Chapter Text
Caleb Widogast, Professor of Transmutation, finishes his lunch break on the edge of the schoolyard pond, legs sprawled out in front of him, head pillowed behind his arms, tipped back to the sun. There are no papers to grade, no weekend meetings to schedule and he has a warm meal waiting for him at home (provided certain unnamed experiments with the stove do not end in disaster for certain unnamed high-class Dynasty mages).
This mood and moment could have been considered temporary, fleeting, or even fragile only a few years ago, but with the way time stitched together habit and tranquility he now has little doubt left. Instead he savors it, basks in it like a cat which knows with absolute certainty the angle of the sun shining through the window and the slow, reliable way it slides across the floor and warms all it touches.
Not even a brief brush of the arcane as a voice enters his mind stirs him from his half-dozing state.
‘Astrid will be unable to make it to the guest lecture for first years,’ it rumbles with a familiar, low cadence that still sends a nostalgic echo of a hum through Caleb’s ribs. ‘She’s having... A curious pause, steeped in what can only be good-natured exasperation. ‘A dispute with Uludan. Can you cover for her?’
Not for the first time, Caleb wishes Sending would allow one to eavesdrop on the background noise of the surroundings. He would certainly like to hear whatever is going on between the Archmage and Uludan, as given his previous encounters it promises to be an entertaining affair. And yet his ears meet with the serene filter that delivers only the noise meant for his ears. There must be a way to modify it, he thinks, and is almost distracted with the possibility, already calculating, until he realizes that the caster is waiting for his reply.
‘I suppose that can be arranged,’ he says, closing his eyes against the shine of the sun through the leaf canopy above him. The idea of playing for favors crosses his mind, but he dismisses it quickly enough. He doesn’t truly mind, and the fact that Eadwulf asked at all inspires a special sort of softness in his already malleable heart. ‘Though I doubt my lectures will be half as inspiring or... thematically appropriate as Master Becke’s,’ he adds, unable to resist a bit of teasing. ‘Will she mind?’
A brief pause—behind closed eyelids, Caleb pictures Eadwulf’s hands as he recasts.
‘She asked for you specifically.’
Caleb’s lips quirk a smile. She is getting soft, he doesn’t say. Still, it’s a pleasant surprise.
‘...and I imagine later she will want a full report of what you told them.’
He chuckles out loud at that, unabashed in his amusement of how much things don’t change. Perhaps some antiquities, at least those of character, can be allowed to remain. Especially ones as harmless as Astrid’s inability to half-ass anything.
He waits another moment. His brain, out of habit, supplies the last ‘Doo, doo, doo—ya poopin?’ until he realizes that this is not Jester. Eadwulf is not one to overindulge on words.
‘In that case, please tell the Archmage it would be an honor to infiltrate her ranks with my drivel,’ he replies with a casual air. Then, mentally counting the words, he slots in the last two with a knowing chuckle: ‘Good luck.’ If he is correct about what part of Uludan’s character has snagged Master Becke’s fury this time, Eadwulf will need it.
The bell signaling the end of lunch rings in a distant tower on the opposite end of the grounds. Caleb sits up, brushes the grass off of his robes and reorients himself into a vertical position. Nearby, a raven eyes the remains of his bread crusts curiously, so Caleb leaves them behind as a treat. Perhaps he will not be the only one to have a pleasant afternoon today.
He hunts down the class specifics in the teacher’s hall—an office he rarely visits outside of mandatory morning meetings and late-night visits for lunch leftovers (stolen for stray cats for his walk home from work). The wide, enchanted blackboard is full to bursting with annotations and schedules of all the main buildings—some of them move and flip as he casts his eyes over the rubric to locate the ones he needs. Soon enough he discovers the class in question—first years, slotted to be visited by the Archmage Becke herself for a guest lecture during the last hour of the day.
His chest tightens uncomfortably as he stares at the board, thinking back to another guest lecturer, other first years, but he shakes it with a well-practiced shrug.
‘Not anymore, not ever again,’ he repeats to himself.
