Quest for the Gemgark

The very best of spitesprites could fade away with a roomful of eyes on them, leaving no trace of their presence and vague, unsure memories of their passage. Idealana was not one of them. Long ago, she had accepted – though not without the resentment that defines the spitesprite species – that her natural ability to vanish from sight were average, if not below. Yet she had a measure of innovation that set her apart.

She pointed to the back of the bar, where three accidents of industrial, biological and spiritual nature were clustered. The pointing was critical, as was the “Over there!” – in the split second where the lizardly creature paused in its dragging of the dead-eyed wizard at the momentary onslaught of gazes, Idealana simply wove into the part of the world the mind disregarded as being unimportant. Only her strange savior tracked, with extra eyes, a sliver of odd shadow weave its way away and heard a cold, boyish voice dispersed thinly amongst the noise:

“You too seek the Gem with no Name? Follow me, eddst kerie, with the shadows.”

And the customers returned to their meals and ale, the entertainment concluded.

For a moment, Aureole paused and watched a ripple of averted eyes pass through the masses – then she turned back to face the landlord and fixed his intense stare with her own, punctuating it with the slightest ripple of fabric under her cloak. To her satisfaction, the landlord’s eyes immediately found better things to concern themselves with, namely customers.

The spitesprite waited like a wraith in the darkest corner of the tavern, where eyes could not see her even if she were not turning them away. But with a little effort and some definitely-not-human eyes, Aureole could make out a slender, black-clad figure nursing a flask from which little vapors could be seen emitting. A pale, pallid face smeared in black looked up as Aureole approached, and produced a tiny, warming smile that looked lost on the otherwise cold visage.

“Eddst kerie. Loosely translated from Middle Sprite, ‘a saving friend’.” The spitesprite’s eyes met those visible under the stranger’s hood. “We, the spitesprites, interpret it differently: ‘an ally who is owed a debt’.”

Aureole held up a hand to protest; the spitesprite’s came up to stop it. “As you wish.”

Idealana stared harder into the blackness under the stranger’s hood, still gripping that subtly-odd hand. “We take our debts seriously, as we do our contracts. If you know nothing about the spitesprites, let that be your first lesson.” A flicker of the smile returned. “My name is Idealana.”

The hooded head nodded. “And my name is Aureole. Shall we speak of gems?”