Choromilenka: Big Trouble in the Coral City

Chapter 4 of A Journey Most Long

Choromilenka was one of Cymede's famous "coral cities", built in ancient times with the help of a terrestrial, coral-building species known as the Gomtu. The insectoid Gomtu were, if the Empyreal histories were accurate, bred and magically adapted to create giant, human-habitable structures instead of their own. The result was a flowing, asymmetrical, off-white mess of densely-packed structures. Stalagmitic towers occasionally bulged into huge pod-like, multi-room structures. Above ground, these towers were connected by a web of open-air catwalks. The process of guiding the Gomtu was clearly not perfect, and irregularities were common: streets would spiral into random dead-ends; some staircases went nowhere; rooms never held to strict standards of size or shape. The irregular streets made navigation & directions difficult; landmarks were used heavily to identify streets while any stores or other service-providers were well-marked. Locals did their best to decorate the off-whites with paint, wall rugs and statue niches, but Cholmedrine found the brightness of the place, combined with the bright, Cymedian Aurora, headache-inducing.
As such, he made his way directly (as directly as Choromilenkan streets allowed) to his Rebel contact. S'vectra Soth, an Arakh-blooded human whom Cholm called Mister Kittyface, would be found at his establishment. It was, of course, not a starmap store; such things were illegal as Voidwalking was banned by the Daybreak Empire, forcing interplanar travelers to use only Empyreal Godpaths. The business was instead fronted by an alchemical speakeasy. He would stay in the coral city as long as it took Mister Kittyface to make the maps connecting Silur to Waking Materia, then be on his way.
S'vectra Soth's was a fine establishment. Alchemical speakeasies were the upper class equivalent of taverns on Cymede; while ales and wines were certainly available, mere drunkenness was considered bland and passé in light of the myriad mental effects available to those with money to spend. Walls were covered in colourful artwork from across the GECR, providing pleasant stimulation to counter the ubiquitous off-whites of the coral city. The undulating, irregular Choromilenkan ceilings were tall.
Cholm spotted his mark in the usual place, standing vigilant on a semicircular, one-and-a-half floor landing overlooking the sitting area. This wasn't merely a security measure; the man seemed to take genuine pleasure in people-watching from a high place.
The proprietor spoke as Cholm approached, not taking his eyes off the light afternoon crowd below. "Ahh, a stray cloud of smoke blows into my establishment." S'vectra Soth spoke in a low, smoothe timbre. "Let us hope, for the sake of my clientele, it mixes favourably with my scents."
"Mister Kittyface," Cholm grunted, ignoring the jab. While mostly Meranthic human, S'vectra Soth had no small amount of Arakh blood in him as well, giving his facial features a vaguely leonine impression. Rather than a mane, however, his dark hair was close-cropped, oiled and finely-combed. This made him a rare sight in this planar region: Arakh were mostly found in the Silurian Eighth, including as far as Waking Materia. All the more reason to trust S'vectra's maps of the region.
"How can I be of assistance, Brown-Cliff-Hare?"
"Feeling exotic today. Like, really exotic."
"Ohhh?"
"Yeah. Something... Briny. Stormy. Primitive."
"A challenging profile," S'vectra Soth murmured. "I'm afraid I have nothing of the sort out front. You'll have to follow me."
"Much obliged."
The proprieter nodded to a smartly-dressed woman, who seemed to be Soth's maître d'hôtel. She took his place at the front landing. He then beckoned Cholm through a curtain in the back. They passed through one hallway that was nothing but small, square, labeled drawers from floor to ceiling. Hundreds of smells intermingled, creating a sensory gestalt to shame any tea house. A right turn down a similar hallway brought them to a modest laboratory, around which a few chemists buzzed, taking notes and doing titrations.
"My office," S'vectra Soth said, opening an innocuous door at the end and politely gesturing Cholm inside.
The closed door did little to muffle the clink of flasks and shouted readings. "Loud in here." Cholm muttered.
"One would hate to hate to be an eavesdropper in such a racket," Soth replied.
"True."

S'vectra Soth's Alchemical Speakasy.

