Illicit Enchantment

She couldn’t explain it, but Veeran Baurchand had always felt at home smelling the must of parchment, the resinous licorice of inkwells, candles long-burning, and the earthy scent of wet stone. As unnerving as it was to most, Veeran was entranced by the collection of all four scents in the records room of the Cheroux Cemetery. She was at peace despite a nagging inclination, the need to know and the sheer joy of discovery drove her ever-forward on every project, this one in particular.

Veeran pulled her glasses from her face and carefully wiped their rounded frames and lenses clean of dust kicked up by every new parchment added to the pile. Combing over veritable mountains of handwritten records was normal for Veeran, a knack from her youth turned profession. Memories from her past flood back to her in waves along the perfume trails of candle smoke.

Six years prior, she was accepted into the Institute of Khoreld Cross, much to the dismay of her mother, who insisted it wasn’t “conducive to the female ideal.” Of course, it was not education itself she had opposed; she was an educated woman herself who had taken over the family’s shipping business after her husband’s untimely death. No, the point she rallied behind was that Institute education did not provide a woman with practical knowledge for running a house.

“It is the path of argumentative young men who believe themselves right to become tired old men who are disgruntled with change” she would say to Veeran as she was being measured by a seamstress one autumn afternoon for a new gown and overcoat. Veeran would later send those measurements to the Institute for her academic robes.

The arguments continued between them until the week of matriculation, when her mother finally acquiesced, albeit without blessing or the promise of funding. Veeran didn’t mind though, as she found that she could perform research jobs across the campus to cover the expense.

The Institute became her solace and source of inspiration as she poured all her energies into her studies. Khoreld Cross had been known across the kingdoms for its vast wealth of knowledge in every recognized field of study, held undimmed via its infrastructure of magic. Magical runework and spellcraft was commonplace in the kingdom at large. Magic aided in the competition between businesses, with some patenting exclusive magic computations, such as increasing the speed of transport ships or long-distance communications.

There were consequences to magic’s use, however. Magical creatures and plant-life called Panoptics were drawn by the casting of magic. For small things, like igniting a rune for cooking or pipe tobacco, a small Panoptic creature or plant would materialize to consume the excess magical energies. It was the larger and more occurrent magics that brought the true problems. Swarms of stinging Panoptic insects would form by public lighting or large beasts would cause destruction by warehouses of industry aided by mystical endowments.

There was also the issue of magic users causing problems themselves; Extortion through magical threats, production of undead servants causing outrage from the families of the exhumed, and the occasional incursion of powerful entities like werewolves or wights, and liches made from power-hungry wizards. This brought with it the need for Panoptic Exterminators, sell-swords to combat the magical threats to society at large. Even then, the problems could not be dealt with faster than they arose.

The issue of Panoptics had become so widespread, that the King eventually declared the use of magic illegal and required the entire kingdom to transition to scientific machinery by the end of a 5-year grace period.

Of course, the changes were not seen as favorable by everyone. Debate echoed across the campus as students and faculty alike argued for the benefits of a magically aided society. Economic effects, industrial complications, job markets, and a slew of other factors were thrown about like weapons.

The way Veeran saw it, magic was a grey area, subject to, as with all tools, the morality of its user. Nevertheless, at the end of her second year, she and the rest of her classmates were made witness to the transition from runed fixtures to modern standards. Magical waterways were removed for plumbing and sewage systems, and lighting had reverted to old lanterns and candles.

Toward the end of her final semester, mandates from the King and his court stole whole classes from their studies and dissertations to compile, and subsequently destroy, magical records with the promise of credit towards their degrees. Outrage was met with extreme violence by kingdom officials, with some students and staff never returning to the Institute. Others were arrested for hoarding texts and tomes to preserve their knowledge, including Veeran’s roommate Anniqua.

The memories recede painfully as Veeran remembers being pulled from her classes that day three years ago and the promise unkept ever since.

******

Bradok Renard rubbed the tiredness from his eyes and reached for the tankard at his bedside. Originally a Panoptic Exterminator of well repute, Bradok had been on request by many of the factories within the city. He had made a name for himself in eliminating large Panoptics. People had largely ignored his abrasive attitude and excessive drinking for the success of his work.

Now, the need for Panoptic Exterminators was nearing its end and Bradok, like so many in his profession, was forced into bounty hunting. He searched for dissidents and political pariahs, those hoarding magic in all its forms. The change made Bradok drink all-the-more, though not from guilt or empathy, but from the loss of simplicity. There was no need to attempt reasoning with a Panoptic Hydra or Gargantuan Ape as it leveled a work floor. In dealing with humans however, Bradok was professionally obligated to appeal to sensibilities. It was not a skill he possessed, nor was it something he much cared to learn. He found that most people would go willingly after a few well-placed scowls and the brandishing of one of his custom flintlock pistols towards their face.

