Chapter 3 : Gold Dust Woman

Mnemon Rhomon, Sorcerer

Realm Year 764, Descending Water

The City of Dead Flowers, An-Teng, Satrapy of the Realm

“We’ll have to leave soon, it’s already evening.” Rhomon noted with a scowl, looking through a fissure in the side of the palace. A short distance away, two heavy blows sounded, and a ghastly wail of pain issued forth as a corpse in black armor was struck. It stumbled back, stopping against the wall before being nailed against aged teak with a skull-crushing straight.

Brahm turned to regard him, lowering fists full of salt as the corpse slid down and the power of the ghost faded. The monk turned a critical eye towards the open gap in the wall before inclining his head in agreement. 

“It’s difficult to tell, with how thin and pallid the sunlight is here.” Brahm commented. Rhomon made a hum of agreement before starting forwards again, closing the drawers behind him. Once-fine furnishings of a noble apartment now reduced to dry, half-rotten boards and rusted metal. Only the bits of silver and gold were spared this tarnishing, and the occasional bauble of jade. 

“We’ll check one or two more rooms, then move to leave and try again tomorrow.” Rhomon nodded, walking along a hallway full of slumped corpses and spilled salt. The monk took up a defensive position next to him, eyes roaming the corners of the decaying chambers. 

“It may not be here-”

“It’s here.” Rhomon refuted with a small shake of his head and absolute confidence. It was indeed possible that his existence had led to long term ramifications that would negate his understanding of the future to come- but it would be useless to just assume that. What would be the point of doing anything if you think you have no idea what’s going on?

He pushed another door open with the tip of his staff, nonplussed as a bare-toothed ghost exploded out with violence in its eyes and a phantasmal sword in its hands. The guardian of flame leapt out of his staff and smashed the blow aside, protecting him from the heavy thrust. 

Brahm’s uppercut knocked the ghost up by a solid foot, a hammerblow to the gut that its thin armor did little to protect it from. He reversed momentum immediately after, spinning into a downward strike that smashed into the ghost’s face, carried it into the floor, and broke entirely through the rotten planks. Shards of wood bounced across his face. 

The ghost fell through, tumbling to the lower story and crashing into the ground a good twenty feet below.

Rhomon braced himself as the floor caved slightly, the wooden floor bending worryingly in response to the new crater through it. He stared at the hole in a very deliberate fashion, then slowly turned his gaze to the monk.

The monk was also staring at the hole, blank-faced. He turned his gaze up slowly, meeting Rhomon’s stare. “I underestimated the integrity of the floor.” He admitted bluntly.

“It’s been more than a thousand years.” Rhomon commented with a frown, calculating how he was going to get across the hole and into their next room. “Now- be prepared to catch me if I fall. I’m a hundred pounds heavier than normal thanks to my skin of bronze, so if I mess this up…”

“Are you confident that I can catch you?” Brahm asked with a slightly concerned frown. “If you weigh that much more than usual.”

Rhomon sighed and rolled his eyes. “On second thought, just let me fall. We’ll go back if I mess this up.” With that he made a short hop across the broken floor and landed at the edge of the next room. Several precarious moments followed as he stabilized himself and the doorframe groaned uneasily. 

When the sound of creaking wood stopped, he slowly pulled himself up into a standing position, looking around. Nothing was collapsing on him…

He gave the monk a thumbs-up and stepped forwards into the room. The room was pretty unremarkable from the looks of it, another noble quarter with rotten drawers and-

The floor cracked. He glanced down.

Slowly he rose a foot to move back.

The added weight to a single foot broke the floor entirely, sending him tumbling down into the darkness of a lower chamber. He shouted an expletive in Old Realm as he broke through, bouncing twice as his back hit lower rafters and then stopping with a heavy impact in a pile of wooden rubble.

He coughed, rotten wood dust hanging over his head and vision swimming dizzily. 