---

The Arakh sat behind his expansive, wooden desk. "May I offer you something?" He asked, gesturing to a few multicolored, many-shaped bottles on a rack behind his head.
"I'm good thanks." Cholm remained standing, glancing at the knicknacks covering his host's curved office walls, souvenirs from his myriad planar travels.
"Forgive my brusqueness, Brown-Cliff-Hare. Cymede is entering its Winter years and business is seeing its usual rise. Let us talk business."
Cholm's eyes rested on a model schooner, held in a clear wine bottle. He picked it up, inspected it for a moment, then turned. "You heard of a plane called Waking Materia?"
Despite his demureness, S'vectra Soth's laugh was wide-mouthed, revealing prominent canines. "Have I heard of Waking Materia," he murmured. "Hearing of Waking Materia is not the issue, my dear Hare. It's deciding what you hear is true or false. At any rate, it's a place to be avoided. A world haunted by its deeply troubled past. Very dangerous. You should choose somewhere else."
"Ain't my choice," Cholm replied, replacing the trinket.
Soth's eyebrows raised. "A calling from On High? And here I thought there had been a... falling out." Cholm just grimaced at that. "Very well, from Silur I assume? It shall be so. Return here tomorrow evening."
"I owe you anything up front?"
"Of course not. As for compensation, materials and hours spent will suffice."
"Mighty kind."
"We serve the Rebellion, sir. Think no more of it."
"I won't then."
"Hm. Yes well." S'vectra Soth stood up. "Unless you've changed your mind about that drink, I now have work to do..."
Cholm grunted. "I'll see myself out. Good to see you again, Mister Kittyface."
Soth's smile was toothy. "Likewise, my friend."

Cholm almost felt depressed at how smoothly things were going. Pessimism began to invade his thoughts. It felt like Rebellion was sending him away. A washed up old vagrant, shunted off to the worst hellhole in Rebel space. Of course it's going smoothly: who would bother raising a finger to stop what amounted to a retirement? The Crux was a different place now; most of the warring had moved from the streets to the offices and banks. And you expected an exhilirating return to the glory days?
His musings were interrupted by the realization that things were quieter than they ought to be. Could it be? His hand entered his jacket. He began peeking around corners, taking random a path as possible.
Cholm was almost overjoyed when, after doubling back slightly, he heard the muffled shout of "There! Up ahead!" in his direction. From a curving side-street emerged three well-armed men. The lead one pointed his cutlass at Cholm. "You! Stop!"

Adrenaline surging, Cholm let out a mad chuckle. His hand emerged from his jacket, revealing a fan of throwing daggers. The soldiers shouted as the blades were flung into their midst. A cry of pain from one of them, and they disappeared smartly around the corner to regroup. Cholm did the same.
"That's right Cholmedrine you bastard, you always were an optimist at heart." He grunted as he shot a hand into his right breast pocket. "You never really believed all that ugly defeatism. Never really sat that heavy on your shoulders..." More grunting as he switched to the jacket's left side. "You were just aimless. Unmotivated. Resentful. But fact is —" he froze for a moment, eyes wide, but lapsed into a look of disappointment. He continued rummaging. "... Fact is, that ain't your way." His pipe was now at an determined, upright position, between bared teeth.
The game is afoot now!

