? Leserin ? 18th of Rīkvertin, 43rd cycle of the Third Era Adlera ? Wissen Peaks, Eighth Reichskreis ?
I dug a hand into the weathered brown satchel hung on my side. Pulling out a thin, worn grimoire, I quickly rifled through the pages, soon settling on one illustrated with a faded blue flower. A handwritten note on a corner stated that this particular flower was only found in the most mountainous regions of the Empire. This was to be my catch today… if I could locate it, that was.
Fortunately, the mountains of the North were just a short detour from my present destination. I had other reasons for being here, though. Common legend dictated that these woods were the origin point of vershals, where the first of the Empire’s mages—fleeing from a territorial dragon—happened upon the ash-grey carrier birds that soon became foundational to everyday communication. Flowers could wait. My true catch would be to witness a vershal and record everything I possibly could.
The various mythologies of the Empire, which were often embellished and in some cases even required learning, tended to take great liberties with storytelling (hence, reconstructing an accurate history of the Empire from all the bits and pieces in the legends was a passionate but undisclosed endeavor for many a historian). But the historians might have been onto something, as wild vershals had been spotted recently, proving at least some legends held a kernal of truth within. There was a rather uproarious scientific interest in the matter; the native birds were a biologist’s dream, especially since conservation efforts had long been impeded by external forces. Many saw the vershal as a symbol of Imperial domination—for good or worse—and the power the Emperor's Court wielded over even the natural elements. Thus, there was a keen curiosity afforded to those who claimed to have seen these creatures, and I was no different.
With any luck, perhaps a true ash bird would grace me with its presence. I doubted it, though. The Empire’s methods of domestication had transformed the original species so thoroughly that the two barely resembled each other. Most scholars believed they had been bottlenecked: aggressive efforts to capture wild birds for training had nearly exterminated their population. Meanwhile, domesticated vershals flourished under the patronage of the landed gentry, who were all too thrilled with the efficacy of passenger bird correspondence. The birds' mountainous predecessors naturally faded from existence as sanctioned hunters scoured their populations. In only a mere decade, the domestic vershals had established themselves as integral to the Empire's most profitable functions (very conveniently also ensuring their continued survival).
I paused. On that thought… were my eyes wrong, or did they spy a hint of curled grey talons about the canopy of the conifers? A capricious opportunity, if so! Vershals were mana-bound creatures, so they had heightened senses and responded to even small fluctuations in mana. Only thing was, they were terribly aggressive. I brandished my staff, intending to engage the vershal directly, and lure it out with a particularly potent spell it could not resist. But given how hostile they were, perhaps that wouldn't be the most wise choice. I tucked the artifact away and raised the familiar three-fingered gesture of awenheilig, a variation of the prayer for divine prosperity from the Goddess (it was much easier to cast magic with the anchor of a word, phrase or gesture). Then, I released my channels of mana-smoke. With a soft hissing noise, a small current of mana wound its way up the tree.
Not a second passed before a thick, warbling cry burst out of the canopy and a shadow swooped down from above. And there, on the lowermost branch of a stand of birch trees: a horned, dark grey speckled raptor, with talons as curved as a sickle, and piercing hooded yellow eyes feasted on a tendril of mana. Hooh. So this was the vershal? I dared not come closer, for I'd already seen firsthand in the hospital how menacing the talons of even domestic vershals could be. The bird ruffled its plume, aware of my gaze, stretching and revealing a breast encircled by spotted black markings—like the swirling dregs within a cup of tea. I pushed another measure of mana out carefully, noting the bird's reactions. Hmm. The vershal seemed to absorb my mana through a vent on its beak, storing the glowing substance at the base of its crest. Mana circulation via a specialized organ? Could the bird somehow discern the intricacies of individual mana signatures? How fascinating. I quickly cataloged the bird's interaction with my mana, then gave a brief incline of my head to the creature, not wishing to disturb it any longer. And suddenly, it was difficult to believe how the Empire had even managed to tame a species so fearsome in its glory.