“Are you alright?” The monk called from some distance. 

“No, I died, I think.” Rhomon called up sarcastically, raising a hand to clutch at his forehead and rub at his eye. He pulled himself out of the wooden rubble and shook his head, regaining his bearings. He stood up, squinting up at the ceiling above as the monk acrobatically descended, feet kicking off broken rafters and landing with barely a whisper and gust of wind. “I’m fine- my skin of bronze kept me unharmed.” 

“Fortunate.” The monk’s reply was dry.

“Hush you, now where did we…” Rhomon snipped and then trailed off, gaze going to the far side of the room. The monk’s gaze followed his.

“...I suppose we found the crown.” Rhomon said somberly.

At the other end of the hall was a woman’s corpse, clad in a withered dress and faded jewelry, slumped against the wall and stained with long-dried blood. A golden crown with seven gemstone flowers rested upon her head. A great gash was torn in her side, spilling out into a sword-stoke against the wall and into the floor. A thick layer of dust hung in the air. 

“The entrance has collapsed.” The monk noted, looking behind them. “We would’ve never found this were it not for your fall. It truly was good fortune.”

Rhomon slowly approached the corpse, remarkably preserved through the ages, almost as if she was merely asleep rather than long dead. He crouched down next to her, an evaluating eye scanning up and down her form.

He closed his eyes and nodded. “I’m sorry. I’ll be borrowing this for a while, alright?” He spoke to the corpse, knowing that it probably couldn’t hear him. He reached out to touch the crown upon her head, but the moment his fingers brushed against it, the corpse collapsed into a wave of crumbling dust.

Regalia and jewels sat upon a pile of corpse-sand. 

Rhomon stared at it for a few seconds, then closed his eye. 

“I’m sorry.” He repeated to dust.

—

“You’re taking the daiklave as well?” The monk asked as they left the palace doors, quickly descending down the terraced steps and towards the salted canals in dimming light. Brahm carried a trunk of ivory over one shoulder, within which the reclaimed regalia was stored in safe cushioning. 

Rhomon, staff in hand, bag of nick-nacks over his shoulder, and the massive sword of the ghost-champion hefted over the other. The blade was a rich red hue, coated in the dust of ages but pristine beneath, with bronze embellishments and a round socketed hilt. 

“It was taken in battle, so it’s a trophy rather than a robbery.” Rhomon nodded with great surety, the blade and bags heavy on his shoulders and making his boots sink deep into the earth with every step. 

“You are mortal, you can’t even wield it.” The monk replied with raised brow, quick steps carrying him lightly in spite of the large trunk over his shoulder.

“Attunement to artifacts is something anyone can do, provided their essence is awakened and they know the method.” Rhomon shook his head. “The Exalted can do it instinctively, but it’s not unique to them, otherwise we’d see gods using mortal weaponry.”

“...And you know this method?” Brahm asked, pausing briefly to allow Rhomon to catch up with his heavy tread. The shadows began to lengthen as they ran.

“No, but I can’t imagine it will take me too long to figure it out.” 

“Your confidence is admirable.”

“Hush, focus on running.”

The darkness over the streets slowly increased in potency as they moved, and wispy forms grew increasingly distinct and clear as the sun descended. It was good that An-Teng was ultimately on the shoreline and not past the mountains to the east of it, otherwise they’d be drowned in darkness already. 

“We’re being followed- more hungry ghosts.”

“Just keep running, the warding talismans should still have potency and this earth is salted.”

As they ran and the shadows thickened, great trunklike legs began to form. Towering, elephantine feet covered in dark brass bangles and black leather wrappings, striding between broken buildings and well over the salted earth of the canals. Voices halfway between the trumpeting of elephants and the bark of generals began to filter through the dismal air.

Giant ghosts of fallen commanders, warped with age and bloated with essence, striding in the dying light of a dead city.

Rhomon sped up his pace, bag and daiklave bouncing on his shoulders and dirt being kicked up behind him. 

