a fantasy novel. Plus, he had no smartphones or tablets to distract him, no television, not even a book. The monotony was driving him up the wall.

Eventually, he broke. He couldn’t take the boredom and isolation anymore, especially not after his and Thal'rin's exchange. So, he told the High Channeler he would meet with the tuhli. Maybe he would inadvertently stumble onto an answer for his amnesia. If this dream had its own lore, then maybe something in it was responsible for taking his memories. The Stalker, perhaps? Either way, it was as he said: Once you learn the rules of a system, you can exploit them and make it do your bidding. That’s what engineering is. Maybe he could find some weakness in this world, some way to bend its rules.

Don’t lie, he thought to himself. You’re curious about them. You want to hear what they have to say.

He put on some strange footwear Thal'rin had lent to him. It resembled sandals with tall arches, yet the toe ends had loose-fitting, adjustable caps that were supposed to cover the claws. Thal’rin explained that city streets are harsh on them and having a claw “split” was one of the worst feelings imaginable. Apparently, their claws had quicks the same way dogs’ and cats’ claws did. Instead of sliding his foot into the sandals and having claws snag, he had to open the top completely, insert the foot directly onto the sole, close the top and buckle the caps over each claw.

He simultaneously loathed and looked forward to the thought of meeting with more of these creatures, especially since Thal'rin implicated him as a fulfillment of some asinine prophecy. He had a terrible feeling that when he went to speak with this group of historians, he would be setting events in motion, events that would pull him further into this lunacy. But the more he thought about avoiding the meeting, the more he knew he was delaying the inevitable. So, he was going to nip it in the bud. He was either going to find something useful or tell these people to back off.

Thal'rin came to get him shortly after he ate. Vincent had no idea why the High Channeler decided to be his escort when it was obvious that he had various duties to attend to. Perhaps the creature's attendance served to underscore how important the “Saedharu” actually was. The thought made Vincent blanch. He grabbed his hoodie and tied it around his waist before following Meldohv's leader downstairs. If he was going to venture out into the insanity of this world, he needed a mundane, Earthly talisman to rebuke it.

“Why aren't we covering ourselves?” Vincent wondered aloud as Thal'rin untethered his mount.

“Having me escort you from our prison is far more suspicious than escorting a guest from our home,” he said, “I host many foreigners, so while there may be curious onlookers, many will assume you are just another visitor from a distant land. Which is not untrue, in a manner.”

“Still, you could have a servant do it,” Vincent said, “like those who delivered my food.”

Thal'rin gave him a brief look of consideration. “I have assigned escorts in the past, but any escort assigned to someone with your...'weight' would require careful scrutiny. We have a few in mind but have not decided yet. As for servants...” He brushed some straw and dust off of his mount. “With exceptions, I do not use them at my home unless it is needed. At the risk of inundating you with philosophical pretentiousness, I would not feel it to be 'beneficial' for me to have hired servants in my home when both Bayont and I can take care of most the menial tasks ourselves. I know enough about myself to know that I would think of myself as a king if I had a maid or steward that I could call at whim. I find– oh why do you always do this? Must you always roll around in your stall?”

It took Vincent a moment to realize Thal'rin was talking to his beast as he stretched his wings over her flank and used them to sweep off the detritus her fur had collected.

“Dust and straw everywhere...” he said, “you are not a broom, why must you act like one? Vincent Cordell, I find–I am constantly battling...” he hesitated. “I must stop there before I bore you with an old one's ramblings about introspection. Speaking of which–” He glanced over his shoulder at Vincent, “–I never thought to ask how old you were. You mentioned your age at the hearing, but I forgot. I gather you’re young.”

“I don't have a frame of reference,” Vincent said, taken back by the question. “I don't have anything that I can use to convert Earth days into your days and give you an answer. They feel the same, but since this is a subjective estimation, I can't be sure.”

“Well...can you chance a guess?”

“Young adult, I guess. I think the average lifespan of people in my country is around 70 years. I am 25 years old.”

“So, not too young, not too old,” Thal'rin said, “you could be the age of one of my sons. Of course, as you said, one of your years could be ten of ours. Or it could be the other way around. I was simply curious.”

Vincent stood in an awkward silence as the Thal'rin continued to brush off his landrider while at the same time using his hands to fix some sort of banner around her neck. He shook his head softly at the sight and paced a few steps.

“Was it a rude question to ask?” Thal'rin wondered.

