The Endless Tapestry- Part 1

Authors notes- Hey there, after a long stretch of inactivity, I'm here with another First chapter. I won't make any promises about this blooming into a full novel, as I have in the past. I'd like to finish a project, but I keep thinking of new ways to tackle the story I'm trying to create. So, in other words, roughly the same setting and theme as my last failed novel- Immortality. 

Oh, and as always- Rip this to shreds.

Cerin gazed around at his dismal surroundings, holding back what would have been a rather pompous remark, if there had been anyone present to hear it. The room was quite destitute, a storage room in a long-abandoned Tailors shop. The neglected air of the room was almost oppressive. Moth eaten shawls had been slung desultorily on battered racks. Faded overcoats and dresses, worn with time had been stuffed into corners or flung onto chairs. Cerin allowed himself a sigh as he sat down on the floor, near a stubbornly burning candle that had been placed in advance of his arrival. Cerin set his case down, a dark, polished box with silver gilding. He could not help gazing for a moment at one of the missing hinges, which he had pawned off for a night’s lodging. Cerin himself was clothed in a weather-stained overcoat, which had been made in a far more prosperous Tailor than the one he found himself in. It was of a fine dark blue cloth, gilded with silver around the collar and sleeves. His boots were worn, but in good condition, of an expensive leather, and his belt much the same. These clothes, while making him a constant juxtaposition to his surroundings, also lent him an air of authority. Although some would argue that his proud, dark eyes, sharp eyebrows and angular features would give him such an aura if he was clothed in rags. Several minutes passed, as Cerin sat in a brooding and thoughtful silence.

Despite knowing of the man’s coming in advance, he jumped slightly upon hearing a rustling beneath the floorboards. He quickly composed himself as a trapdoor opened, heaving back a pile of stained shirts. A head appeared, clearly belonging to a heavily-built frame. His features were chiselled and coarse, and his head was bald, yet he sported a silver, grizzled beard, with was pointed as roughly as a Cliffside. He turned his head to Cerin, and indicated with his meaty palm for Cerin to follow. Then, without further discussion, he slid back into the darkness. Cerin picked his case up, and confidently climbed down the ladder after the man, as if to show him his place. He slid down, his boots splashing in something which he decided not to investigate. His Guide was waiting, with an oil lamp burning softly in hand.

“Alrigh’, this way, lad”, he slurred in the general accent of the lower classes, and turned with surprising agility, making his way through the passage.

Cerin followed after, maintaining a dignified air, while looking at his surroundings with a contemptuous light in his eyes. They were travelling along a cramped passage. The walls were of crumbling brick, and dripping with moisture. Moss crawled along the walls freely. They were in a small channel, which would soon lead into the main tunnels, Cerin knew. He resolved to ask his questions here, before the threat of High-collars forced him into silence.

He cleared his throat pointedly, “Excuse me,” He said with the same tone he reserved for the lower classes, “How long will the journey be. I’m sure you have been informed that the matter at hand is of pressing concern”.

The balding man glanced behind him, his rough features eerily pronounced in the darkness.

“It’ll take as long as it takes. All depends, Y’see. Might run into somethin’, you yourself know the like. Don’t fret lad, I know these tunnels well.”

Cerin raised his eyebrow at this. “Run into something? The High-Collars, you mean.”

The man, to Cerin’s annoyance, he chuckled knowingly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about the High-Collars ere’, lad. They wouldn’t dare peep their heads down ere’. Much rather crowd the streets, where they can pick on somefin’ that don’t fight back. No, they aren’t what you need be afraid of.”

While slightly offset by the man’s knowing a manner of speech, Cerin ventured to ask what the danger was, but thought it best to leave the question unasked. He was also somewhat put-out by how the man’s manner, which seemed nearly superior. He resolved to make his stature clear to this Guide clear as soon as an opportunity presented itself. The channel sloped downward, and Cerin had to duck his head to avoid grazing it against the ceiling. His guide had the luxury of a stooped back. At last, they came into a far wider tunnel. The distasteful stench of the channel was magnified by tenfold here, the source being a churning, murky river of waste. Cerin’s spirits dropped lower still. They walked in silence for several minutes, turning occasionally through the labyrinthine sewers.