“What are those, sorcerer?!”

“None of our business, that’s what!”

—

The Palace of Threefold Magnificence was sat right in the middle of the lower capital, in the City of the Steel Lotus. A glorious creation of teak, ivory, gold, lapis, and pearl, surrounded by temples to local gods and the Immaculate Dragons, which in turn were surrounded by the Houses of Courteous Attention- halfway between whorehouses and host clubs, from what Rhomon understood of them. 

An-Teng had three princes in all, who administered the three broad subdivisions of the region on behalf of their mothers. An-Teng lines were matrilineal and women were expected to stay home and maintain the family’s spiritual connection to the land while the men roamed about and secured things for the whole. The palace of the Shore Lands served as the most regular meeting place of those three princes.

It took a few slightly stressful days for an open slot in the local prince’s schedule to open up, a time in which he received visitors and heard whatever they had to say. Rhomon spent most of those days sleeping in a guest room paid for by his connection to House Mnemon, and not letting the ivory trunk containing the very-important treasure leave his attention. 

“Now presenting- The Son of Lady Mnemon, who has come to offer gifts.” A man in fashionable jacket, robes, and tight pants announced to a throne room of similarly clad men and women. Most in the room wore silks of various colors, with men trending towards darker shades and women towards lighter, with silver and golden jewelry adorning most necks, arms, ankles, and elsewhere. 

Near the back of the room was a man with a laidback posture and smile, wearing loose silk robes, furs, and jewelry of red, white, and blue jade. His smile was not forced, but it bore the casual ease of one who was used to smiling to be polite rather than genuine joy. Besides him, in a throne of her own, a woman in similarly high fashion sat. Both man and woman had dark hair and eyes, with skin a paler shade of gold. 

“Prince of the Shore Lands, Princess of the Shore Lands.” Rhomon greeted with a slight, respectful bow and greeting, holding a trunk upon his shoulder and his staff with the other hand. “Thank you for allowing me this meeting- I’ve come to return something to the royal family of An-Teng.”

“Oh?” The prince made a note of curiosity, leaning forwards slightly in his throne of jade and ivory. His name was Laxhander, Rhomon knew, but it was highly impolite to refer to a social superior by anything other than their title in An-Teng. Whether or not a non-dragonblooded dynastic son was the social superior of a prince of a satrapy or not was a matter of debate, but it was best to err on the side of formality. 

The fact that his name was ‘Lax-Hand’ was immensely amusing, and it was hard to keep the humor off his face regarding it.

“With the aid of my monk-escort, and guidance of Halax, son of Rubara, and good arms and mule of Pal, son of Halar-” Rhomon made sure to properly credit all the people who aided him in the task, as was polite. “-I delved into the City of Dead Flowers.”

There were a few dramatic gasps. The only woman wearing the mon of the Realm raised her brow, looking over a set of wide, circular, thin-rim glasses. Another dynast if he were to guess, from her looks and bearing.

He handed his staff off to monk Brahm for a moment, before lowering the trunk to the ground and slowly opening it. “We confronted the defenders, we bested them in combat, and we explored that ancient palace. Within we found the lost regalia of An-Teng.”

Slowly, grasping a cushion by the sides and lifting it out of the trunk, Rhomon raised the seven-jeweled crown before the room. “I present the Seven Lotus Crown, and deliver it to its most-rightful inheritors."

The dramatic gasps sounded out again, this time with entirely different tones.

Prince Laxhander’s polite smile turned into an ecstatic grin. He pushed up from his throne, stepping down the polished stairs and onto the silk carpeting. Rhomon inclined his head and held the cushion still for the prince to regard.

His pale-gold hands reached out, hesitantly at first, then with surety, grasping the crown. The prince held it in his hands for a few moments with half-lidded eyes and a small smile.

“...It’s still covered in dust.” The prince remarked with a fond humor.

