Waterstrider

8th District, Tseludia Station, Pantheonic Territory, Thirdmonth, 1634 PTS

‘Otvar’ was quite large for a Korlove. I hadn’t been aware of this until now, but it seemed that when a Korlove gained weight, it all went to their torso, resulting in an oversized sphere of gray flesh held aloft by the same spindly limbs all Korlove bore. Crowning their body, Otvar wore a colorful wrap that seemed almost comical to me. As I approached, I could hear them discussing something with a Staiven customer, and I realized from the voice that Otvar was a man.

I had looked over this stall when I had wandered the market earlier, so I knew nothing on display was what I was looking for. Rather than peruse the wares again, I opted instead to look at the other customers, analyzing movement patterns to check for any potential threats.

The ideology of the Heirs of Ottrien was very much pro celan culture, and for that reason only a very slight minority of its members were of any races that did not originate on Celah. I could likely assume that any non celan was not one of their informants, but by that same token I could not help but suspect any celan I saw might be one of them. Normally I would have been assured in my ability to blend in with the hordes of other martial artists on the station, but tabs were likely to be taken on anyone showing interest in treasures related to the formless path.

I was taking a very real risk, but one I felt was worth it. If I took too long to acquire the treasures I risked developing another heart demon. Given what had happened as a result of the previous time, this was something I would go to great lengths to prevent.

I avoided inspecting the souls of those around me, knowing any martial artists among them would notice. Similarly, I had felt no such inspections myself. In a black market, everyone knew not to pry into the secrets of others.

One man caught my eye in particular. He was a sei who appeared to be roughly in his middle age. He had on a green and black martial uniform, and something about him was familiar. I was certain I had seen him before.

He turned and met my gaze, as if he had sensed my interest in him. He smiled at me and turned back to his inspection of some dried organ that I didn’t recognize. For a moment I tried to remember where I knew him from, but the moment passed, and the customer finished up her transaction with Otvar, so I cast aside my thoughts and stepped up to the counter.

Otvar’s hat bobbled as he shifted to view me.

“Did you wish to make a purchase, or do you come bearing a question?” he asked.

Unlike the other merchant, Otvar spoke fluent Seiyin with only a slight Tseludian accent. His word choice was quite formal and it felt odd to me, but that was not uncommon for foreigners, and I could expect no better. I had met plenty of native speakers of the language who commanded it with less proficiency than he did.

“I was told,” I said, “that you might have stock or access to channels beyond what you have here on display.”

The Korlove snorted, an odd chuffing noise that caused his torso to bobble around for a moment.

“Of course I do, everyone does. I’m assuming you have a particular request? It would cost you more, of course.”

“That would be acceptable,” I replied.

“In that case you may name it, and I’ll tell you if I am able to… procure something like that. I offer no promises, of course. Supply is a fickle thing.”

I couldn’t help but take a quick glance at the exit before leaning in.

“Would you be able to obtain treasures of the formless variety?”

Otvar froze, his eyes inspecting me once more. It was possible he had already figured out my identity, but I waited to see what his response would be.

“Formless treasures…” he said, “those are quite rare in this region. I’m afraid they come at quite the premium. I have none in stock at the moment, though I should be able to acquire one or… three of them in the coming days.”

He was clearly fishing for information about me with the ‘three’ comment. Instead of biting the bait, I chose to continue baiting him instead.

“I would be happy to pay a fair rate for such products if you were to procure them on my behalf.”

We discussed the transaction a bit more, eventually settling on a cost of one hundred thousand serite each for any such treasures he managed to acquire. Before I left, I gave him the routing number of some electronic mailing node Rachel had acquired for us. She had claimed it to be ‘untraceable by the standards of weak technology such as that used by the Staiven. I had my doubts about that, but it should certainly be good enough just for sending message traffic to potential suppliers.

With a potential opportunity to acquire the treasures I needed, I turned to exit the market. Other than the deal with Otvar, nothing else I had seen here had interested me, and it would be best to leave before someone noticed some attributes of my own that I failed to consider and suppress.

When I had made my way midway back to the stairs, I was accosted by a pair of martial artists wearing the same garb as the guards who I had seen protecting the doors to the private offices.

“Halt,” spoke one of them, voice raised in an imperious tone. For a moment I considered playing the role of the assassin, I paused to hear them out. “The Prophet wishes to speak with you.”