“What...no,” Vincent said, “it's just surreal to watch you people, the way you move, the way you're using your wings to do...things like that. It blows my mind. I feel like I'm tripping on acid.”

“'Blows your mind',” Thal’rin repeated curiously, “and 'tripping on acid.' I assume these are metaphors?”

“Y-yeah. My brain can't comprehend what it's seeing. So, it's 'blowing up', which is a phrase we use to describe exploding,” Vincent said, “acid is a slang for a type of drug that causes hallucinations. I don't know where 'tripping' came from. But when we say 'tripping on acid', it means we're just...we're going crazy under the influence of whatever drug we took.”

“I may add the first colorful phrase to my own vernacular,” Thal'rin said before continuing in a more serious tone, “you could always choose not to meet with the tuhli, if our people continue to disturb you.”

Vincent sighed, “I...need to see what kind of mess I'm being pulled into.”

Thal'rin seemed to consider these words as he finished securing the saddle around his mount. Then an unmistakable grin slowly stretched his snout and he began to grunt. It was a strange sound at first, as if the creature were trying to clear its throat. But the more he did it, the more Vincent realized he was hearing a stifled cackle. The High Channeler appeared to find his statement rather amusing and the more he thought about it, the less he could contain his snickering. There was a mischievous quality to the sound as Thal'rin broke down into a fit of wheezing laughter. He had to stop what he was doing and palm a hand over his forehead while using his wings to stabilize himself against his landrider's side.

“I think you will find,” he said between fits while wiping tears from his eyes, “that I can deeply empathize with that sentiment. As the Diac of this city, I always seem to be dragged into some 'mess'.”

After Thal’rin mounted his landrider, Vincent pulled himself up behind the High Channeler. As they pulled out into the streets, Vincent felt vertigo, caused by both the geode that dominated the sky, and the sea of wings they had to push through. Pedestrians moved out of the way and greeted Thal'rin, each giving Vincent more than a few curious glances. But it was as the High Channeler predicted, few asked questions about the guest he was escorting. After the initial disorientation passed, Vincent found himself drinking in the many sights. He had been in these streets a few days ago, had looked upon them from his room. But he couldn’t help but be entranced at all the strange activities.

Kids with pointed snouts played with centipedes the size of dogs. Construction workers were hollering instructions to a zerok, who held a thick beam of wood upright in its beak before lifting it up and passing it off to five workers. Bizarre creatures with wide eyes popped their heads out of the many decorative bushes in a store front and scattered when the shop owners slapped them with their wings. Parents carried their sleeping infants strapped to their backs, many of whom still had flesh covering their horns.

They passed a wading pool whose waters began to rise in spouts like fountains captured in slow motion. The columns branched impossibly outward to become trees, droplets flattening to become leaves. These watery creations would last for a few moments before crashing to the surface. Kids chased these things as they bloomed into different shapes and depicted vivid scenes. Needles of liquid arose like a brush and swayed as gentle blades of grass. A lone droplet of water buzzed about to harvest pollen. It crashed a moment later as a four-legged beast stood up and pranced gaily around the surface, splashing through several people.

Several more small figures arose and fell with a splash, but the winged youths seemed to be ignoring these. Instead, they gathered at the deep end, waiting for something. Finally, they cheered as the water gathered, feeding the largest display yet. A trembling crystalline cliff began to rise from the roiling surface and from its cleft spewed a small waterfall. Vincent could see several leaves cycling through the feature, indicating that this projection fed its own current. The youths clamored for this form and threw themselves into the cliff's liquid “walls”, where they were sucked into the fall's current and spewed out the top.

After passing many amazing sights, they came upon an enormous rectangular building that appeared to be built into the side of a considerable cliff. It was formed entirely from polished agate. Vincent's eyes became lost in the endless striations and veins which traced the bricks with earthy undertones.

“And...here we are,” Thal'rin said, “these are the city's archives.”

“How in the heck,” Vincent said with blunt amazement, “can you afford buildings like this? I can't even imagine how much stonework like this would cost.”

“And here I was thinking you would ask about the water garden,” Thal'rin mused as he pulled his mount into a lot for landriders.

“I don't know the uh...market price of 'magic' here,” Vincent said, “but cut and polished stone is always outrageously expensive, at least where I'm from.”

“Fortunately, the archives are old,” Thal'rin said, “most of the building was constructed long before I was ever born, so we did not inherit much of that cost. Besides the price of upkeep, the biggest investment the city has made in the archives in recent years has been to refurbish the lifts, which are powered by a high flowing spring in the face of the cliff.”