“I admit, I have no experience in cleaning jewelry. I didn’t want to accidentally tarnish it.” Rhomon shrugged, placing the cushion back into the aged trunk. “Neither this cushion nor trunk was paired with the crown when we found it, they were just convenient containers.” He explained, gesturing lightly to both accessories on the floor and taking his staff back from the monk. 

“Mother is going to be in such a mood, that she missed this…” Laxhander muttered quietly to himself, a deep mirth in his tone. He turned to regard the woman on the throne, who was leaning forwards with wide eyes. “Sister!” He remarked, striding back towards the thrones and the woman there.

Rhomon blinked. He would’ve guessed the woman to be his wife, not his sister. The prince slowly, delicately lowered the crown over her hair and upon her head, then rubbed her cheek with one fond hand. 

“...You were correct, Brother Laxhander. It is covered in dust.” The woman remarked with a scrunching of her expression, mixed between exhilaration and vague discomfort. 

“Mother will insist on wearing it, no doubt, but at least for the time I think it suits your brow.” The Prince remarked joyfully. He spun afterwards, taking his hand from his sister’s cheek and back to Rhomon. “Son of Mnemon! A service such as this demands reward! Anything you wish- wealth, fame, any of my relatives as bride- anything I can provide!”

Now, if he were motivated by political ambitions, Rhomon would take advantage of this to increase the status of himself and his house in the eyes of the Realm. The eternal pecking-order game played by Dynasts, draining the world dry so that ten thousand or so dragon-demigod-supersoldiers could take social potshots at each other.

However, Rhomon was motivated by something a bit more important than that. “I have three requests in all, Prince of the Southlands.”

“Name them.” The prince waved a hand, stepping down from the thrones and back towards him again. 

“The first is lore- copies of whatever tomes you have on thaumaturgy and sorcery. The arts of Alchemy and Enchanting in particular.” Rhomon smiled. “As a student of the Heptagram, it’s something of a personal interest of mine.”

“I understand completely. I’ll have my scholars assemble such tomes- and send messages to my brothers to do the same. All mysticism in An-Teng will be at your disposal.” The prince waved a gregarious hand, even as some nervous looks were exchanged by the revelation that Rhomon was a sorcerer.

“The second is warning- I ask that you increase your vigilance against servants of the Yozi and Underworld. That you root them out where you find them, and that efforts to reclaim the shadowlands be undertaken.”

“To reclaim a shadowlands?” The prince repeated with raised brows. “Such things require great magics, do they not?”

“The greatest of all magics is a great deal of mortals all committing to the same task, Lord Prince.” Rhomon nodded assuringly. “A great deal of families living on the borders of a shadowland, mixing the soils and diluting the lingering death, regular festivals of fertility and life, and great, great fecundity can all erode the Underworld’s grasp on the land. As much as a mile every year can be reclaimed with such methods.”

“Great fecundity… Perhaps I will entreat those serpent-men to the south for settlers…?” The prince rubbed at his chin in a thoughtful manner, somewhat less eager and sure with this request. 

“I intend to visit them myself soon enough, if you’d like for me to carry a message.” Rhomon offered with a raised hand, palm facing up. The prince nodded his head back and forth.

“Perhaps… and your third request?”

“Ah- transportation up the River of Queens, if it’s convenient. I intend to visit the Thousand Dragon’s Lake, and from there the Pinnacle of Mercy, and depart from An-Teng thereafter.”

“You have saved the simplest request for last, Son of Mnemon.” The prince grinned mirthfully. “The humor of the Dragons of Earth is delightfully strange.”

Rhomon smiled apologetically. “Ah, I must apologize, Prince of the Shore Lands. I did not properly clarify my station.”

The prince paused, narrowing his eyes.

“I am the son of Mnemon, yes…” Rhomon shook his head. “But my dragon’s blood never awoke.”

“I’m merely a mortal.”