He wonders, briefly, if Astrid has done this on purpose. He wouldn’t put it past her—orchestrating an absence is easy enough for one of her standing, but the decision to summon him to take her place specifically seems a bit on the nose. It could be a matter of principle, or maybe she, too, is disturbed by memories of standing where he once stood. It’s harder to shake the cobwebs of history that hang from the Archmage’s robes. A willful surrender of the power she wields, a passing of the lead into Caleb’s hands... it still scares him, he admits. But there are ways to read this as an act of good faith, a step towards a balance they have not had in the decades prior. He prefers to think that’s what it is.
Without allowing himself to ponder much longer, he erases her name with the heel of his hand and chalks in his own initials instead. By the time the magic of the board sets in, he’s already halfway to the door.
He has barely arrived—has only gotten as far as the doorway, really—and already 30 pairs of eyes are on him.
“Hello, my name is Caleb Widogast, and today I will be giving you a lecture... outside.”
It ought to get easier, Caleb thinks idly as he is immediately cataloged and dissected visually by a room full of startled teenagers. In a way, it has—he’s at least used to their scrutiny by now. He doesn’t look like a standard teacher, it’s true. His hair is messy, his nose is stained with ink, and his robes are tied up to the side to give his hands room to move about, since he hates it when they get tangled in the long mantle. Perhaps he should give them the benefit of the doubt and assume their intense gazes are out of innocent, childlike curiosity rather than an attempt to pass judgment.
“Who are you?” one of the girls in the back says.
Caleb suppresses a sigh. “Hello, my name is Caleb Widogast,” he repeats, and is about to explain further when he’s interrupted by a boy sitting in the front, who has stood up to face him:
“We’re supposed to have a guest lecturer.”
“Ja,” Caleb confirms. “The Archmage could not make it, I am afraid. I am her replacement.”
“Where’s Professor Merna?”
“I do not know. Probably enjoying the pleasant weather this afternoon.” Caleb casts another glance about. “And we should as well. Let’s go outside.”
The students take the time to exchange befuddled looks. A ripple of echoed “Outside?” travels to the edges of the classroom.
“Yes, you know. That big place with the sky and the trees.” He is still leaning on the doorframe, talking to them, and they are all craning around to get a better look, as if curious to see who this strange intruder to their structured halls of education is, and why he is speaking nonsense. A couple of students turn to each other and immediately begin to whisper. A few that are in the front are stretching up from their chairs to peek over the others’ heads.
“Is that allowed?” a very short tiefling asks, her eyes wide as platters.
“Well, that is always a good question,” Caleb replies, and now this is easier—familiar territory, old hat. “But if it isn’t, a better one might be—why not?”
They are looking at him like he’s gone mad. Somehow, this only gives him a deeper sense of accomplishment.
“Come on,” he calls one last time and pushes away from the wall, stepping backwards into the hallway. “It is an open invitation, but it could be fun. If you are brave enough to follow along.”
It takes him ten steps until he hears chairs scraping cacophonously and footsteps thundering along after him. The students spill into the hallway, look about, and immediately take off in his wake. He doesn’t stop to wait until he’s at the main doors, and by the time he halts and turns around he is relatively certain they are all accounted for, some with excited smiles of adventure on their face while others sport anxiously befuddled masks of uncertainty. Hopefully those will change soon, but with only an hour he’s got his work cut out for him.
“Glad you could all join me,” he says. “As I mentioned, I am your replacement lecturer for the afternoon. Although I am sure Master Becke had many plans to inspire you to the wonders of magic, I plan to do something a little more hands-on. You see, although magic is often born in these great towers, it rarely stays there. Therefore, it is my personal opinion that wizards should experience it in all its many potentials.” He grasps the handle behind him and pushes, and together they step out onto the sun-drenched hills of the Soltryce Academy grounds.
The energy shift is immediate and contagious. Kids who had been filed in line behind him weave and break form, their footsteps tearing from an orderly march and lapsing into a cheerful jog. Somewhere in the back, he hears a couple of boys laughing as a shoving match begins. A halfling girl runs to catch up to two of her friends, who immediately grab her elbows and hoist her up, taking her along for the ride. Caleb leads the messy pack, but just barely—he takes a few cursory glances over his shoulder to make sure they don’t stray too far, but otherwise doesn’t bother to correct their evolving chatter and genuine excitement.
“Where are we going?” a student asks from his right side.