Long brown hair spun wildly around his wide-framed shoulders as Bradok scratched at his mutton chop beard. He curmudgeonly looked over the dossier handed to him the day before, blinking several times to acclimate his groggy sight to the parchment and began to read.

Subject: Veeran Odyssey Baurchand, low threat

Location: Cheroux Cemetery

Time: Evening

Reason: Suspected magic use, suspected hoarding of magical paraphernalia, bribery, abandoning post assigned by the Institute of Khoreld Cross

Bradok tsked to himself upon finishing the read and collected his work gear. He inspected his pistols, checking the ignition runes by the hammer, and slung them into a bandolier across his chest. He inspected his long rifle in much the same way and topped off his powder horn and bags of shot. Lastly, Bradok collected his cutlass and its scabbard. He marveled for what seemed the last time at the inlaid volcanic glass, complicated runework expertly notched in its surface that drained magic with every strike. Like him, it was fast becoming a relic of an old world forcefully written out of time.

With a melancholic sigh and everything in order, Bradok pulled his dark tan cloak over himself and drew the hood over his drunken face. The cemetery was a long walk from the inn he stayed in, and he wanted to get this over with as soon as bloody possible.

*******

The Cheroux Cemetery had been a longshot for a collection of tomes, but Veeran had implored her superiors to allow her search of it regardless. With luck, she would find something of use and keep the King’s Court none the wiser. Candlelight flickered as wax melted into a conglomerate mass at the top of the table. Most of the records held had been the obvious assortment of files and obituaries of those buried on grounds. The rest, at least that Veeran had gone through so far, were magical sealing spells gathered in hopes to deter magicians from raising the entombed. Yet, Veeran poured through every page with voracious fervency, eager to glean something she had yet to find.

Cool nocturnal breezes entered the room unbidden from the spaces between the nearby door and the accompanying floor. The sensation was partnered with a faint swirling of evening fog. Veeran made a few notes on a personal parchment, careful to not drip ink onto the Cemetery’s records. She wrinkled her nose and squinted her eyes, as she always did when she double-checked her copying, looking for the odd mistake in her handiwork.

Veeran distinctly noticed the increase of fog filling the room around her and took pause. Without the tell-tale sounds of footfalls on cobblestone, a rush like a pursuant shadow breached the academic calm of the record room.

A figure cloaked and hooded stood ever-watchful by the doorway, silently present but for the oppressive feeling of being watched. Veeran looked up from her work, careful as to not acknowledge the presence, and pulled a dagger from the folds of her Institute robes. With her other hand, she slowly grabbed one of the taller candles and feigned needing a closer look. In as fast a motion as she could muster, Veeran turned around towards the stranger and held the candle up at her would-be assailant.

The figure was upon her with inhuman speed, gripping her wrists with a powerful force. The incandescent flame betrayed the appearance beneath the hood. It was a ghastly thing, with a form that morphed from gray-pallored skin held taut to sunken bones, to a skull devoid of flesh faintly glowing blue. The cloak seemingly exhaled outwards in the night air to reveal banded mail armor of a bygone era lined with silver furs. The hands clutching Veeran’s own altered in the same fashion, from ashen skin to skeletonous digits barren of sinew and muscle. This was a wight, the powerful undead known to steal the very essence of a person with the slightest touch.

She dropped the candle and blade from her grasp and the creature released her. Veeran gasped in surprise to behold this unexpected intruder as the fallen candle’s flame snuffed out. The shadows seemed to gather around the wight, the loss of immediate light made the magical azure irradiance more apparent. It was the creature’s eye sockets that held the most of it, mirrored by the irises when shifted to its fleshier exterior.

Veeran reached down for the candle in haste, brushing back rebellious bangs behind one ear as she came back to standing.

“I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, turning back to her work and bringing the candle up to its still-burning counterparts to reignite. Veeran collected a stack of stiff parchment, tapped the pile against the desk’s wooden surface, and returned the lit candle beside her reading.

“I had no idea it was you, and I am so close to finishing this translation and…” her voice trailed off as she paused her hurried and flustered rambling to face the wight again. The wight’s skull cocked to one side, opening its bony jaw for a voice to emanate impossibly. The voice is cavernously deep and resonant, but also steady and hollow.

“I wanted to check on the academic’s progress.” The tone was somewhat playful, a familiarity to it that cut through the gritty base of it all. It is not visible to the eye, but Veeran can hear the slight smile in the comment and readjusts her shoulders with a few, quick motions.

“How fares the reading, little Folio? Have you found what you’re looking for?”

There is something haunting but beautiful about his voice that she cannot place, a seductive nature to her. She pushes down the chaotic thoughts of her research and interlocks her fingertips in front of her. She wants nothing more than to run her fingers over the wight’s pallid cheekbones and kiss the smooth edge by his occipital.