Turning away, I sighed contentedly. Up here, deep in the thicket of the mountains, it was quieter, enough so that my thoughts could wander freely. A place like this, it was comfortable. And… in some ways, the great scions of nature were far easier to keep at arm’s length than the humans ever were. Anyhow, it was to my great fortune to witness a natural vershal in the flesh. If even a handful of accurate sketches survived in some dusty archive, I could construct a spell to summon a living replica of the bird. Granted, this was no simple matter, but if I were successful, the reward would be rich: exemption from paying the Empire's frankly outrageous postage tax. A tantalizing incentive, and hence, the biology of the tamed birds was kept a closely guarded secret for this very reason (indeed, some had attempted to bypass this by summoning wild vershals, but were stalled by a lack of biological descriptors for the bird's mana regulation). I fancied myself a wanderer first and foremost—but of course, in the right light and with the right motives, I had no qualms about doing the rote work of foraging for records and accounts. Somewhere below, muffled voices from the roads drifted up, softened by the distance, and brought me out of my train of thought.
The hill I stood on rose gently off the ground, framed by hanging trees and short, stubby grasses bent flat beneath my boots. The grimoire's pages fluttered in my hands, and the wind ran smoothly through the vines, creating steady, undulating movement. A light dusting of snow powdered the upper branches of the creaking conifers. Fragrant pinecones dotted the grasses, drawing squirrels who scuttled along the underbrush and snatched undamaged nuts for their nests up in the birch trees. And now, golden larch needles lay thick on the forest floor, their color having been transformed well into the advent of autumn. Between the windswept grasses, a worn path stretched upwards, studded with small, moss-covered stones. Ancient trees, twisted and gnarled by the winds, stood solitary upon the upper heights, mere specks of grey and white against verdant green.
From here, a clear outline of the trading village filled my vision. Thatched roofs settled on wooden frames, a centralized well, and a checkpoint manned by soldiers donned in Milit?r black. A line of merchants stopped at the barricade, and officers searched a wagon and frisked the occupants. That village was going to be at least a wegstunde away, judging from the lengthening shadows along the incline. Another half hour of walking, then, and it was best to move quickly, so that nighttime travel wouldn’t slow me down later. The village promised accommodations, lodgings, and the chance to buy some more supplies and provisions—much of which I lacked at the moment. By morning, with enough materials and a good night's rest, my work could truly begin.
Oh, right. I still needed the flowers to even consider making any potions. A small bush stood at my feet, and without thinking, I reached into the thicket, prodding and poking about. A faint frown ghosted my lips. Now getting slightly impatient, I fished around with more intensity, but still didn’t manage to find anything. Moments passed, and my hand fell from the tangles. Mana gathered around my fingertips, slowly coalescing into a spell that gently pulled the leaves of the bush downwards. Sifting through them, I lifted three pale blue flowers off the ground, placing them into my satchel.
At my side, a small river within a gorge flowed calmly as I took an alternate route down the hill. It snaked further up a mountain in the reverse direction, the flowing waters a product of the pure, silvery snowmelt that trickled down. Inside the clear waters, the coiling shapes of glass-eyed eels and darting redback minnows occasionally dappled the surface. This river would likely lead to the Imperial canals of the Berengarie River if it was followed downstream. Above the waves, my path on the rock walls was blanketed by thick, low-lying lichens, their fluffy mass muffling the sound of my footsteps.
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A small, dark furry creature—about two fu? tall and quite stocky—standing as if on lookout peered at me from the top of an adjoining rock face. Wild honey-petaled edelweiss clustered at its paws, wedged into the exposed stones. The yellow-bellied rodent sniffed at me curiously before bending down to nibble on the buds. When it fled, it vanished neatly into the rocks themselves, delving into an underground burrow hidden by the roots of towering trees. I knelt onto the lichen carpet where the creature had fed. The snapped stems and crushed leaves held trace residues of mana, feeling like a bit of sweetness still dissolving on the tongue.