“Just to the edge of the wall, by the sand pits,” Caleb replies, gesturing with the hand that isn’t occupied with his notebook. “Where we will not be bothered, or bother anyone.”
“What are we going to learn?” a half-elf with a cascade of long, white hair inquires.
“That is a surprise.”
“Is it going to be dangerous?”
“Not for you.”
“Professor Widogast,” another voice calls from behind him, and he cannot help but smile inwardly. There is something disarming about the way they have entrusted him with this title, in spite of only being dragged out of the safe confines of their box of a classroom a few minutes ago. “Professor Widogast, can I ask--”
He slows down a bit, and swivels his head to look at the familiar tiefling trailing by the side of the half-elf. “Yes?”
“I think some students from another class followed us,” she whispers to him conspiratorially. “I saw them come out of the bathroom and start talking to Promyr and they just kept walking with us outside!”
He glances up and indeed—there are two relatively new-er faces trailing in the back behind a half-orc with thick-framed glasses. They visibly shrink when noticed, but he merely chuckles and turns away.
“It appears you are correct, we have picked up some stragglers,” he says. “But I think we can allow them into our midst, provided they learn something just like you all.”
“Is that allowed?” the tiefling asks.
He meets her wide eyes and winks. “Why not?”
While her expression undergoes a curious sort of micro-epiphany, he turns and begins to walk backwards, facing the rest of the class. “Who can tell me—what is the driving force behind magic?”
A few hands shoot up, but some don’t even bother to wait.
“Knowledge!”
“Power!”
“Concentration.”
“All good answers,” Caleb nods, nearly tripping over some uneven patch of upturned dirt and taking a second to pretend that he didn’t. “However, I need you all to go deeper. Think of what allows magic to exist not elsewhere in the planes but at the tip of your fingers. How do you control it?”
“The Weave!” someone cries out from the back.
He points in their general direction and gives a thumbs up. “That is important, yes. What happens with the Weave?”
A teen in the middle, one of the ones holding up the halfling, raises their hand stubbornly. He motions to them and lifts his eyebrows in invitation.
“By controlling parts of the Weave through gestures, runes, or other means, we are able to influence the way magic flows through it and redirect its power to our own intent,” they reply in a practiced, even tone as if reciting from a textbook.
“The Basics of Casting, page 23,” Caleb cites instinctively. “That is very good. Yes. I believe the important word here is—‘influencing’. Influencing the Weave is what makes up the majority of magic—until we begin to cast, it remains in a neutral position. By interacting with it, we are able to affect change. Change is at the very core of most spells—and it is important, therefore, that you are open to it, familiar with it. In whatever form that happens to be,” he adds, and digs his hand into the pouch at his waist, extracting a long-suffering silkworm cocoon. The somatics are second nature by now, and although his voice hitches as he trips over yet another overturned stone just behind his left heel, by the time he is tumbling backwards he can already feel his whole form twist and stretch itself into something new.
There are gasps and even a few screams from the crowd as Caleb unfurls his wings of a giant eagle and takes off. He twists into the air, feathers splayed to gain maximum altitude, but there isn’t any need to go too high. Instead he opts to just leave the general vicinity while still keeping close, turning a keen eye to the group below. Each one is, without fail, staring up at him in awe. Most of their mouths are parted, but a few are grinning and pointing eagerly. He allows himself a turn against the current, surfs the air for a bit. The sun glints off the red-speckled feathers, and it’s warm and beautiful and free. He basks in the mind-blanking ease of simply feeling the body adjust to the flow of the sky for another second, takes care to remember this moment for later, and then tucks and plummets.
More screaming, in fear and anticipation this time, but he is ready. He swoops over them, prompting quite a few to duck their heads, and then skids into the grassy hill, claws tearing it up to skid to a halt. Making a mental note to apologize to the groundskeeper later, the eagle turns around and drops the spell with as much grace as one can muster.
When he’s done shaking out his mantle, the students have already caught up to him, and this time they pay no heed to proper protocol. Bouncing eagerly, they crowd around him, practically yelling over each other in an attempt to get his attention.
“--so cool! When can we learn that?!”
“What WAS that thing? Why is it so big?!”
“Is that how you get home at night?”
“Are we gonna learn to do that?”
Caleb takes a deep breath and holds up his hands, waiting until they have quieted to begin.