---

There's a simple reason why combat magic is nigh unheard of: concentration. One moulds the Arcane Paraecologies not with the grip of a physical hand but with the caress of an ethereal one, projecting one's consciousness into a dimension of raw potentiality. One must handle the Luminiferous Æther as lightly as one would the most delicate butterfly feather. Treated too roughly, the energies dissipate, fleeing like startled animals. For most, it takes decades of practiced meditation to cast even a simple spell in perfect silence. To do so with distractions is nearly impossible. Nearly.
Cholmedrine let out a victorious shout as his hand finally wrapped around a familiar object, smooth, rectangular and wooden, the size of a small wallet. He hurriedly emptied the ashes from his pipe, flicked off a stopper from the wooden container, and emptied a small mount of pinkish power into the pipe. In a millionfold-practiced movement, he drew a match, struck it, lit the powder, and inhaled heavily.
At first, there is disconnection. An easing of the chased-rabbit paranoia that electrified his brain all hours of the day. Roots of thought and sensation that kept him anchored to his physical reality unwound themselves, leaving the feeling of a weight being lifted. Floating on this rarely-felt serenity, his consciousness took little cajoling to escape its shell. Mundane eyes would have seen nothing amiss (aside from a substantial change in Cholm's demeanour) ; eyes sensitive to the Paraecologies would see a second, more amorphous image of the traveler imposed on the Material one, flickering and ebbing, matching his movements only approximately.
No time to waste. Oblivious to all else, Cholmedrine reached out with his third hand to caress an appropriate-sized wisp of Luminiferous Æther. Gently, lovingly, his twenty, thirty, fifty disembodied fingers danced around the wisp, never quite touching it, instead guiding it into a dense sphere, like a pod of dolphins containing a school of fish. Some esoteric signal told him the spell was ready. He closed his fingers (his real ones) around the ball of energy, gifting it Material existence.
His legs suffused with a careful grace, he stepped out from the alleyway, carrying with him a now bright, ebbing, crackling ball of white energy. Unhurried, he stood for a moment to behold his quarry. They were, he wasn't surprised to note, well-armed and bearing no sign of affiliation. Two of the three remained behind their makeshift garrisons, crossbows trained. The third had drawn his cutlass and was beginning to close the distance, crouched expertly into a 'soldier's sprint' so as not to obstruct the view of the crossbowmen. Cholm was able to duck out of the way as, with a loud snap of catgut and wood, two bolts were flung in his direction, passing by him as if in slow motion.
In response, Cholm flung the moulded ball of Aurora. Even as he began the maneuver, the sensitive creation started to destabilize, sending jolts up his arm. No matter. As the thing flew it grew blindingly bright. Cholm ducked back around the corner. A dense cloud of light rays snaked their way from the orb in all directions, seeking connection. They found it. Even before the light landed the ambushers began to scream in pain as the rays traced burning, dendritic patches across their skin. When the ball landed, chaos followed. The screams of the solders were drowned out by the keening of raw energy. The ball darted about for a brief moment like a mouse on caffiene, scorching everything in its path, before finally eruping into a thousand undulating, snakelike rays of light, spreading outward across every surface.
Silence followed, accompanied only by the dying wheezes of the cutlass-bearing soldier. Cholm stepped out again, this time drawing his kukri, and made his way toward the bodies.
He was too late in recognizing the familiar snap that came from behind. An abrupt force to his shoulder, as if he had been shoved. He caught a glimpse of the arrow head before the pain arrived. He screamed. The delicate serenity of the pink powder took flight, leaving him once again a chased hare. He turned, fighting back the panic and exhaustion now sweeping over him.

First, there is disconnection.

---

Two more soldiers now emerged from a side alley, some thirty metres behind. The one in front — a tall, heavyset male — carried a tower shield and broadsword. Behind him, a woman carrying a traditional longbow was knocking back a second arrow. Cholm raised his kukri with his good arm. There would be no flight here. He was in no condition to outrun the two and the alleyways left straight lines of sight for the archer. One good feint past the tower shield and he could catch the swordsman beneath the chin or arm, then he'd have to try his luck with the archer. Begin the sprint when she commits to her shot—
Dismay washed over Cholm as he noticed a third soldier behind them. Another female, tall and solidly-built. Perhaps it was the blood loss speaking, but there was something about her that almost seemed familiar—
In an almost untracable blur, third soldier drove the end of her pommel into the archer's temple. She crumpled. The swordsman was fast to react, but not fast enough. In the same fluid motion, the assailant brought her longsword down in a heavy arch, crunching through armor to connect with the man's sword arm at the shoulder. He drove the frame of his shield into her face, bloodying her nose, but this only enraged her. She shoved aside his shield with her free hand, drove the forehead of her helm into his own nose and, as he reeled backward, carved a horizontal slash across his throat. He knelt to the ground, wheezing, eyes bulging, using his good hand to grip the wound. He didn't suffer long. She drew a knife from a bandolier about her chest and knelt before him. She found the correct spot this time, inserted the knife, and it was over.
Marit stood for a moment, face unreadable. She resheathed her weapons, touched her nose gingerly and, with a wince of pain, blew some blood from it. One long breath and, finally, she looked at Cholmedrine, eyes veiled.
"You," she breathed.

---

Nira-Nonn.

---

"M—Mercy," was all Cholm could manage, dropping his kukri. "Mercy." Half-delirious, he wasn't positive whether Marit had come, for some inexplicable reason, to kill all of them. At least with his one-time travel partner, begging seemed viable.
Marit had loped over, and now cast her shadow over the now sitting Cholm. He attempted to look pathetic, lolling his head about dramatically. Finally it dawned that he was to expected to speak. "The pain, I have something for the... the pain. For both of us."
A torturously long pause. Then: "Where?"
"Left side, three down, three sideways."
"What?"
"My jacket. Need you to get it for me. Can't see straight right now. Left side, three down, three sideways."
"Tariel's taint." Marit spat another glob of blood. "This had better be good." She navigated her way to the pocket as instructed, and pulled out a tiny sack. She promptly opened it, gave it a scan and a sniff. She glanced down at Cholm, particularly the object still managing to hang limply from his mouth. "And this is gonna go in...?"
"My pipe. Yes."
She snatched the tastelessly large, spiraling thing from him. During their hike through the Godpath he had described it as coming from an an aquatic creature called a narwhal, creatures not found in Marit's ocean-bereft home plane. She tapped a small mound of the mustard-yellow powder into the pipe.
"That's more than eno—"
"Shut up."
"Okay."
She lit the powder and inhaled. A short but rapid series of expressions crossed her face, beginning with curiosity, then surprise, then pain. By some miracle she managed to exhale the yellow smoke without descending into a coughing fit, but her now blindingly teary eyes made clear her discomfort as she brought the pipe to Cholm. Managing to stay deadpan, he took a few dainty nips from the pipe.
"Thank you."
Marit just grunted, scanning the scene with blinking eyes.
Cholm spoke first. "We gotta check these guys. I need to know where they're from."
"No. There could be more coming. We're leaving."
"You can if you like. If you're with me then we're checking packs, pockets, anything that holds something't might identitfy them." Cholm began awkwardly wrestling the boots off one of the bodies.