Finding the silence unbearable, with only the sound of scurrying rats and churning waste to listen to, Cerin decided to break the silence.

“I suppose you work directly for Master Gar’list?”

“Jarlin”, The Guide corrected with surprising eloquence, “And I’m is’ daughters guard.” He spoke with a sense of pride.

“You seem to be doing quite a good job”, Cerin returned dryly.

The Guide chuckled. “Oh, you don’t worry bout’ her. She’s with Jarlin, safe an’ sound.” He paused. “Besides, that girl can take care of erself’ at any rate”.

Cerin settled into a haughty silence. Then, he nearly stumbled forward. Something had occurred to him.

“Jarlin is in his daughter’s company? I heard last that she was seeking—

The Guide spun around and grabbed Cerin by his collar, dragging him into an alcove. For a moment, Cerin could only stagger forward lamely, stunned. As he was about to shout out, the Guide’s heavy palm clasped over his mouth.

“Ssh, quiet, quiet! Listen!”

Cerin stopped struggling for a moment. Sure enough, footsteps and voices could be heard nearby.

Then, a sickening thud sounded through the tunnel, followed by broken laughter. The voices drew nearer, coming into earshot.

“Greasy old shite. Disappointing, really. Didn’t even fight.” The speaker was young, perhaps in his early teens.

Another voice chuckled. “What’d you expect? He must’ve been a century old. They say he went to the Pellar, y’know, the one near Rowles street? They say he went there every day. Makes sense, with all that coin he had lying around.”

One of the two speakers spit loudly.

“And,” The second speaker continued, “I’d wager the dried old worm got all his money from Mister Rowle imself’. They say that he’d be making poisons for Mister Rowles all day, in his little attic, and he’d sneak them into the guests drink imself’, on Mister Rowles behalf.”

The first speaker snorted. “Him? He couldn’t put a poison together. Couldn’t even put a cup of tea together, the clumsy old…”

The voices faded away.

The Guide released Cerin, smoothly sliding past him and continuing his journey.

Dazed, Cerin stood there a moment. Then he snapped awake, following after at a brisk, dignified march.

Several minutes passed of uneventful travel, as they turned through passages, slipping through doors. Soon, they were in a cramped, yet unusually clean and stable looking stone corridor. They reached the end, where the corridor widened enough to fit a lacquered door and the two guards flanking it. A bell hung loosely from a cord, presumably to ring in alarm.

The guards were of a heavy build, like the Guide, with shaven heads and hard, chiselled faces. One had a scar across his eye, and the other had a scar of his own in the form of a seemingly natural sneer.

They let the Guide past without a second glance. After briefly sorting through a number of jingling keys, the Guide unlocked the door. Cerin followed with his head held high, clinging to his composure. But a thought kept flitting through his mind.

Jarlin’s daughter- Yes, Una, that was her name. She was seeking the secrets of immortality, was she not? They said Jarlin vowed that he would disown a daughter that chased after such fancies. If she truly is in his company… could she have…?

Cerin steered his thoughts away. Those were dangerous thoughts for an alchemist to holster.

He stepped into the room, and was greeted with an interior somehow both pleasant and intimidating.

The walls were polished wood and finely chiselled stone. A fireplace crackled softly at the wall. Bookshelves lined the room, along with beautifully painted vases, set on pedestals, and doors to adjoining rooms. A long, lacquered table filled the centre of the room, it’s feet carved into claws. Only two of the eight cushioned chairs were occupied. One was the highest seat, sitting at the top of the table. The other was directly opposite him, on the other side. Although he had never seen the two legendary figures, Cerin could automatically tell that this was indeed the Alchemist of legend and his Daughter- Quintin and Una Jarlin. They were seated stiffly, their eyes locked in a rather standoffish manner. Una was clutching a large glass bottle, filled with a murky blue liquid.

Surely not, Cerin thought. It’s impossible. It must be a trick. However…

Mister Jarlin was frowning thoughtfully at his daughter. But behind those eyes lay something… a fierce greed Cerin all too well recognised.

Una’s face was held carefully in an expression devoid of emotion. But her eyes, they showed a knowing, smug light.

Suddenly, there was no doubt in his mind.

She has found immortality elixir.