“One step at a time,” he says finally, purposefully keeping his voice low so they have to hush to hear him. “Can anyone tell me what school of magic that spell was?”
A number of hands shoot up. He picks one at random and the boy shouts “Transmutation!” excitedly.
“That is correct,” Caleb praises. “And ah, the name of that particular one?”
“Polymorph!” yells a girl from the back, and then shrinks back, embarrassed when the few who tried to wait their turn shoot her scalding looks.
“Polymorph is correct,” Caleb allows. “A relatively high-level spell, nothing I can teach you today. But what I can teach you is—change. Being comfortable with it. Understanding it. Understanding why it is important.” He flicks out his hand and a flame rises from his palm, dancing and twisting against the wind that buffets against it. A brief moment later it aligns itself again, this time almost unaffected by the natural order of moving currents. “The very core of the school of Transmutation is change, this much is true. But I am not here to push you towards a specific school. Instead, we will be training your ability to control and affect change through the Weave. The ability to change things will be one of your most basic tools as a mage... and as a person.” He looks up, and finds that most of them are watching him intensely now, mouths tight.
Good, he thinks, and releases the Control Flame cantrip, allowing the light to scatter.
“Can you turn into other animals?” asks a small voice—the same tiefling again, her tail held tight between her clenched fists. She looks like she can’t decide between being scared and being excited.
A cursory glance over the crowd tells him that she likely speaks for her people. There are quite a few eager glances exchanged at the idea. He mentally counts his reserves and decides that yes, this may as well happen. It has not been a particularly taxing day in that regard—he’s only used his slots on Counterspells during the first period to stop his third years from attempting to cast Reduce on each other one too many times.
“I suppose an important lesson can be procured from that as well,” he reasons with a small smile. “Very well, if more change is what you seek, you can surely have it. But that, in itself, is a lesson. Be careful that you do not become enamored with change without caution. For it can be a dangerous road to embark on.” And he takes a deep breath, narrowing his eyes at all of them in turn, as if measuring their reactions—right before he transforms once more.
When his form expands they jump back in eager anticipation, but it quickly morphs into startled screams of shock as a massive, russet moorbounder uncurls from its crouch and digs its front claws into the soil. He is careful in his movements, controlled and tense as a spring, but the massive tusks jutting from his maw still signal ‘predator’ to the many, many faces around him. They recoil and grab for one another, as if gauging with their friends whether it’s still safe. There are breaths held, and knees trembling, and the moorbounder can sense and hear so much of it, even through Caleb’s overmind piloting its actions.
He crouches, swings his tails, and stalks. The prey part around him like the tide receding, gasping and scrambling to escape the intense glare of those unnaturally blue cat’s eye pupils. None are able to face him, though he senses them stay close behind, as if their fascination overpowers their base instinct to flee completely. Good, he thinks again, and swings his massive, square head around to the only person who has not yet stepped from his path.
It is, curiously, one of the ‘stragglers’ from before, one of the students that joined without permission. She is small and lanky like thousands of others at the school. Her uniform belt is tied haphazardly around her waist, her boots thick with dirt. And yet there is an odd, calm intensity to her gaze as she levels with him, one hand held out, palm up, fingers lightly curled around something—a piece of food?
The moorbounder flicks an ear, observing. He does not know what she means, but her insistence fascinates him all the same. If he was of another mind, he might pause and tab through the many potential explanations for her behavior, analyze and over-analyze them in the way he is prone to. Instead, the beast he is now feels only a mild, purring curiosity. He steps closer. One paw. Then the other. His muzzle inches toward her hand, close enough for her to feel his warm breath on her fingertips.
She holds. Her eyes are still locked on him, mouth slightly parted. He can just barely sense her muttering—attempting to cast?
With a start, he feels something like a charm effect begin to brush up against his mind, only to butt up against a familiar shield of Mind Blank.
It’s a bold move. Perhaps skipping class is not the only thing the students have taken up. But even accounting for the audacity of the kids these days, using spells on another—even a teacher—without permission is a step too far. Certainly something that should be taken seriously. This much he can remember, even in his current state.
He freezes, allowing his eyes to unfocus for the smallest of moments, and tracks as her eyebrows jump in surprise. He lets her think it worked.