This was a common behavior among herbivorous mammals, for such creatures tended to seek out mana, even if it were only in vestigial amounts. The flowers in my satchel were one such source; they were a key ingredient across various fields, but especially in potion-making. A successful brew of a high-level potion would guarantee an opportunity to open a shop or supply alchemical stockists (I even knew of some places that would buy in bulk!). I just needed to decide which one to mass produce. Given the difficulty of the respective formulas, it would be quite reasonable to charge at least three silver marks for any single concoction. All things considered, it would also be nice not to have to do more physical work for a change.
At this point, a half-rotted log bisected the river, so I carefully stepped on an intact portion, then hopped across some sunken boulders to land on a diverging footpath. Judging from the sign—which even provided a rough estimate of time: 30 minutes—this one would lead into the village. A few stray travelers trailed behind me, bundled in hooded, fur-lined cloaks. The valley breezes grazed their clothes, and feeling the same chilling wind, I pulled my cardigan tighter around me (first priority in the village: buy a cloak). For how late it was, the cobblestone road itself felt empty, and yet movement persisted everywhere else, if one simply observed.
Far below, a great white mass descended along a distant path. Only after a moment did its shape become clear: a young farmer droving cattle down from the higher middle pastures. The blonde man and his fluffy sheep were no doubt bound for winter stabling on shared family lands. Beyond him, wooden alpine chalets clung to the opposing slopes, their conical roofs steep to shed snow. Above the darkening tree line, warm strings of blue and red mana-oil lanterns circled the houses' perimeters. And there, between the guardrails of a highland crossing were snow thread spiders’ iridescent webs, faintly luminous and dancing rhythmically as if on marionette strings.
On the side of the road was a birchwood stile inlaid into a cobblestone wall dividing two neighboring pastures. I climbed it and settled on the rungs, one leg folded over the other. A brown and cream patterned Hinterw?lder heifer ambled near the walls, feeding from a wooden trough with coarsely ground wheat. Next to it was a stained, shabbily constructed mazot—a storehouse for valuable livestock produce: the traditional alpine cheeses, cured meats, wool and woodcrafts. The cow looked up at me then, mooing and snorting softly, before she swung around to lay in the flowing sea of leafy greens. Behind the stile, for as far as the eye could see, the left field was a creeping carpet of young wheat seedlings. From the signs of it, the wheat would grow lush in the spring, promising a bountiful harvest for whoever owned these fields.
My gaze dragged out to the snow capped peaks in the distance. About thirty meilen back along my route lay one of the Empire's staple distribution houses; tucked within was a modest mage's bücherei, stocked with pamphlets, grimoires, up to date publications, and assorted records. I mentally made a note to scour the shelves for any records of vershals. Before, I had collected several miniaturized regional maps to familiarize myself with the terrain. A nudge of mana into the manapaper unfurled the edges, and the maps magically expanded as ink lines were drawn and glowing circles lit various landmarks (this was why magic was so precious; it was not only beautiful, but highly practical!).
Ersefrahl was an agricultural village within the intermontane valleys of the eighth Imperial circle, hemmed in by two great ranges: the rounded Wissen Peaks to the south, and the wintry Offendale Massifs to the north. Roughly three hundred meilen away stood the ancient walled fortress of Korribor—once an iron-bound stronghold of the Empire, now little more than a hollowed skeleton—casting a long shadow across the folds of the valley. To the west, Adalferral's Path cut a straight course through the dark woodlands, stretching out towards the beaches and scattered port villages lining the coast. High in the mountains, snowmelt pooled into the silvery waters of Torraschella Lake and funneled into the River of Berengarie; the tributary from earlier was just one of many belonging to this great river that connected the region to the greater Empire.
As a result of being so constricted by the forests, Ersefrahl's main export was naturally timber: a much needed resource that accounted for most of what meager recognition the alpine town possessed. Far beyond the valley basin was the city of Tor, and between the two, the only persistent marks of civilization were the Imperial stockpiles that served as guarded waypoints for travelers. Outside those enclaves, the land belonged to the beasts, for only perhaps a thousand meilen to the north was the black castle of Ende: the sanctum of the Demon King and his armies. It was in this way that the world as everyone knew stood fractured along a great fault: the resilient Empire stood in the Central Lands, mirrored by its diametric coeval in the frigid North. Tensions were high in recent times, and more than a fair share of hackles were raised following periodic scares of demonic invasion. Thus, few dared venture far from the capital and its famed Milit?r, and yet fewer still would call that caution unwise.