There were moments where he would allow her to touch him, to brave the danger of life lost from physical contact. Most of the time, however, he maintained a certain distance, almost recoiled from her for fear that he would siphon precious time from her. It had been this way from the very beginning two years ago and against every wary inclination, Veeran had agreed. Their first meeting had been chaotic and fraught with misunderstandings, funny enough now as Veeran thinks on this most recent scare.

“Most of the documents here are worthless” Veeran blurts, distracting herself from her feelings and turns to the desk. “I did, however, find a few small notes in the margins of some sealing runes that may prove of use.” She pridefully scoops up an assortment of pages and holds them up for the wight to see.

He makes no effort to close the distance or even pretend to read the inkbound magics; only a skeletal nod and a crossing of arm at his chest.

“I still believe this venture to be…..unnecessary.” The wight moves his left hand to rest on a sword pommel previously out of view, hidden by his cloak.

“The dark magics that cursed me were lost decades ago, of that I am convinced.” The wight’s voice had taken a stern undertone that failed, to Veeran anyway, to hide a pained sentiment.

“If there is one thing I have learned though, it is that you will continue on despite my advice. Isn’t that right, my Odyssey?”

The words send shivers down Veeran’s spine at the intimacy of his pet name for her, her favorite of a small list. She imagines the feeling of his exposed phalanges running through her hair the first time he had called her by it and sighs to herself.

The moment is cut alarmingly short as she is jolted to reality by the sound of his blade unsheathing and the lights of his eyes increasing in intensity.

“Danger is approaching” he hums lowly with a violent assurance. The fiery blue magic of his vision feels like staring into both frigid ice and a forge’s inferno.

“Make haste with your reading, my academic. Your safety supersedes your other wishes.” The wight’s form teeters between smoke and solidity. “Know that, as always, I will abscond with you should it be deemed warranted.” He does not allow for a rebuttal as he silently departs the same as he arrived, in shadow and chilled air.

******

Bradok’s boots crunch against the dried twigs littered along the ground around Cheroux Cemetery. Shouldering his rifle, he calls out, voice booming against the gravestones.

“Veeran Baurchand! You have been accused of performing magic and hoarding texts in direct opposition of the laws of your King and Country! Come out in a peaceful manner, that you may state your case without incident.”

Bradok spoke with a gruff disinterest, though not lacking in a serious tone. A moment of silence passes, wholly expected by Bradok, who prepares to issue another warning. A voice, unmistakenly masculine and ancient, thunders in all directions with a cyclonic impact.

“LEAVE THIS PLACE, INTERLOPER! I CARE NOT FOR YOUR THREATS AND AM NOT BEHOLDEN TO YOUR LAWS!” A skeletal form emerges from a darkened corner of the building’s exterior, sword in hand.

“THE WOMAN IS MINE AND I WILL NOT RELINQUISH HER TO ANYONE, LEAST OF ALL YOU!” The being bends at the waist and lets out a deafening yell, akin to an animalic growl of challenge.

Bradok pulls back the rifle’s hammer, expertly readjusts the ignition rune, and fires at the creature he now recognizes as a wight. The volley ricochets off a shoulder pauldron but impacts with enough force to push the wight back a few feet. Bradok ditches the rifle in the breaths after the shot lands to pull his cutlass and a flintlock pistol loaded with Panoptic shot.

The wight instantly bridges the gap between them and swings his sword, now laden with crackling magics.

Bradok parries, the volcanic glass humming crystalline melodies as it siphons surrounding energy. He fires the Panoptic shot into the torso of the wight, ringing true as it penetrates armor. Bradok drops the pistol but cannot grab another as he is forced to parry another strike with both hands.

The wight screeches in pain and delivers a series of blows towards Bradok’s arms and legs, all but a few barely deflected by his cutlass. Blood drips from fresh wounds, but Bradok is not concerned with them. He could always sew himself up, but the touch of a wight could kill him where he stood. He rolled under a cone of flame produced by the wight’s off-hand and dispatched several flying Panoptics that started to permeate the battleground.

Bradok pulled another pistol from his bandolier and quickly fired into the wight’s stomach. He sidestepped a downward blow and swung a strike in return that never landed. Pushed back by an unseen force, Bradok skids several feet and backpedals to regain his footing. Between him and the undead stands an unassuming woman in Institute robes veiled in a web made of magical barriers.

******

Veeran maintains the runework as she looks back momentarily at her protector. He can be furious with her later, as indeed he will be. He may want her safe, but she cannot allow this fight to continue at her expense. She knew what she was doing, breaking the law in pursuit of knowledge, and it had finally caught up with her.

“Do you know what that unholy beast is, girl,” clamored the stranger “that undead life-stealer?!” The accusation and impetuous tone made Veeran’s blood boil, and with it hung the failures of the past two years. She would find a way to break this curse, damn the rest of the world and its uncaring rules. The heat from holding the spell open mingled with her rage as she addressed the bounty hunter, the air sizzling with magic.

“His name is Dakkam Narand,” Veeran snapped, “and he is my husband.”