Dragon Stone: Aurelia Wrenn

“The Amanuensis moved swiftly, looking through the notes until he found the dark scroll. There, the offence to nature had compared them as pieced cut from the same cloth. One used necromancy to caress the dead while he moved in time to commune with those long dead in a past that had atrophied.

“I am cursed to love in darkness
I’m alive enough to touch you
Why am I breathing?
Am I only dying to crumble into dust?”

Liv Kristine, Love Decay

“Six feet deep is the incision in my heart, that barless prison
Discolors all with tunnel vision, sunsetter, nymphetamine
Sick and weak from my condition, this lust is vampyric addiction
To her alone in full submission, none better, nymphetamine.“

Cradle of Filth, Nymphetamine

“Washed away are all your sins
And rain will fall
It’ll wash those years away
You and I were never there
Tears have turned to ice
(tears from your eyes)
No one here but I
only dreams survive
Nothing can survive
Thought you’d never die”

Fields of the Nephilim, Mourning Sun

This is another short story for this month’s prompt as I explore the world build of Dragon Stone.

BLOGBATTLE prompt word Axiomatic

Dragon Stone: Aurelia Wrenn

The Amanuensis glared at the candles flickering on his desk. Shadows danced as he concentrated on trying to locate the Arch Mage. Never before had this felt so arduous. Could it be that Eldred was being deliberately elusive? Perhaps aware that once the connection to Elder Magi was discovered, the obvious contender would be him.

His mind swept a graveyard. In it were ancient tombstones wearing elegies to those long dead. From sending, it became real. Tangible and filled with detail. He was standing below an ancient stone arch at the head of steps that were weathered in age and decay. At the bottom was a woman dressed in black. Her body was bound in a corset that shrank her midriff while exaggerating both hips and bosom. Around her neck was a black lace choker decorated with several small ruby moonstones with one large central stone inset into a platinum band. A white veil shrouded her face. Above the moon cast shadows that half illuminated the tombstones. He frowned. He frowned. It reminded him of images of Dragon Stones held within the Vault. Was it a live dream? Could he have fallen asleep at his desk? The woman turned to look at him. Eyes of radiant blue touched his own. Her voice was that of an angel.

“He does not wish to be found Librarian.”

“I have no memory of such as you.”

“I am a ghost in the fog, Amanuensis. Here to protect those that lie within.”

“Is he dead?”

“Why else would you be here?”

“To find answers.”

The woman smiled, “Answers you already know.”

Frustration loomed. “Who are you really?”

“An immortal waiting for death. A ghost that cannot leave. What should be dust, living a travesty for eternity. Take your pick, Librarian.”

The Amanuensis began to descend the steps. Moss edged the risers, and leaf mould filled the path. A glance behind told him that builders of old knew their trade. Granted, time had decayed much, but what was once proud still haunted this yard of bones. Above, in a tree that had once seen life, sat a bird of Minerva. Branches drooped as if arms awaiting the unwary.

Glancing around, he saw statues and ancient kerbed headstones. All lichen etched. Some were cracked, where water had breached the stonework, and frozen as winter threw a blanket of snow over the cemetery.

“Why am I here, witch?”

The woman smiled again. “Because you are Amanuensis. It is but one arm of existence, and yet you remain in the conjurer’s bubble rooted to the desk you weep over.”

The Amanuensis frowned. His sane rationale was failing. This reminded him of the exchange with the Necromancer. He moved closer to the foot of the steps. The smell of wet moss and autumn haunted the air. Though it felt cold, the woman seemed unaffected. He considered her to be in mourning. It made her dangerous. If she were also locked in a bubble, that might explain more. If she were grieving, then over what?

“Not like you to be lost for words, Librarian.” Now, she mocked him.

He was almost next to her. Incense filled him, along with visions of worlds crumbling into dust. She was here by no accident and belonged to a time before the Elder Magi. A prisoner like him. She reached out and took his hand. Skin-to-skin time fell away. A trap within a trap.

“No Amanuensis. You are kindred. Another that was locked in immortality waiting to die, yet destined not to. In a different world, you and I could be lovers.”
His eyes widened at her words. Fighting back, he thought of Yish and withdrew his hand. This woman was imprisoned like him and, if he were not mistaken, was a Hybrid like the blacksmith.

Her hand remained where it had clutched his for a moment before moving toward her face to remove the veil. The Amanuensis gasped. Her eyes stared into his, and for a moment, they were united as one. Her skin was paler than snow, and her mind was awash with melancholy. He was seeing himself through the eyes of the Hybrid.

“I am Aurelia Wren of what was once Infinities Shadow. We built the Necropolis and Tor Angra, what you now call the Keep.”

Her hand drifted away as she turned and drifted through paths sided by decaying flower beds. Stopping, her fingers touched an old headstone, and she beckoned him to join her. In faded etchings, now filled with lichen, were the words,

“Here Lies Jeremiah Delalande, The Exorcist. If you read this Amanuensis, the key is in the detail. Wrenn was my friend.”

The Amanuensis felt a phantom wind blow through his bones. That he was locked in a prison of ice, cold and immutable was no longer in dispute and axiomatic. He touched the granite and found it as cold as his spirit. It was true. Everything he knew was now long dead, and yet even in decay, Delalande had delivered a message.

“So, he was the Exorcist all along, Aurelia Wrenn.”

She nodded and moved to the next tomb. This one bore another he knew.

“Memorial to Lord Cresswell of the Assassin’s Guild. The brave die well.”

“And Mortain? Where is he?”

This time, she took his hand and wrapped her fingers around his. The Amanuensis did not resist. Warmth spread into him.

“Soon Amanuensis. First, you and I need to acquaint ourselves with each other.”

