Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task
Chapter 9: Scene VI, Part II

A bizarre place Beelstow’s pit was. Almost perfectly symmetrical apart from the odds and ends littering. A large fire pit took up the center, leaving barely enough room for the Warden to position his massive self against the cavern’s wall. Supplies piled one side and cloths the other. A legless tabletop lie beside the silks, seemingly pressing the mined minerals into flat molds from which Beelstow would then fan the flames until a silk was produced.

“You see, the ebony silks we mine come in thin, thin threads and are pressed next to each other until they bind again. It is then that we fan them until they become silk.” Beelstow spoke as though the process were his pride, jewel, and joy. He leaned heavily against the plutonic outline of his pit (being as it was but a pocket in the formation Lerchah had fought to enclose). “Have a seat here!” the Warden welcomed, tossing a sack to where Mr Fauldon seated himself.

Despite the bread being hardened, dry, and slightly overdue, Mr Fauldon was relieved to finally have food in him. In the sack he also found a tightly wound skin from which dripped a steady moisture. “What is this?” he asked, for it neither tasted like water or wine.

“That is Obliquor—our city’s finest,” Beelstow added. “It is the extract of the magma wasp hives further distontay from here. Truly a spectacular refreshment. It seeps slowly so as to replenish slower. It does no man good to guzzle—except on extremely rare conditions such as feasts or when thirsty.” The Warden broke into laughter, as did Mercedies.

Mr Fauldon held the skin to his face, wringing his hands about it in a manner that the droplets might collect more swiftly upon his dried lips. The liquid was refreshing indeed. He felt its course as it made its way down his throat and into his stomach. The cramping was easing and Mr Fauldon could finally feel the exhaustion coming over him. He looked drearily at the Warden and Grounder in his company. He felt a wave of numbness to his pains.

It was the Obliquor, for it had reached his blood. He thought himself about to drift into a deep rest, but his senses quickly began returning to him. A new sharpness arose in his awareness.

“What happened?” he asked, amazed at the energy swelling up within him (for he knew he needed sleep, but it now felt as though his body had just forgotten).

The Warden chuckled once more, “That would be the refresher kicking in. We of Distontay oft not have the time to rest and recoup; thus, we grow fonder of the Obliquor, for it rejuvenates and awakens. I give that skin to you. Keep it should you need it along your journey ahead. Which leads me to our discussion—to your purpose.”

Mr Fauldon perked up, remembering now the reason for which he’d come. “Yes, the Violstone… do you have it?”

“Ha, I would not be so eager to accept, young Karier. They are birthed from deep within the rock where the Veins of Essence converge unknowingly. This one was late, and as such, will need a bit more watching. I know not what goes on beyond this, only that these stones are temperamental. I heed you: tread carefully and speak sparingly of it. For many know you are the Karier and seek already the coat you bear of Korgath skin, how much more so once they know you carry this gem?”

The Warden’s face bore a serious expression—his mustache straightened and chest tensed as he drew out a folded cloth. “This… is the Violstone. Keep in mind: you are the Karier, but more importantly you are the carrier of this stone’s task. You have heard of the task?”

“If by task you mean the journey to the Lighthouse, then yes,” Mr Fauldon answered. “I was brought to Sir Grevious’ homestead to be sent here to now carry out the task of getting to the Lighthouse.”

Beelstow shook his head to the shallowness (knowing it not to be Mr Fauldon’s fault, but definitely a fault he bore). “First off, your task is less to carry and more so to care for. Realize this, Mr Fauldon: the stone is alive. It is what brinks realities—some even say it is of Nim. But it is also absolutely essential to the balance of things. As the book said:

“A Violstone so blue, filled with red in fainted hue;

A stone wherein veins of essence grow a smoldering sense of fortitude.

It has long since brought the rifts of herald near,

Balancing the cask of lives so distantly clear.

Placed in the Lighthouse, the stone foretells of that which is to remain,

Though the weight of its task adds to it strain—

Such strain that causes a need for it to rise up again.

Thus, a Karier is brought to bring it to its place,

Out of place and to its place, a balance replaced in its wake.

But caution to the one who carries,

For a mind in ponderance oft overlooks its pains.

Should such mind finally awake, to distant places will it take,

And the longer the stone without dwell shall be

The more unstable all that is held is becoming.”

“You see,” the Warden continued, his weight and position adjusting to the crackling of flame, “the Violstone maintains the balance of realms beyond our control and keeps reality as we know it from colliding with that which we do not know. But as the words made clear, much strain is placed upon these stones. It is you, the Karier, who must care for it, else it slip into the realms from which it came. This of which a certain Karier of past did not do too well.”

Beelstow took in a deep breath, brushed his mustache, and took another chunk of bread to his massive jaws. It had been quite some time since he had spoken so much in one breath, but the man seemed more than willing to make his point. “All that to say, I know nothing of these realms or the essence, only that when the stone does grow weak, the grounds tremble.”

“But why the Lighthouse?” Mr Fauldon asked.

“Since when has it ever done good to hide a light underneath a bush? As I said, I know not much more than what is. I only know how things are, not why. Promise me, though, that you will see to it that the stone reaches its dwelling with strength to maintain. You are its caretaker as well as its Karier. But more important is its task than yours—both being inseparable.”

At this time, Beelstow handed the cloth and stone gently to Mr Fauldon’s shaking palms. A mutual still set over the area as for a moment a bond formed (be it the briefest in actuality but longest to Mr Fauldon) a bond formed. He felt far more passionate to perform his task than the doubtfulness that had once occupied him. It was as though his whole life he’d dreamed of doing this one task, yet only recently had he been thrown into a reality so different, so new to him, that he still felt an overwhelming sense of fascination and mystery. He no longer had to wander the streets of—

The moment was done just as a clock would strike from one turn to another. Trembling, he took in the cloth and stone. Humbled, he drew it nearer. Overwhelmed, he tucked it close to his chest and beneath the unwavering shelter of Korgath skin.

He understood what the Warden meant. The stone rest in Mr Fauldon’s hands yet felt alive. Beelstow’s grin grew unashamed. The man clamped his fists together in celebration, and reached out to one of the silks beside him. “Here,” he spoke to Mercedies, “take this silk of ebony and return to the city of Obliviouseh. Have Nobaph make him a sash for that stone so that he may carry it securely and in good confidence, for his hands are sweaty.”

The two laughed, though Mr Fauldon couldn’t blame them. The sheer measure of which he felt obliged definitely brought a quiver to his touch.

“Then go we shall. May the Lerchah yield to your strength,” Mercedies said to the Warden, bidding him well. Lifting the cloth, she flung it about herself and Mr Fauldon, and again they were enveloped into a tunnel of black until they appeared back in the great City of Ebony.

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