And then he opens his mouth, baring his teeth and pulling back his enormous tongue, and roars directly at her face.
The effect is immediate. There are screams—including hers as she falls backwards on her butt, hands flying up to her face in a defensive curl. The rest of the students jump back, someone begins to yell, and there is a shrill sound like that of a whistle.
In the chaos, Caleb drops his Polymorph and straightens.
Immediately, it’s silent.
“As I said,” he intones quietly, putting as much weight into his soft words as possible, “change is well and good. But you must heed whom you affect it upon. What the consequences of your actions might be. Let us all consider that next time, ja?” He looks down at her.
She stares back from the ground. Her fists are clenched tight, and her shoulders are bunched up to her ears. There is not a hint of tears in her eyes, but there is fear—and Caleb feels regret seep back into his chest, chilling like the wind of Eiselcross.
Too much, he thinks. You have overstepped. She is shaking like a leaf.
Shaking quite a lot, in fact. More than she should be. And he is shaking as well.
He looks up, looks at the other students, who are also shaking.
The ground, Caleb realizes. They are not shaking, it’s the ground that’s shaking.
Which is exactly when, 15 feet before him, the turf splits open and expels a Purple Worm, front mandibles clacking together in a familiar metallic grind as the last bits of soil fall from its gaping jaw.
Right then, Caleb knows several things.
One - Time Stop is an extremely useful high-level spell, but in a pinch home-made adrenaline will do.
Two - one may retire from adventuring on all levels including physical, but the natural state of subconscious anxiety which prepares you for battle at a moment’s notice never truly leaves your roster of instincts.
Three - he is glad he prepared Polymorph today.
Around him are 30-- no, 32 students he must protect. It is more than eight, true, and he has never been good at front-lining to boot, but there is little choice now.
The screaming starts almost immediately. The running does, too, which is a good thing. But Caleb doesn’t see it, doesn’t pay it any mind. Instead, he only pays attention to the worm, and the singular necessary spell component as he yanks it out for a third time today, encasing the cocoon protectively in the cup of one hand while his other works the somatics by rote memory.
The worm shudders, twists and screeches in struggle—and then succumbs. Its form shrinks, and its dark purple plates meld together as it condenses in on itself, now a small, lilac turtle.
Altogether, it takes no longer than 6 seconds.
Caleb exhales and looks up, the static of concentration giving way to filter in the noise from all around him once more.
Students screaming—some of them still behind him, no more than 20 feet. Some have fallen on the ground and are now staring at the place where the worm was, their chests heaving. At least two are in tears.
That report to Astrid has suddenly gotten a lot more complicated, he thinks to himself wearily.
He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and tries to prioritize. His mind grabs all the pieces of information to catalogue, and tries to arrange them into a working order.
First, the worm. It is not going far in its current state, and looks quite displeased about its situation, although it is crawling slowly forward through the upturned terrain of rocks and dirt it had, itself, created only seconds prior. In a few moments, he will likely need to get it far away from here, by means he has not determined yet. Currently, he decides to table it as a non-issue.
Next, the students. None are visibly hurt, since there was little time for anything to happen to them, and he had reacted quickly enough. The closest to him is the girl who had tried to push her luck with the charm, and she is still on the ground, staring directly at the turtle with a mixture of shock and horror. In her hands she is clutching something metallic, as if she had hoped to utilize it, and Caleb cannot help but catalogue this as well—she is far bolder than he had given her credit for, if her first thought was to fight.
He turns to look away, but his mind hitches on something, like a sleeve snagging on a door handle.
His eyes gravitate back to her, to her hands—to what she is clutching.
A whistle, his internal monologue supplies.
No, more specific, a deeper part of him prods.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
In his mind’s eye, he sees a book splayed on his lap. He sees a figure leaning over his shoulder, white curls almost tickling his cheek, an elegant hand stretching out to seek across the page, a dark-skinned finger pointing to an illustration.
A Keening Flute, says the Essek in his mind, voice smooth and dream-like, crystallized by his memory. Used in the taming of Purple Worms. Quite ancient—they vary in design, but not by much. The shape is always the same.
Fascinating, Caleb had said.