Vincent followed Thal'rin's lead as the High Channeler dismounted and passed his mount off to a tender. The entrance to the archives, though not overwhelming, still seemed to him like a gaping maw of some beast that clung to the cliff-side. Passers-by stopped to gawk at Thal'rin as he ascended the steps of the archives, Vincent in tow.

Vincent untied the hoodie around his waist and put it on. After careful consideration, he had allowed Thal'rin to send the jacket to a highly trusted tailor who cut holes in the hood for horns and slots in the back for wings. The work was competent, the cuts were sealed with a form of resin and thread so the edges wouldn’t fray. The wing slots had magnets which would automatically close together when it was put on. It felt strange to wear, but Vincent knew he needed a reminder of Earth as he ventured into the throat of madness. So he pulled up his hood and followed.

Am I dreaming? Salish wondered.

It was a question he often asked himself over the past few weeks. Nights of sleeplessness and hours of study in the archives caused the days to blend together, making it harder to tell reality from dreams. As he stood among his peers and superiors, waiting for the lift to descend, he kept expecting somebody to jostle him awake. He would raise his snout from the table to find his cheeks covered in charcoal and ink. This was not the real world. One did not propose the existence of fables and have that proposition proven correct.

“Fold your wings, child.” Locas whispered. Salish had been nervously tussling his mane with the peak of his wing. He stood upright and brought both of them in.

“Sorry,” he said, “is this really happening?”

“You tell us. You’re the only one who foretold such an eventuality.”

“I did not! The Saedharu was only a guess! I–”

“–Both of you be silent!” hissed one of the masters up front.

They all watched as the lift descended, its light chasing shadows across the ancient walls of the archives. Salish heard Master Arlock's voice echoing, speaking as if he were a tour guide to some ambassador. And he also heard the voice of the High Channeler, but no other voices accompanied them. Salish wondered for a moment if this had been one of Thal'rin's jokes. It was a little-known fact that he pulled quite a few elaborate pranks during his younger years. It was all a ploy, some strange diversion to lighten the tension everybody felt weighing down their shoulders. As the carriage neared their floor, the banter within went silent. The only chatter came from the hidden mechanism that drove the lift.

Thal'rin and Master Arlock slowly lowered into view. Arlock had his wings folded, back erect, and his hands behind his back. Thal'rin had his hands folded in front of himself, looking calm and dignified. In contrast, the third figure accompanying both of them was casually lounging against the bars of the carriage with his back to the tuhli, his blue wings splayed haphazardly along the railing. Though a simple hooded garment obscured his features, Salish could see tufts of green hair sticking through the ports from which the stranger's horns curled. His posture of laxness was completely at odds with the dignified poses held by both Thal'rin and Master Arlock.

The stranger, seeing that his escorts were facing the opposite direction, reluctantly pushed off the gate he had been leaning against and walked back toward the opposite side, where he turned around and resumed his lounging. It almost looked as if he were avoiding meeting the eyes of the tuhli as the carriage began to slow. All that could be seen of his face was the tip of his blue snout and a few strands of green hair. The rest was obscured by shadow. A few murmured at this blatant sign of slovenliness.

Thal'rin and Master Arlock waited for the gate to open, then stepped out onto the landing. With an air of reluctance, the third figure pushed off the back of the lift and followed, moving as if every step contained a trap. Then he raised his head and looked around at them. Salish's first impression was that Thal'rin had brought along some bizarre child, a youth that had the height of a man. His figure was lithe, bordering on emaciation. The clothes on his form hung loosely, even the strange, hooded garment he donned. His facial features seemed to imply a sort of “softness” and vulnerability, as if he had not yet fully matured. But perhaps that was a trick of the light because Salish began to notice the subtle nose ridges of a mature adult. Still, there was a frailty about his countenance, a frailty that contrasted with his severe gaze.

The light blue markings that encircled the figure's eyes only served to underscore their intensity. The channeler-light reflected dimly in his irises, whose color seemed to shift depending on the angle from which they were viewed. They went from a magenta, to blue, to showing undertones of green as if their substance were made of the same iridescent sheen found on the shells of stone-scrapers. They were eyes that did not fit the odd, almost comical form to which they belonged. Their circles contained hints of chaos. In addition to the severity of his gaze, the man's face seemed to be etched with a perpetual scowl.