"Identif— Just how many people are you in trouble with, you bastard?"
Cholm shot the warrior a scowl. Over that scowl were flashes of guilt and a bit of head-math. He resumed undressing the corpse. "Ain't no need to answer that. Not until I get some answers from you anyhow."
"From me?!" Marit let out a bitter, ironic laugh, tinged with its characteristic wheeze. "I just saved your dumb ass and you're gonna interrogate me?!"
"That's just the thing," Colm muttered. "You trying to tell me you're a charity case all of a sudden?" He had finished fishing through the second boot and moved on to the pants.
"Nobody said this was free, you oaf. I've been on the clock for five minutes now."
"Five minutes! You just got here."
"I was... deliberating."
"Deliberating?!"
"You look poor. I don't accept I.O.U.s. Had to think on it."
"Wench!" Cholm barked.
"Criminal!" Marit spat back.
"You gonna help or not?" Cholm demanded.
Marit bared her teeth in a frustrated snarl. "I will get what you owe me and I will get an explanation for this."
Cholm grunted, not turning from his rummaging. "We'll discuss what's owed and you'll get your explanation."
"My rate. Owed. Story. Owed."
Cholm growled angrily, his pipe dancing about in his teeth. "Fine!" Annoyed as he was about his recent track record, he didn't have the capacity to barter. The powdered Fleur-Saint-Klostra was doing its job and his mind was setting aside the pain, but his head was still spinning. It was a struggle to focus his thoughts.
Marit knelt before the body of the one of the crossbowmen, which was curled into a foetal position, She rolled him over face-up, taking a moment to inspect the dark blue, dendritic patterns covering his skin. She had seen victims of weaponized magic before, but never anything like this, and never from a street brawl: deaths by magic were almost wholly from assassinations, certamen duels or mass warfare. She'd get answers about this too, but now was not the time. She turned to Cholm.
"Listen. Do you know somewhere safe? Properly safe?"
Cholm scowled. That was a more difficult question than it was ten minutes ago. "I think so."
"Then get there. I'll see what I can find here."
"You..." Cholm was breathing heavily, ".... don't know what you're looking for."
"I've done this more than you realize, and you're in no condition to search for anything."
"I don't trust you."
"You're going to be unconscious in a few minutes. How does that sound for testing my trustworthiness?"
"I've had worse."
"Men are such fucking imbeciles. I'm telling you there's nothing on this one."
"Arms," Cholm breathed. "Check the arms. Tattoos."
Teeth bared, Marit jogged up the corpse's sleeves. Nothing. "That's it. We're done."
"The others. The arms. Please."
"I'll check the arms, and when I'm done you'll be on your feet. Otherwise I'm knocking you out and carrying you."
"Deal."
The other crossbowman bore nothing, same with the heavy-set soldier. The archer, to Marit's great annoyance, was a different story. All manner of markings seemed to cover her body, none recognizably Cymedian or Nirran. Now that she thought about it, the woman didn't look like a local either; a Meranthic human to be sure, but more elf-blooded than usual, with lighter skin and darker hair than the people of this planar region. The patterns were mostly in neat, geometric arrangements, inlaid with the odd image at regular intervals. One image stood out in particular, being slightly different in style than the rest, of what looked to be a hollow, spiralling horn, filled to overflowing with fruit & vegetables. She memorized the tattoos to the best of her ability and returned to Cholm.
Who was unconscious.