He says the same now, staring at the girl on the ground, who stares back at him with a mirrored recognition of his own identification. She turns away, digs her hands and knees into the dirt, tries to push off—and Caleb, as if in slow-motion, feels himself reaching for her, grabbing her elbow without even thinking.
Now hold on, he wants to say. This is going to be an interesting conversation.
It’s an understatement. His mind is already going a mile a minute, and each potential explanation is branching into endless others, none of which are even remotely similar. He feels himself exhilarated and at the same time overwhelmed with the large amount of revelations he’s received in under a minute.
There is more to come, it turns out, because just as his fingers find their grip on the girl’s arm, another noise cuts through the haze of the chase—a familiar chant.
Dispel Magic.
His head swirls first towards the source—it is the second student that he’s categorized as ‘straggler’, who would have guessed?—and then towards the target.
The turtle, he thinks belatedly. Of course.
There’s a crackling buzz of energy, and a bamf—and once more, the worm is back in full force, teeth and plates clicking rapidly as if it’s upset to have been slighted by him. For a creature with no discernable eyes it seems to zero in on prey with relative ease, as if it can tell exactly who had humiliated it.
The Professor thinks—he thinks to turn around and yell at the others to run, lest they be any more caught up in this than they already are. He thinks of casting Polymorph again, and how that would require letting go of his current grab. He thinks of other spells, each flitting through his mind within a second, and each discarded faster than the first.
But before he has thought of enough to make up his mind, the girl struggling in his grip (he is so close to letting her go—regardless of her involvement in this, she does not deserve to die by Purple Worm, that is not something he would wish upon anyone) opens her mouth and yells a single word.
“Run!” she screams.
In Undercommon.
Ah, interesting, Caleb’s brain supplies idly, as if the world is not descending into madness all around him.
The strangest thing is, he is not the only one who seems to understand the instruction. Undercommon is not a simple tongue to one raised on Zemnian, extremely different in both phonology and structure, but he has had ample time to practice during the many, many hours of long hikes through frozen tunnels, ruins, and decimated gardens up in the entombed city of Aeor. Essek had been a patient teacher—if a bit peculiar about grammar—and Caleb had always considered it somewhat of an accomplishment that he was able to understand simple sentences with ease by the end of their first day of unofficial ‘tutoring’.
And yet this feeling of accomplishment suffers somewhat of a blow when the worm, of all creatures, takes the order in stride and turns—and burrows back into the earth.
He stares at the crater it leaves in its wake, and then he stares at the girl he’s holding, who is now limp in his grasp, as if the fight has left her along with the creature. He stares, also, at the third party—the one who had successfully Dispelled his Polymorph, the one currently standing 15 feet away, her hand still raised, rooted to the spot, her uniform askew. And although he has an inkling that she, too, can understand the instructions, she has for some reason refused them.
Organize, prioritize, collect, Caleb’s brain demands, caught in the throes of adrenaline and fear and confusion. Get a hold of yourself, Widogast. You have dealt with worse.
So he does—he breathes, surveys the area, counts the students who are still scattered around them, confirms that there are no visible wounds, and straightens from his defensive spellcasting crouch. On the far side of the grounds, he can already see people bolting towards them—probably other staff who have no doubt noticed the commotion.
He considers it something of a blessing, because he is not entirely sure he can deal with all of it himself. Instead, he focuses his attention on the mystery at hand. His eyes lock with the instigator who is still staring at him—no, staring at her cohort who he’s still got in his clutches—and with the thumb of his free hand, he twists the Ring of Telepathy on his index finger.
‘We have much to discuss’, he thinks, and sees her flinch as his voice enters her mind. ‘And something tells me you both would prefer to do so in private.’
Just barely, he can see her lower her eyes in assent.
For the time being, he considers it a victory.
The day bleeds into dusk. The sky is slow to change hue, but there is gold edging the leaves of the trees that line the walls of the Candles. Birdsong is in the air, but also nervous chatter of the humanoid variety. In fact, if one strays too far from the peaceful scenery they will easily find that the grounds of Soltryce are abuzz with panic and a cacophony of strained voices attempting to figure out what, exactly, has happened.
Caleb has escaped this—for now. He fled before the guard came in, and he dodged the questions of the few teachers who arrived on the scene first, citing his need to deliver the news to the Headmaster posthaste.
