Vigil of the Old Road

[Kitsunestume]

Three fluid dramch of hydroargentum.
Seven hundred fifty eight grain of powdered silver.
Eighty three grain of pulverised diamond.

A lone, dark eye ministered the introduction of each element to the stone mortar, and the subsequent mixing under moderate pressure. With time and attention, the blend of colourless components solidify into a grainy, amber-gold amalgam in the basin. The rapidly-hardening paste is smeared into a series of small rosin-holders and shaped into rectangular form.

The monocular figure picks up the first of the new production batch and moves across to a side-table, where a linen wrap conceals the bulk of a great-blade. Folding the cloth down, he lays a hand upon the bare steel, eye downcast in contemplation. A breath passes, then another, permitting the weight of memory before he moves again.

With sudden purpose and violent precision, the hilt of the sword is grasped and lifted, followed by a single smooth sweep of the alchemical amalgam along the crudely sharpened edge. Lifting the weapon to eye-level, the man waits while leaning the blade almost imperceivably looking for….

There. A flash of brilliant azure reflected in dim candlelight, dancing along the exposed metal. The culmination of many months of sleepless study, costly negotiations for purified reagents, and countless failed trials. It only took one: to endure, to outlast, to validate the price of endless failure. A small step, but a keystone nonetheless.

Belting a scabbard to his waist and returning the heavy blade home, he appraised this latest development curing on the worktable. There were foes who thought nothing of the cold bite of steel; old, insidious entities that wound their decrepit ephemeral claws around the hearts and minds of men. A lone soldier had little chance to defend against such assault, let alone retaliate with the mundane means at their disposal. This success, however, was but a first glimmer of potential to retribute against those corrupted, lumbering tyrants.

Tightening the last straps of equipment, bucking the muted steel of a breastplate to his pack, and looping the fractured silver amulet to one side, the man opened the door to the room and descended a short flight of stairs.
“Imperfect yet, but it will do”, the departing alchemist comments idly to the proprietor of the establishment, regarding his recent creation. “Don’t wait up for me. Should the reports of the roads be accurate, today’s vigil will prove most productive and fruitful.”

He pauses in the foyer, hand resting on the handle of the door, lingering a moment before pushing the heavy portal open into the Aspirations Plaza. "Until next, let the eternal vigil fall silent upon you.”

[Kitsunestume]

Four ounces of rowan spirits, sanctified under shadowed boughs.
A dramch of grave dust from a fallen saint.
Thirty six grain of powdered bloodstone.
Two condensed fundamentals sparking with vitality.

Fractured moonlight filters through the aged windows of the University laboratory, illuminating the figure of an ashen alchemist as he fills a mortar with the turpentine. With slow, methodical reverence, the bone-dry grey dusts are spooned into the vessel and swirled with the pestle to form an opaque suspension. As the sediment begins to settle within the amber liquid, the man extracts the final ingredient from a leather pouch nearby.

“Fates entwine, sins unborn taint a quondam squire.”

Plucking a pair of glassy orbs, he holds each into a beam of moonlight to glimmer weakly with a warm, gentle luminescence.

“A twinned bond, forged in faith and fire”

With a diminutive scribe, both articles are etched with fine runes. As the surface is broken, the cracks radiate streamers of pure, white light.

“Shattered one, fallen to the grasping mire”

An etched essence is placed within the mortar, and the man brings the pestle down hard on the contents. The laboratory flashes briefly from the radiance, but it is quickly engulfed in the cloying mixture within the stone cup.

“The match consumed, dreams twisted by desire”

The second essence is lifted above the container with a pair of tongs, and a lamp-flame brought close. Melting in the heat from the torch, driblets of glimmering light fall into the murky fluid below. The liquid shrieks and sputters with each molten droplet extinguished within, but soon all is quiet once more.

“Together once, remade anew in ash and briar”

Running the pestle in circular motions, the oil gradually and inexplicably clarifies, leaving no evidence of the powders or broken glass within the translucent, umber mixture after many minutes of stirring.

“The road is darkened, and my passage dire.”

A sable brush is chosen from the workbench, and dipped within the syrup. He turns to an armour supported upon a mannequin nearby, and begins to trace patterns upon the weathered, midnight-blue lacquer.

“Ward this shell, instil the girding I require.”

The process is slow, taking time for the precision with more than a few consultations to a diagram in a notebook. The moonbeams are gone by the time the process is complete, as pre-dawn twilight bathes the room in sombre shades. The tracery evaporates as it dries, leaving little visible sign that any treatment had occurred.

The monocular alchemist lifts his handiwork, head bowed before committing to the final act.

“By the Vigil Eternal, in contempt I now attire”