###

The Amanuensis awoke with his head pounding and neck aching from the position he must have fallen asleep in at his desk. Confusion filled his mind. The live dream had seemed real. Before him rested his parchments, including that of Eldred Mortain, and if he were not mistaken, that was who he was trying to commune with before something else took his breath away. The smell of incense still filled him. He remembered that now. With the onset of a conjuration to ensnare a sorcerer, scents fill the air designed to cause hallucinations.

Something was wrong. There was a cold draft blowing from the balcony, causing the flames before him to falter. He no longer knew how to turn the page before him. Turning would cause a fracture in his mind. He was cursed to love that which was long dead, yet on the balcony, something had followed him out of the live dream. It could mean only one thing: doors had opened, and Aurelia Wren had stepped through, bringing the souls of the dead with her. He chose to remain seated, uncertain what might pass.

A cold hand touched his shoulder. Around the index finger, he noticed a finger loop that trailed back toward a cape that he knew rested over a corset of black. Warm breath touched his ear as his hand moved toward Mortain’s dagger.

“It won’t harm me, Amanuensis.” Her words were deliberate and sultry. “Do you remember nothing from the stones and tumuli? Where roses die, and spirits long turned to dust remain suspended in time until we are freed.”

“It was a dream, Aurelia Wren.”

“And yet here I am. Conjured by your hidden abilities, Elder Mage.”

There, she had said it. Or was this part of the live dream?

“That line is dead,” his voice came as a whisper on the breeze.

“Only as a civilisation. The rest hide and persist. Like prophets, they become the holy relics searched for by the hunters.”

“Is that why they sacked the Keep?”

“It held a Dragon Portal to another world. That is no longer functional.” Her hand moved to caress his neck.

He swallowed nothing as sensations began creeping through his mind. Had they shared more while in the yard? “Why are you here?”

“You summoned me, Librarian. I am here to escape the darkness and decay of love lost. I need to feel and breathe again.”

“Where is the Arch Mage?”

Her hand teased his neck before being withdrawn. The Amanuensis found himself wanting her touch back. How many cycles had he spent in this place of immortality, hoping to return to Yish?

“He awaits you on the balcony. Go to him, and when you return, we shall continue our union of darkness.

The Amanuensis pushed his chair back and turned. It was as he saw it in the live dream. Her figure, the ghost in the fog, was beguiling and loved torment through witchcraft. Was it a test? Part of the key to unlocking the prison of ice. Outside, he could see his old friend leaning on the parapet overlooking desolation and snow. Aurelia Wrenn stood near his bookcase. Her eyes were locked upon his. Her incense was a drug that smothered his mind. He held her gaze until passing out to join Eldred Mortain.

“Amanuensis.”

“Arch Mage.”

“It has been a long time since we spoke.” Mortain turned to look at his friend with eyes of sadness. “I fear I have destroyed your sanity and unleashed a daemon.”

“Would that be me or the Hybrid that now exists here?”

“Both, my friend. As an Elder Mage, I understood the concept of creating a conjurer’s bubble. Alas, the knowledge of what they could do escaped me. My line is weak through neglect of the knowledge locked in the Vault. That and ignorance.”

“Who is she? I had a vision where she took me to the graves of Jeremiah and Cresswell. Yours was refused, why?”

“She is a Watcher. Do you recall the myths about The Black Dragon? A beast bound to hold vigil over the Dragon Yard until the Prophecy of the Crow came to pass.”

The Amanuensis nodded. That he had already touched the beast remained unspoken. He assumed Mortain already knew.

“Aurelia Wren is older than any civilisation we know of. Like you, she exists in a capsule of time, watching as graves fill her obituary of bones.”

“Do you trust her?”

“What matters is whether you do. For my part, once inside under her watch, no outsider can haunt us, and we remain outside the grasp of the Necromancer.”

“And yet she tries to seduce me.”

“She needs something you hold.”

“What?”

The Arch Mage shrugged. “I have nothing but a vacant theory to offer.”

This time, the Amanuensis took hold of his friend’s shoulders, “No riddles this time, Eldred.”

“I believe the Necromancer had a sister. One that lay in opposition to his foul magics. I found relics of parchments alluding to entrapment.”

“From Elder texts?”

“No, these were much older. As I passed from the Keep, I fell into a vision field. It was filled with scrolls, with one in particular rotating suspended in the air. It was this that told of another darkness trapped in an illusion field.”

The Amanuensis turned to look back inside. She was waiting, eyes still locked onto his form. “And you think this might be the sister?”

The Arch Mage nodded. “Be careful, Amanuensis; I know not her intentions.”

“I know of one already, but that is not going to happen. Not while I live and breathe.” He paused, “But what does lore say about escaping this prison?”

“The Keys are on your desk, as is my dagger. The left releases you. But first, you must find the nexus that prevents Yish and Naz from releasing the Crow. That is why you are here. Of the Key Masters, only you can control chronomancy.”

With that, Mortain began fading like a ghost in sunlight. These things he needed to write down before the cycle turned again. As he re-entered his chamber, he locked the balcony door. Inside, Aurelia Wren waited.

“With me, you do not need notes, Amanuensis.”

The smile on her lips parted, revealing teeth as white as the snow outside. Her tongue flicked across them as her eyes dilated in need.

The Amanuensis stumbled into the back of his chair. Blood formed on the edge of the blade that Mortain had left to cut the candle burning to his left. He sat and tried to focus on writing the last of his Letters. Arms draped across his shoulders, and incense swirled through his thoughts.

“Write her name if you can, Amanuensis. You and I have a future no mortal can dream of.” Behind him, he heard the rustle of a corset falling to the floor. Time stood still and again incense burned his thoughts as darkness enveloped him.

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Dragon Stone: Rune Lore