Then he had all but ran, with the two prime suspects in tow, back to his office.
He cannot defend his plan as reasonable, but then again, that is the status quo of the Nein. He has considered getting them involved in this, of course he has, but he has dismissed it for the time being. Something tells him to wait. Something tells him he needs more information before jumping to conclusions.
In fact, he needs conclusions, first, before he can even jump to them. Currently he has none.
As they approach, the heavy oak door of his office swings open with a long-suffering creak, revealing a busy space illuminated by a central tall window overlooking the sprawl of Rexxentrum below. His desk remains relatively uncluttered, but there are stacks of parchment on the edge, held down by various familiar shapes—rocks of multiple origins from all across the continent, a crystal orb with a chip in it, a cast iron cat bought in a marketplace in Rosohna years ago. The early dusklight spilling through the glass reaches first not the floor but books and stacks of boxes which occupy the majority of the room. There are bookcases as well, of course, but he has long ago ran out of room on them. Instead, placed into neatly precarious piles of multi-colored leather binding are textbooks he has procured from nearly every dealer in town. Although he does not use them to teach, he enjoys loaning them out to his higher-level students on occasion. Often, he spends long evenings chatting about whatever it is they are interested in, suggesting titles or further research if they are so inclined.
He thinks about these meetings and contrasts them with whatever is about to happen now. It doesn’t seem promising. It skids closer to what he was trained to do, fires up old nerves he thought he had finally put to rest. The predator in his mind stirs from hibernation and lifts its head, knowing it has been called forth to work.
Behind him, the door clicks loudly. Locks with a brief tap of his fingers against the wood.
Silence.
He turns one more time, attempting to meet the gazes of the two he has just ushered into his space. They don’t return the favor—their eyes are downcast, stubbornly, and they are stock still.
Too still, Caleb notes out of habit. Their stances are balanced, practiced. Nothing like that of a student who has begun their first foray into magic tutelage. Much more like that of a soldier who has memorized the distance between their heels, who has been taught to keep their arms at their sides, loose and ready.
Upon closer inspection, more things stand out to him. The fact that their uniforms are askew—a detail which he had initially written off as carelessness—now speaks of ignorance, an attempt to blend into the crowd which fell short. The footprints of their boots are further clues—despite looking relatively clean, it is not hard to notice the heels of the tracks are stained with the lighter color of clay. It speaks of substrate not found locally, certainly not anywhere in the city limits. Their hands, too—although they look untouched, Caleb’s mind remembers starkly the feel of a smaller palm grasping his forearm as he held the girl from running—he had felt callouses. The hands of someone who uses them for much more than spellcasting.
“Your disguises are impressive,” he says quietly. “But they are not foolproof. Perhaps we can drop the pretenses and get straight to it?”
No reply comes. The figures remain locked in their position. Only the subtle flex of the fist from one on the right catches his eye. Without shifting, he prepares his own hand to Counter, just in case. He waits—but no spells come. Another moment of silence stretches into seconds, then into minutes. Through the slightly cracked window the voice of a Crownsguard echoes up, calling orders.
Caleb rubs the old leather of his component pouch between his fingertips, considering a different approach.
“You must already know that you have given yourselves away,” he says. His voice is still soft, but lower. Not quite a threat, but edging closer to it. “You carry with you the tools necessary to control the Purple Worm which has threatened a crowd of students. That is already incriminating enough.” To demonstrate, he lifts it before him—he snapped the string that secured it to the neck without a second thought. It’s a beautifully carved thing—asymmetrical in shape, made of the same plates which are a part of the Worm’s own natural armor. There are several holes bored into it, and the inside is hollow. There is a mouthpiece, probably, but he is not familiar enough with the thing to tell where it might be.
And still, neither looks up at him.
He sighs and pockets it once more.
“You have a second one, don't you?” he asks the other.
She stiffens, giving herself away without a word.
“I knew I heard something, right before the worm emerged,” he continues. “I thought it was the wind at first. It is not a common sound around here; its tone is... unique. Hard to mask it, if you are trying to be subtle.”
When she doesn’t answer, he holds out his hand, palm up.
“I am afraid I will need that as well.”
She glares at the ground.