“Masters of the Archive,” Thal'rin said as he stepped forward. He waited while the tuhli present gestured in respect. “I have brought the figure I spoke of. You have all been briefed on his story, what he can do, where he came from. Though we are all aware of the magnitude and risk in claiming one to be some fulfillment of the Lore of Contradictions, these all warrant consideration. He has agreed to meet with you, to answer any questions he can, as well as ask questions of his own. I introduce you to Vincent Cordell.”

It was the most bizarre, surreal introduction Salish had heard in his entire life. Master Arlock stepped forward and turned to the newcomer.

“Vincent Cordell” he said awkwardly, “I introduce you to the Masters of the Deep Archives. There are twenty here with us today, plus one young prodigy working with us. Our role is to delve into Falius' lost history and piece together our story. We are the caretakers of precious tomes and artifacts, priceless relics from dead civilizations. We try to remember the peoples that were lost to either the great calamities, war, or simply to the erosion of time. Each of us is honored to meet you. We have been informed that your people have a greeting?

At this, Vincent cocked a brow.

“If you would allow,” Arlock said, “I will introduce you to each of my peers one by one.”

Vincent didn’t say anything, yet his mouth parted in a look of complete and utter bafflement, looking as though a word had been frozen in mid-utterance on his lips. He looked thoroughly stuck in a state of perpetual disbelief.

Master Arlock called each tuhli by name and had them come up and greet Vincent, an action that involved grasping his hand and...shaking it? Though the gesture was one that was apparently native to the world he supposedly hailed from, Vincent seemed to find the experience just as strange and as uncomfortable as either of them did.

Salish anxiously waited for the moment Arlock would announce his name. For days, he had been fixated on Ayrlon's light. And for days, he had found himself delving into the Lore of Contradictions. Even so, when he suggested it foretold the arrival of the Paradox Incarnate, he meant it as more of a passing notion. A fascinating proposition, yes, but he never considered the possibility that somebody would take the suggestion seriously. It was childish, why would anybody do that? This could not be happening!

Others went before him and he soon realized, to his horror, Master Arlock did not plan on introducing him until the very end. Of course...he planned on introducing Salish last. At this, the young tuhli silently quailed, he did not want that kind of attention. He would go down in history as a fool! There were real, actual dangers threatening Admoran! Why cater to his delusional hypotheses?

No, he thought. If what Thal'rin had said about Vincent was true, then perhaps he really could be–

“–And now I want to introduce you to one last individual.” Salish stiffened as Master Arlock looked his way. “He is the young prodigy I spoke of. It was this young man that opened our eyes to the possibility of...well...” Arlock chuckled nervously, “he put forward the hypothesis that Ayrlon's Tear foretold the coming of the Saedharu...a startling theory, and one which we have been forced, more and more, to consider seriously.”

Salish wanted to cover his face in shame. This was the moment he had been dreading.

“Salish Rahkeel,” Master Arlock said, “would you come forward?”

Salish felt eyes boring into him as he walked over and extended a nervous hand. Now that he was closer and could see more details, he noticed that though Vincent looked “odd”, there was not a blemish on him. Everything seemed to have perfect symmetry. An odd detail to notice, yes, but his form was flawless. Vincent considered him for a silent moment, the look in his gaze inscrutable. Then he also extended his hand and like the others, returned Salish's greeting. His lips parted slightly as he whispered.

“Congratulations...I guess?” Vincent's face twisted slightly.

It was the first time he had spoken since he stepped off the lift. The voice, laced with hints of irony and sarcasm, was jarring to hear. It did not fit the form to which it belonged. While Salish wouldn’t exactly call it deep, it was far stouter than he had expected. It sounded older than the youthful countenance that spoke it, a few years older than Salish himself, perhaps.

Arlock waited for Salish to return to his spot, then he gestured back to the lift. “We have changed plans for our inquiries. We will use one of the auditoriums on the lower levels. Shall we?”

On the master's orders, they all filed after Vincent and Thal'rin into the carriage. Salish stepped across the threshold, choosing a spot that happened to be close to both of them. Nervous footsteps and the sounds of tails swishing filled the cage. Salish stole a curious glance at the supposed “Paradox”, who had his hood tucked down as if he wished not to be seen. Oddly, his shoulders seemed to be quaking for some reason. Salish moved to make room as more of the masters filed in, squeezing uncomfortably close to the High Channeler and Vincent, who appeared to be snickering and shaking his head. What did he find so funny?