I packed up, lifting off the rungs of the stile, and resumed my pace into the town. The barricade’s fires now flickered closer from where they were some ways down, marking the edge of the village outpost. After about twenty minutes, several discrete mana signatures blossomed in my sight just along the end of the cobblestone road. Those must belong to the soldiers. However… Why would Imperial mages be stationed at a quiet trading town pushed away in the northwesternmost part of the Empire? From the most recent texts in the bücherei, this town wasn’t mentioned as a stopping point for any major industries—that would be Tor.
My eyes fell on the soldiers flanking a merchant caravan. The man’s wares, buoyant wooden charms woven with ribbons that caught the light of the evening sun, fluttered with the breeze. He looked to be a harmless sort, his clothes proper, but faded. An honest man, perhaps, peddling small trinkets and folk magic. The soldiers, cloaked in loose-fitting uniforms and armed with worn weaponry, ordered the man to strip his outer garments. One officer, his breast emblazoned with a silver badge and decorative markings, stepped forward. He exhaled once, almost inaudibly, before continuing. His hands traced a slow, deliberate path upwards, pausing briefly to press into the merchant’s temples and search his scalp. I racked my memory in search of common Imperial procedures. This ritual was new; were they searching for something?
That officer ushered the merchant away, and his gaze flickered onto me, first pausing at my Imperial brooch, then lingering on my ears. The others stood behind him, arrayed in a line, with their backs against the makeshift burlap barricade. At this hour, they were backlit by manafly lamps—glass housings for the distinctive red glow of mana-sated insects. Some carried blades, firmly fastened to a belt adorned with vials of a softly pulsing substance. The remainder were bare of any visible arms. Their coats held rippled scars: singed patches stubbled with faint mana signatures. A recent encounter with a mage. Not so quiet a village, then. I summoned my staff, placed it on the ground before me, and extended my arms at an angle away from my body.
“Been some time since we last had an elven mage in this village,” the officer said, lips pressed together. I nodded. He gestured for another to pick up the staff and inspect it. In the meanwhile, he fell into a silence, fixing me with a gimlet stare, intent on deciphering my thoughts. After another beat, the thin lines across his face seemed to fall, and he quickly patted my head, neck, and ears before stepping away towards the next traveler. My staff was handed back to me. This was surely a routine motion for the man, yet there was a resigned weariness about his movements, like he longed to be elsewhere.
I crossed out of sight and turned discreetly to look at the other soldiers, noticing one, comparatively young, and with a shock of thick, messy red hair, muttering something harshly to a companion on his left. He shifted his weight, standing off-kilter as he rubbed a hand distractedly along the handle of his sword. His fingers were wrapped in gauze. The young soldier seemed focused on some point off in the village outskirts, his line of sight tracing out towards the woodlands crawling about the town.
The other soldiers appeared in similar states of restlessness. Huh. Not something that caught my attention earlier. Whatever mage they must have fought had to have been formidable. The man found me looking at him, and I broke eye contact quickly, letting a bit of embarrassment color my face. Strange behavior aside, I ventured into the village in search of accommodations.
? Pfund (~500g) — *primary unit of weight*
? Marke/Marken — 1/2 pfd
? Unze/Unzen — 1/16 pfd
? Loth — 1/32 pfd
? Quentchen — 1/96 pfd
? Meile/Meilen (~7420m, 1 German mile) — *primary unit of distance*
? Wegstunde/Wegstunden — 1/2 Meile
? Ruthe/Ruthen (16 Fu?) — *primary unit of land measurement*
? Elle/Ellen — 2 Fu?
? Fu? (~300mm, 1 German foot) — *primary unit of length*
? Zoll (1 German inch) — 1/12 Fu?
? Stauf/staufe — 8 nsl
? Kanne/kannen — 4 nsl
? Quartier/quartiere — 2 nsl
? N?sel (~0.5L) — *primary unit of volume*