“There are worse ways to lose items,” he presses, allowing his voice to sharpen a fraction. “And you currently have very little choice in the matter. I presume you are already aware that I have alternate ways of extracting the information I need from you both. It is perhaps preferable to being taken in by the guard, but just barely.”
Still nothing.
“Unless it has additional value? Something beyond simply summoning Purple Worms to attack innocent students?”
“She didn’t attack.”
Caleb turns—the first one, the one he had grabbed, has finally spoken. Her partner looks startled by this, but not as startled as he feels at that moment. Her voice is soft, and her accent is somewhat reminiscent of another he is all too well acquainted with. He feels himself get stuck on this, and then stumbles along only to once more catch himself on another point of note—she sounds young.
She sounds about the same age as she looks, which is a shock. He had assumed they had been masquerading as children, but he knows most illusionary spells do not account for vocals.
A heavier concern stirs inside him suddenly. Flavoring it, something like disgust bubbles in the back of his throat, making his interrogatory tone that much more difficult to summon.
“Who are you?” he demands while he still has the wherewithal to sound as harsh as he needs to. “Who sent you? What is your goal?”
They almost flinch but then reform their stubborn stances. The one on the left, who has still not surrendered the whistle, glares at him now.
“We do not take orders from you, wael,” she hisses.
Caleb’s memory sparks, and the last pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place.
It’s long overdue, and perhaps he should have led with it, but the handshapes of Dispel Magic make their way to his fingers. He focuses, grabs the illusionary disguises and tears, allowing his power to rip clear through them, revealing whatever is truly beneath the lie.
And then he stares, dumbfounded, at the figures before him.
What? he thinks.
Then—why?
It is nothing he had expected. It is also much worse.
He knows immediately that he should call the others—call in Caduceus or Jester to ask them to assist in this delicate matter. He also thinks, however briefly, of summoning the Crownsguard, but hurriedly dismisses the idea. The Cobalt Soul, of course, comes to mind as well—and he is certain that before long their assistance will become necessary regardless.
But in the moment, as his heart pounds between his ears and he draws his other hand up into the air to begin the somatics for Sending, the person that he reaches out to is none of the aforementioned.
‘Hello,’ he mumbles, his eyes still locked with the two trapped in the room with him. ‘A very strange thing has happened. I need you to come to my office. Now.’
There is a pause of emptiness as the spell dissipates. Six seconds drag by without a sound, and then the reply arrives, just as tense as his own initial message was.
‘Caleb, you are scaring me,’ Essek says, hushed and anxious. ‘What is going on? Should I contact the others? Are you hurt?’
Caleb fumbles in his haste to recast. ‘Not yet,’ he intones. ‘There has been an... incident. I believe you may be the best person to assist in the--’
He doesn’t make it all the way through before the loud crackle of a Teleport bursts inside the room. Essek arrives so close to him they nearly knock shoulders, but he cannot even find it in himself to step back and give the other space. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained where they have been for the past minute.
“What happened?” Essek demands—he’s not floating, Caleb realizes absentmindedly, because the voice is coming from a bit lower than he’s used to. “Are you alright? What is--” and he abruptly cuts himself short.
Presumably, he has also now taken notice of it—the two children in the room with them.
Half-drow, with plum skin and black hair shorn close to their heads, their faces a near identical mirror of one another—twins. Their blue eyes are wide as they stare at the new arrival who stares back at them with equal amounts of shock.
“What in the Light is going on?” the former Shadowhand demands with all the weight of his past station, while at the same time the children—children!—point to him in recognition.
“It’s him!” they yell in tandem.
Caleb freezes. He looks at Essek—Essek, in his true form, who had Teleported to his aid without even bothering to disguise his own visage. Essek who, in turn, blinks owlishly, all previous haughty demands popping like a soap bubble.
They catch each other’s eyes, and then immediately turn back at the other two, who are still pointing at him as if this is high court, and he is being tried for the crimes he has thus far managed to slip away from unnoticed.
The air in the room crackles as they face off, previous notions of fear and uncertainty gone. The girls are glowering with renewed hatred towards the drow before them. Their voices, when they speak, ring like the bell of a sentencing toll.
“Essek of Den Thelyss, in the name of the Queen, we have been sent to end your worthless life.”