The last of the masters filed into the lift and the gate slid shut. Somebody pulled on the ring and the carriage began its slow descent. The High Channeler noticed Vincent's laughter and mouthed something to him.

“W-what?” Vincent whispered.

“I was wondering what amused you.” Thal'rin said, his hushed tone sounding inquisitive.

Vincent shook his head before leaning toward the High Channeler and whispered, “You...I mean uh...'Arlock' had all these guys–” he gestured toward the tuhli, “–lined up like they're about to meet a god, like I'm the second coming of Christ.”

“Christ?” Thal’rin repeated.

“You all just finished playing up the whole 'Saedharu' character and now you're cramming us into the same elevator togeth–” the word “together”transformed into a husky outbreak of snickering before he could finish uttering it. He palmed his face and rubbed at his eyes, shoulders shaking.

He took a moment to control himself before he continued, speaking so quietly that Salish missed a few of his words. “–They don't know what to do with themselves,” he said, “they’re staring straight ahead, acting like we’re not here. They’re just shifting back and forth on their feet.”

Thal'rin said something, but he said it too quietly for Salish to hear.

“Well, yeah,” Vincent whispered between wheezes, “I know they are being polite, they’re staring straight ahead so they don't gawk at me, I get that and I appreciate it. But now their tails are sticking straight back. I have to watch myself, so I don't step on one. It’s just...” He grasped the tip of his snout. “I swear to god, it's like a minefield.”

Vincent now looked as though he were weeping. His snout was buried completely in his palms and he was quaking. Salish wondered if anybody else could hear it over the rattling of the carriage. Thal'rin looked the part for the role he played, his countenance was dignified, and he held himself straight. Vincent kept apologizing covertly while he got a hold of himself. This was nothing how Salish expected such a figure to act. But then again, what would he expect?

By the time the carriage came to the ninth level and stopped, Vincent managed to quell most of his snickering. He wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. The gate slid open and the masters disembarked. Vincent and Thal'rin tried to step off before Salish. However, the former's wing got caught on the header of the carriage. Instead of simply lowering it, he awkwardly bent his knees and crouched through the doorway as if the appendage were a tall package strapped to his back.

“I keep forgetting I can fold it,” Vincent said to the High Channeler's confused look.

The masters parted to allow them both through and then followed. Locas strayed behind so she could talk to Salish.

“I heard him laughing. What was that about?” she asked.

“He found it amusing that we were crowded into the same lift,” Salish said.

“That was it?” Locas sounded disappointed.

“Well...I guess it was kind of funny if you were in the back. Everybody was facing forward.” He saw the look of disbelief on Locas' countenance. “It...you would have to be there to see it.”

“I think he may be a charismatic,” she said.

“I...” Salish had not thought of that. But now that Locas mentioned it, he noticed that Vincent did appear to have some sort of gravitas to him. Nobody knew what gave charismatics their pull. Some suggested pheromones, but pheromones are usually inherited. Charismatics did not pass on their traits to their children.

He watched Master Arlock give Vincent a small tour as they walked.

“That makes sense,” he said, “I have never met a charismatic before. But I see what you mean. He draws the eyes. Other than that, he certainly doesn't act like...well, like what I imagined the Paradox Incarnate to act.”

“Acts?” Locas repeated, “he has hardly said a word.”

“He was talking to the High Channeler. He referred to the Saedharu as 'this Saedharu character'. You had to hear his tone, it was completely dismissive, almost derisive, as if he found the notion of The Paradox Incarnate as ridiculous as we do.”

Locas said nothing.

“What do you think of his appearance?”

Locas seemed to consider it for a moment. “I don’t know, he has not removed that hood of his.”

Vincent drifted behind as Thal'rin and Master Arlock got into a discussion. His attention was drawn to one of the pots of elen salts that were placed at regular intervals along the aisles. Both the High Channeler and Master Arlock must have seen that he left their side, but they didn't seem to mind. All the other masters formed a rather conspicuous curve away from him as they passed him by. Salish and Locas exchanged brief looks.

“Is there a question on your mind uh...Vincent Cordell?” the elder said.

Vincent looked up at them both, then back at the pot. “Is this some sort of desiccant?” he asked, “for controlling the humidity?”

“Y-yes,” Locas said, “we use elen salts to prevent deterioration and mold growth in our scrolls and books. We live next to an ocean, so we have to stir the pots every day and change them every four.”

