Side A – Yasgrid
As far as universal truths go, none are truly universal. That powerful people dislike having their power challenged however comes rather close to true universality.
Gods, for example, tend to believe that when they smite mortals with their divine power, the mortal in question should be properly smote afterwards. Be it as a pillar of salt, or ashes floating on the wind, or dragged to the deepest pits of the underworld, there is a shared expectation that the offending mortal should not be a continuing problem post-smiting.
Strangely, after Ilia smote Yasgrid with unholy fire, it was neither Yasgrid nor Ilia who shrieked as the smoke cleared and Yasgrid dusted the ashes of the moonlight webbing she’d been bound in off her shoulder. Instead both of them turned to look at the Fate Dancer who’d decided that the proper response to someone surviving divine retribution was to emit as high pitched of a keening wail as he was capable of generating.
Ilia raised her finger to caution Yasgrid to hold off on whatever action she planned to take next, which Yasgrid was fine with as she had no the interest further provoking the god.
“Silence,” Ilia commanded. She would literally have had better luck commanding the winds and the earth. “SILENCE”, she tried again, to similar effect. Lacking any other option, she turned to Yasgrid. “Did I break him?”
“I think this one’s on me,” Yasgrid said.
“Explain,” Ilia said, her tone turning dangerous once more.
“I shouldn’t have survived what you just did,” Yasgrid said, not wanting to state the obvious but needing to establish the right baseline.
“No. You shouldn’t have,” Ilia agreed, not any more noticeably pleased with the result even with Yasgrid’s admission of its impossibility.
“The Fate Dancers have a form of magic which I’m not particularly well versed in,” Yasgrid said. “But from what I’ve managed to piece together, they can view and work with the weave of time itself.”
“And what does that theory suggest to you?” Ilia asked, clearly unwilling to provide the confirmation or negation which would further Yasgrid’s understanding.
“What I did, I think, wasn’t in any of the time line’s they could see,” Yasgrid said.
“And why is that?” Ilia asked, her expression darkening as though Yasgrid was treading into dangerous territory.
Which she very definitely was.
“Because what I drew on was true magic,” Yasgrid said. “The Fate Dancer’s magics are a part of this world. The Elven Gods planned for it and allowed it. It works with the mystical forces which are bound within the world, and even when they change things, they do not change them outside the bounds of the shape the Darkwood is meant to be in.”
“And you believe your magics are different? How could you know that? Do you imagine you have touched on magics beyond that which the gods themselves hold?”
“I don’t imagine it at all,” Yasgrid said. “I am born of a line which has wrestled with gods since the world’s creation. In my heart beats the same rhythm as theirs. And I am not alone.”
From her chest, Yasgrid drew forth a blazing spark which was just so eager to burn brighter than it ever had before.
Side B – Nia
Nia didn’t need anyone to tell her she was in the presence of a star. The sheer confidence that radiated off “Old Jurdy” was palpable enough that it drowned out the echo of the song Nia could still hear in the Shatter drum.
“I don’t need this one,” Nia said, gesturing to the drum all of her drummers were clustered around. “Honestly it’s probably too good for me.”
Jurdy snorted at that. “Damn right it is.”
“But I do need one.”
“You and every other drummer here kid,” Jurdy said. “Don’t see what makes you think you should jump to the front of the line.”
“I don’t know,” Nia said. “Do you think anyone else here can fix this?”
Her dummers roared in approval at that.
Or they were roaring because Nia was about to get smackdown for being a prideful little welp.
Could have been either, and Nia couldn’t blame them for either one.
Jurdy’s laugh was definitely on the less kind side of things.
“Oh that’s rich. Little Osdora’s daughter thinks she’s special, how unexpected.”
“I ain’t special because of who my Mom is,” Nia said, more fire in her voice than she’d planned for.
Apparently being judged based on who her mother was was a but of a sore point for her still.
Nia noticed her fists were clenched.
Okay. More than a sore point then.
“At least you got that right,” Jurdy said.
“I’m special because I’m the one who did that,” she said, pointing to the still expanding crystal zone.
“So did everyone here. That doesn’t make you special. That just makes all of you idiots,” Jurdy said.
“I’m not talking about the song we made at the Battle of the Bands,” Nia said. “I’m talking about the song I played afterwards.”
“Wait, what song was that?” Gracella asked.
“She played on one of the drums that was outside the hall,” Margrada said. “One where an elf statue had appeared.”
“Yeah, and what happened?” Jurdy asked.
“The Elf’s not a statue any more,” Nia said. “Or at least not an immobile one.”
“Wait. What did you do?” Jurdy asked, her tone growing more suspicious with each word.
“Technically, it was what we did,” Nia said. “This woman here is a damn genius,” she gestured with both hands to Margrada, “and I would absolutely not be here without her.”
“I was not the one who went into the heart of the song though,” Margrada said. “Only Nia was able to do that.”
“I’m sorry, I know I did not hear that right. Must be getting old or something,” Jurdy said, cleaning out her left ear with her pinky finger. “You did what?”
“I road the song and brought the person who was trapped in it out, thanks to the lifeline Margrada created for me,” Nia said. “And in the process, I did that. So since it’s my fault for breaking it, someone is going to get me a gods-be-damned drum so I can fix it.”