Reality, its vowels, its consonances, resonated in the Delicate. The sacred art, sympathizing so perfectly with the universe, bent natural and unnatural forces alike. The cosmos shifted toward the language, continuing its vibrations until a disk appeared in the center of the shoppe. The scattered remains of books and scrolls vibrated with the continuous energy. The disk became concave, symbols and cartouches resonating beyond that of what was really there. The symbology took on a humanoid form, introducing with more and more clarity the personage it was mimicking. The language mimicked the host, the source, until its resonance filled with the master's presence. Finally the symbols became the man, revealing Orleon as he teleported, or better, transferred, himself from one point of the infinite language to the other.
The Master of the Accidental Alchemist, had returned, his cape rustling with the remains of his once thriving profession.
Yet this was not accidental. The Alchemist turned to the disk, its form slowly wavering, collapsing it with the symbol for closer upon its center. He squinted, an eye to the disastrous remains of the Accidental, its library and beakers in tatters and shards all around him. The chamber, large and cavernous darkened by ancient woods and dark ornate buttresses, gave him no obvious signs of thievery or looting.
"Thankfully," Templeton mused. "For any tampering would have either destroyed this section of the city or activated the shoppes own defensive arcanum." He moved, gently pushing with a punctuation the objects in his path. Worst were the books, they looked torn and the binding ripped.
The binding ripped? he thought. Pushing himself toward a pile of books thrown in a semi-circle around the bookcase, Orleon inspected the remains of a dozen tomes on the floor or hanging from shelves. Someone had stripped the binding, no doubt looking for the?
THE SEVEN LIVES OF ROGUES, ripped apart and deposited in halves. The book no longer contained the ribbon bookmark used. "Simeon Kole," Orleon whispered. "The greatest of the Sivian Nocturnists, always enchanted his bookmarks. But what would someone want a bookmark from a thief's memoirs?"
Orleon did not know the ways of the rogue class, preferring to employ the 'merchandise artisans' as his former sect called them, with extreme caution. When hiring a group of mercenaries, his employ usually balanced a thief with an overly zealous fighter or even a crusader. Donations to the knight or paladin's sect were increased if they kept on an eye on said rogue.
Knowing this, Templeton had not delved into the leather bound book of eight hundred and seventy two pages. Kole's memoirs had been so tedious, so numerous were his efforts to find honor in his decrepit life of immorality that the Notar skimmed over the pages briefly, enjoying the recipes and borders much more than the text. Of curiosity were Kole's two-hundred and seventy rules of Acquisition, which any honorable thief should follow. This would leave them with supposed clean hands and clean soul. The thought of how many Kole must have killed in order to feel the need for those rules toward the end of his life, always astounded the Notar.
Though hesitant, the arcanist cherished the mystery of the moment. The possibility of someone stealing a lone book-ribbon (and was this the only object?) intrigued him. With a bit of a smirk he looked about to see if other books or items were amiss. His eyes rested on the shredded page of the SEVEN LIVES. There one of the rules glared at him.
"41: Careful, for we rogues are but fish and using the right bait one can catch any fish."
"What a fateful coincidence," Orleon said his smirk turning to a smile, feeling a tug somewhere in the back of his mind.
The Master of the Accidental Alchemist, had returned, his cape rustling with the remains of his once thriving profession.
Yet this was not accidental. The Alchemist turned to the disk, its form slowly wavering, collapsing it with the symbol for closer upon its center. He squinted, an eye to the disastrous remains of the Accidental, its library and beakers in tatters and shards all around him. The chamber, large and cavernous darkened by ancient woods and dark ornate buttresses, gave him no obvious signs of thievery or looting.
"Thankfully," Templeton mused. "For any tampering would have either destroyed this section of the city or activated the shoppes own defensive arcanum." He moved, gently pushing with a punctuation the objects in his path. Worst were the books, they looked torn and the binding ripped.
The binding ripped? he thought. Pushing himself toward a pile of books thrown in a semi-circle around the bookcase, Orleon inspected the remains of a dozen tomes on the floor or hanging from shelves. Someone had stripped the binding, no doubt looking for the?
THE SEVEN LIVES OF ROGUES, ripped apart and deposited in halves. The book no longer contained the ribbon bookmark used. "Simeon Kole," Orleon whispered. "The greatest of the Sivian Nocturnists, always enchanted his bookmarks. But what would someone want a bookmark from a thief's memoirs?"
Orleon did not know the ways of the rogue class, preferring to employ the 'merchandise artisans' as his former sect called them, with extreme caution. When hiring a group of mercenaries, his employ usually balanced a thief with an overly zealous fighter or even a crusader. Donations to the knight or paladin's sect were increased if they kept on an eye on said rogue.
Knowing this, Templeton had not delved into the leather bound book of eight hundred and seventy two pages. Kole's memoirs had been so tedious, so numerous were his efforts to find honor in his decrepit life of immorality that the Notar skimmed over the pages briefly, enjoying the recipes and borders much more than the text. Of curiosity were Kole's two-hundred and seventy rules of Acquisition, which any honorable thief should follow. This would leave them with supposed clean hands and clean soul. The thought of how many Kole must have killed in order to feel the need for those rules toward the end of his life, always astounded the Notar.
Though hesitant, the arcanist cherished the mystery of the moment. The possibility of someone stealing a lone book-ribbon (and was this the only object?) intrigued him. With a bit of a smirk he looked about to see if other books or items were amiss. His eyes rested on the shredded page of the SEVEN LIVES. There one of the rules glared at him.
"41: Careful, for we rogues are but fish and using the right bait one can catch any fish."
"What a fateful coincidence," Orleon said his smirk turning to a smile, feeling a tug somewhere in the back of his mind.