Cholmedrine awoke to the low, D-chord drone of a painted hoverfly. He attempted to locate the thing, to focus on it and thus stop the room from spinning. Just as he located it a large, bronzed hand shot out to slap it away. A moment later a clay caraffe was being brought to his lips. Instinctively, he drew his head away.
"Drink," came a familiar voice. Cholm relented. Water trickled pleasingly over his tongue.
The abode was recognizably Cymedian, with walls of a sandy, off-white colour and smooth arches connecting rooms. Wall rugs hung, decorated with patterns one could get lost in; for Cholm to attempt such now would be too sickening. He instead turned his head to his caretaker.
Marit's square face held an unreadable mix of emotions. None of them seemed to indicate murder—at least for the moment—so Cholm allowed himself to relax. Attempting to adjust his position revealed a dull pain in his right shoulder, awakening his memory to what had transpired. With a sharp intake of breath he glanced to his shoulder. No arrow. He released the breath.
"Where," Cholm croaked. The caraffe returned to his lips.
"A... friend's," Marit said.
Cholm glanced up at her, paranoia returning. "Friend from what?"
"You're welcome."
Cholm turned his head away. "Didn't ask for your help." He expected an explosion of rage from the warrior. Instead there was just a moment of silence.
"True," Marit finally said.
A new voice, elderly this time, spoke in the local dialect of Cymedian, too inflected for Cholm to understand. Marit replied in same tongue. "Time for some broth," she then said in Nirran.
"What kin—" The anger he was expecting crossed her features then. He winced. "Th—Thank you."
"It's in a mug. I'm going to sit you up a bit. Try using your good arm." Marit gently pushed his back forward to insert more pillows. He growled as referred pain shot downwards from his arm, but he managed to hold the mug without too much trouble. It was a thin, green purée with a slightly sweet aftertaste, reminding him vaguely of beets. Delicious.
The elderly voice again. Cholm looked up this time. Being related to the Nirrans, the Cymedians tended to bear the same bronzed skin tone and medium-light hair as the Nirrans. The woman's mouth nearly covered the width of her wide face, giving her a vaguely froglike look. She wore a patterned headscarf, customary across most of Cymede as protection from its bright daytime Aurora. She said something to Marit.
"Good?" Marit asked. Cholm looked at the old lady and nodded awkwardly. She nodded back, turned and disappeared from view.
"If you must know," Marit sighed, "she's my ex-mother-in-law."
Family. Gods be damned. More connections were forming, and connections could be followed. He struggled to think of something to say. "I... I didn't..."
"Mean for this to happen? Yeah, well, it did. And if you had the sense the gods gave a paintbrush, you'll be on your knees thanking her as soon as you're out of that bed."

Cholm nodded sheepishly, taking another sip of the soup.
Marit sighed again. "If it's any consolation, if she found out this happened and I hadn't come to her, she'd have killed me."
"You should have left me."
Marit gazed at him sharply. "Got a deathwish?"
"Not what I meant. Just doesn't make sense. Is my money that important to you? You that desperate for business that you'd go to call this just to help me?"
"Maybe I am," she snapped.
He winced, but he couldn't let up. "I don't believe you," he whispered, unable to make eye contact with her.
"You're not in good a enough state for this conversation, Cholmedrine. You need rest."
"Don't matter how ready I am now that you've gone and said something like that," Cholm growled.
Marit stood. "Finish your soup and sleep. The faster you're better, the faster you get on your way."
"Please," Cholm rasped. He put the mug, shakingly, on the floor, then reached for Marit's hand. She looked shocked, but didn't pull away. "Please... Don't leave me in the dark. I can't deal with unknowns. Please."
Marit stared at him for a long moment, eyes veiled. "I'm worried you won't hear this in good faith."
Cholm opened his mouth to assuage her concern, then closed it again. What could he possibly say to undo all the distrust he had shown her?
"Yeah," Marit said, reading the thoughts on his face. "You're not exactly a paragon of forthrightness, I know."
What came next was nearly as painful as being shot. "I'll..." Cholm was breathing heavily now. Tired, so tired. "I'll... I'll trust you. I'm getting too old for this. I need your help for a bit longer. Just a bit. If trust is what you need then..." he let out a small moan. "... Then you have it. So please. Talk to me."
Marit blinked slowly, expressionless.
"Please."
"I'm going to tell you two things. Before you so much as breathe, you're going to wait until I say the second thing."
"Second thing. Breath held."
Marit sighed. The old lady stood behind her again; she was stone-faced, but there was also a certain glitter in her eyes Cholm couldn't identify. He was filled with foreboding.
"Number one," Marit said, eyes unwavering from her charge. "I'm Empyreal."
Cholm's blood turned to ice.
"Number two!" She nearly shouted. "I want out. I want out, Cholmedrine, and if my instincts are still serving me well, I think you can help with that."

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