The book... was beautiful. Naethra couldn't remember seeing something so wonderful since leaving Ymirheim. It belonged in a wizard's study, or some grand library or reliquary. She'd read about such things... a token, a tome of secrets to seal a pact. There would be magic inside, rituals and lore. When she read it, she'd be a full, honest to gods witch.
She trembled. There was a chain, gossamer and ephemeral, leading from the starry-covered tomb. It glinted in, and and out of vision, almost impossible for her to focus on. Breathlessly, she ran her fingers from the book's spine, down the glinting chain, and further... to herself.
“Do you still feel she's granting power.. or Sealing something she would find dangerous and useful to herself?”
Naethra was stunned. It was that voice,
her voice. But... what was this within her? It felt... it felt like borrowed magic, only it came from within.
She'd spent years studying in Ymirheim, never once demonstrating the faintest shred of magical ability. She'd consigned herself to a mundane existence, eeking out her worth on clerical duties, helping the keepers of the great library as they stored and managed knowledge she would never be able to use. Was... was the gift within her, all along?
But... why was it chained? Wrapped and bound and utterly silent her entire life? And... how was it connected to the book?
Naethra was glad she'd ducked away from the group. She didn't want anyone to see this. Her hand was trembling when she noticed the hammer within it. The chains were bound to the book, the gift of secrets and magic from her patron. The chains that bound something within her, pulsing with the light of magic. Did... did the Fae Lady bind her? How? Why? She tried to wrap her mind around it, only to recall that the only word, the only shred of evidence, was coming from the Lady of this place. If she was being tempted... she couldn't imagine a finer bait. But to what end?
She tried to think back to the night in the Wilds. To the pact. She had never heard her patron's voice since. The Lady cut her off once, and had made it clear she could do so again whenever she chose. Her magic was... tainted here. She'd been wondering, almost dreading, that the Lady of Excess might have been the archfey who reached out to her, that this was all some elaborate entrapment.
Naethra didn't realize she was crying until the first tears curled around her green lips. If her lady wished whatever was within her to be locked away... she must have a reason, right? Maybe it wouldn't be one she would like, or even understand... if only she had said something,
anything, to her since that night. Any glimmer of purpose, or expectations, or... or...
Naethra looked at the book, still the most beautiful thing she had beheld in years. She couldn't remember ever feeling so alone. "Please," she whispered in Sylvan, trying to recall every detail, and glimmer of that one meeting with her patron, "please... talk to me. Tell me what you want. Tell me why. Tell me... anything," she murmured.
The book was bound to the chain coiled around her. To break the chain... would possibly mean breaking the pact. It had been struck in desperation, but it had been a realization of a long hope. Of being... something better than a lowly tiefling, daemon-touched cross breed, toiling away a short and ugly life. She'd wanted it to be about more than just survival.
"Please... if you have a reason... I'll leave it. I'll open the book. I'll do what you ask." What if the Lady really was her mistress? What if this was a ploy, and she was being to forsake the only glorious thing in her life? What if the whole thing had been an accident, and the archfey was embarrassed about an awkward ordeal she was desperately trying to forget?
The tears were pouring now, but Naethra didn't make a sound. She needed to escape this place, to avoid losing herself to oblivion like so many she had encountered. She was trapped in some game with the Lady of Pleasure, and she could snip away her only real tool at her whim. She'd always wanted to be someone magical, to be... important? Special? Or maybe just like the elven masters of old Selnheim? This was a dream she'd long given up on, balanced against a hope that seemed so cruelly out of reach. Pacts had damned her lineage before, and she had just blindly wandered into a new one when it suited her... it had been selfish, and desperate, but she had wanted to live up to it. She wanted her Lady to be proud.
Her hand trembled. She was shaking. After a long, breathless moment, when nothing but silence answered. She recalled being powerless in the forest, her new gift severed before she had even learned to use them, as the Lady of Pleasure groped her, chastised her. If her magic could be taken away like that... then she would have no hope but what the Lady allowed. Her breathing quickened, faltered with quiet sobs. The silence thundered in her soul. She feared she would lack the strength to do this if she waited a heartbeat more.
She slammed the hammer down on the chain.