“I thought you had devices that could repel water,” Vincent said, tracing a finger around the pot.

“I’m not an aluntai,” Salish said, “but I have heard humidity is far trickier to repel than rain or tangible water.”

Vincent nodded and then he looked toward the section of wall where the air ducts came in. “Earlier, he was telling me you have some sort of bellows pumping air through the entire building,” he said, referring to Master Arlock, “if you could find a way to take some coiled pipes, copper maybe, and cool them by pumping cool water through them or by using some sort of...'magic' I guess, you could have a series of them running along your ventilation. They would extract the humidity from the air through condensation. Then you could have a trough gather the condensed moisture and whisk it away.”

It took a moment for Salish to figure out what he was saying, but then he was stunned at the suggestion, it was ingenious. How had they never thought of something like that? Hadn't it been observed that moisture gathers on cold objects? If they could devise some sort of system to retrofit the entire archives with, it could possibly reduce the cost of maintenance. That was assuming such a system was actually cheaper to run and maintain. But still, the idea of using condensation as a means of extracting humidity simply floored him.

“The only problem is,” Vincent continued, though he almost seemed to be talking to himself rather than to them. “if you wanted something truly efficient, I think you would have to find a way to heat the air after it discharges anyway, since warm air carries more humidity, if I remember it right. Maybe it doesn't matter for a building this size.” He looked toward the front. “Well, looks like my 'chaperones' have noticed I’m lagging behind. Your name is...Salish, right?”

“Y-yes?” Salish said.

“Let me get your autograph sometime,” Vincent said, “I can say I met the guy who foretold the Saedharu's arrival.”

After he left, Salish turned to Locas, “Tell me, do you think I should feel slighted or flattered?”

“I am still wondering if this is real.”

“So am I. But what do you think of his idea? About using condensation as a means to extract moisture from the air! I wonder if anybody has tried such a thing before, have you heard of any such devices mentioned in your readings?”

“I think it has merit,” Locas acknowledged, “however we are not lacking in elen salt.”

“True, but desiccants have their disadvantages,” Salish said, growing excited, “if you were to pump already dry air into the archives, it could dry out any unwanted moisture while preventing new moisture from entering. Also–”

“–He has stopped again,” Locas nodded forward.

Vincent seemed to be intrigued by a display of labeled liacyte samples. More specifically, several clusters of raw “listener” samples. He was mesmerized by the way they reacted to Admoran's Pulse, the invisible “heartbeat” that interacted with most artificial conduits. The blue minerals were in a constant state of transformation, growth and regrowth. The tuhli gathered around his back in a semicircle.

“Ah...” Master Arlock said, “these are samples of raw liacyte. We have a few more displays like this on the upper floors, but this is what our aluntai use to craft artificial conduits. The one you are looking at is called a 'listener'. We keep them grouped in wide plates rather than bowls. Otherwise, they have a tendency to grind their neighbors apart due to their transformations, so they need that space to move.”

“What…do you mean they grind themselves apart?” Vincent asked. 

“They shift constantly,” Arlock said, “at any given moment, some crystals are bigger, while some are smaller. The smaller crystals naturally fall into the gaps between their neighbors. Some get trapped. But when their cycle shifts and they begin to grow, they often crack and break down. Mining them is often very hazardous for this very reason.”   

He opened the cabinet and withdrew one of the morphing blue clusters and offered it to Vincent.

“Uh...” Vincent pulled his sleeves over his hands as if to protect them and took it.

“It won’t hurt you,” Arlock insisted, “it can just be tricky to hold on to.”

“It is not that. I accidentally knocked one of these over at his place,” he nodded sideways toward Thal'rin, “I went to pick it up and it ended up triggering...well, it did this.”

Sighing, he rolled back his sleeve and grasped the listener in his palm. As the crystal morphed, a transformation began to take place at the point of contact. A ripple of darkness spread from Vincent’s palm, a blue so deep it might as well have been night. As the wave spread, it was followed by light motes that bloomed in luminescent groups. The transformation continued up his sleeve. Immediately, the stunned silence of the onlooking tuhli was filled with the sounds of scratching charcoal and frantic scribbling. The transformation reappeared a few moments later, pouring midnight and cosmos across Vincent’ wings and snout. Then it began to spill down his tail, wrapping it with constellations. 

“It is triggered by raw liacyte then,” Thal'rin scratched his whiskers, “intriguing.”

“I guess you all are going to tell me what all this…” he gestured his face, “means.”