I squinted my eyes at the woman. Prophet? I had heard nothing in any of the information I had acquired about the city that mentioned a prophet.The only religious authorities in the station were the churches of the various members of the Pantheon, as well as Ceirra, worshiped largely by my own people. I supposed the Cult of Umrak might have one, though that was more a spiritual organization rather than a “legitimate cult.”

“Lead the way,” I replied.

Had this been a ploy by the Heirs someone would likely have shot at me already. Had it been an approach by the Hadal Clan, I would likely have been approached by harlots first as they probed my weaknesses. I accepted because I felt it was likely a third organization, yet another group trying to take advantage of the situation.

They led me through the guarded hatch and into the offices of what had once been an active warehouse.

“He insisted on traveling here to meet you,” said one of the guards. “You must show the utmost respect to him.”

They left me in front of an opened hatch, and I found myself standing before a darkened room. I entered the room carefully, wary of the one I had been brought to meet. Small lights blazed in the corners of the room, creating sufficient illumination to see in detail, though little enough that I had to wait a moment for my eyes to adjust.

In the center of the room was a very, very old Staiven man. He was set up in a highly complex and modified wheelchair as if he were paralyzed in some way. There was a soft hiss in the background air.

He still looked somewhat humanoid, but was lying awkwardly in the mechanical wheelchair as if he had lost all self ambulation. His head, too, was propped up by a padded board. The reason why was immediately apparent.

He was shriveled and withered, substances oozing from his bulging and discolored skin like a banana that had been left in the kitchen for far too long. The structures of his body were in the process of forgetting how to be humanoid, creating odd geometries and formations that mimicked fleshlike growths of coral across his body. Streaks of red crossed his skin in a design that appeared like rivulets. As he laid on his chair, he looked more than anything like a drapery upon a staircase. Large, towering silver machines surrounded him, standing on either side of his chair, presumably the life support that kept his geriatric frame alive.

But at the top of his body, his head was the most disturbing feature.

A pair of enormous orbs that gleamed wryly as they glistened with a wet sheen, his ‘eyes’ emitted a bright red glow where they bulged out from what had once been their sockets, grown far beyond any reasonable size. Fluids dripped from them, and he seemed to pay no mind to how they dribbled slowly over his closed lips.

This was by far the oldest Staiven I had ever seen. In terms of visual appearance he would certainly rank as the oldest seeming person I had ever met.

“Welcome, Mister Yu,” he said, lips barely moving. The sound came out as a barely audible whisper.

I bowed slightly to him before raising my head to look again upon his misshapen form.

“Might I know who I am addressing?” I asked. He let out a slight huff, and I got the impression that it had been a chuckle.

“I am Poluus, heretic to my own people, just as you to yours.”

The more he spoke, the slower the words came out, and I could tell that the speaking was already straining him. He had clearly been alive far longer than a Staiven should be able to, sustained only by the large equipment he was hooked into. I remained silent as he continued to speak.

“My lady wishes me to provide you some assistance, for the support of your ally. There is a man named Ester Perivar, held by the government for experimentation.” He laughed again, and flecks of some black particles emerged from his mouth as if he had been coughing up pieces of an organ. “He is much the same as I, except his eyes are blue. Do you understand?”

I nodded. I could not guess who or what he worshipped from the limited information I had been given, but if the information was true it would be incredibly helpful. Poluus’ eyes were certainly large enough to be used for a core, had I been of the sanguine path.

“Is there anything your goddess wishes from me in particular?”

Poluus’ tone came out in a rasp.

“She wishes for your success,” he said. “She believes Telles is due for another shift in power. There are many like you, and we aid in minor ways. Take the information I have given and use it as you will.” His eyelid twitched, as if he wished close it but could not because of his oversized, bulging eyes. I bowed to him.

“My gratitude for your assistance, Prophet Poluus. I shall gift your patron in kind when the time comes.”

I turned to leave, wishing to discuss the matter with Rachel before looking into this ‘Ester Perival.’ The information was possibly a trap, but one I found very tempting if it even had some modicum of truth to it. As I was returning back through the room’s hatch he spoke a few more parting words.

“I would be careful when you leave,” he said. “The Hadal clan has arrived.”

Sanguine: [It is the conduit between this realm and the divine, the very blood that travels throughout one's veins. It binds body and soul, creates life and ends it when it leaves. The sanguine is that which sees, that which connects, that which can access the brightest and darkest corners of the world. Sanguine miasma often represents damage, that something internal is broken, or that a connection is being formed with a spirit or something ethereal. Like all conduits, the sanguine is bound.]