Book 5 - Chapter 50 - Minor Interlude – Elsynthene – Prideful Prejudice (Patreon)

Elsynthene, Maestro of Conducting, had precious little fondness for the life she lived. Her true passions lay in her art; she loved nothing more than guiding the brilliant performances of younger elves. Unfortunately, due to the demands on her time, it was rare that she found the opportunity to indulge in conducting. As both Maestro and as a founder of Ar-Suelle, she had a duty to safeguard and manage the lives of tens of thousands of young artists. Which meant that even when she escaped her unending meetings, what time remained was consumed by constant calculations and logistical plans, many of which needed to be redone with little warning due to some celebration or event cropping up without sufficient notice.

And through it all, there was the itch.

But who else both could and would step willingly into her shoes? Many of her fellow Maestro were little more than haughty children, scarcely willing to endure an overly long meeting as a side-effect of their vaunted prowess. They could be entrusted with certain simple tasks, but she had learned the hard way that if she asked too much of them, they would willingly underperform just to let themselves be replaced at the earliest opportunity. And then she would lose more time training and preparing the next Maestro of Dancing, Horticulture, Architecture, Sculpting, Cooking, Painting, and/or Music.

All while she endured the unceasing itch.

As was all too common, there were only five hours left before dawn—which would herald another meeting about the city’s increased food consumption—when Elsynthene finally pushed the door to her home open. Sleep beckoned, though there were more things to do first. Personal hygiene was difficult with her frail, cursed skin, but it was still important. And if something was important, it was always worth doing.

“Hey Elsyny, you’re home late.”

Festering fruits.

Elsynthene raised her head and turned to face the intruder within her sole respite—a woman that she despised in a way that few people could claim to match. Myntheria.

“I do not recall granting you access to my home.” Elsynthene was still tactful, no matter how tempted she was to unleash a bolt of lethal energy at the interloper.

“Elsyny, I was there when this tree was planted and I did most of the original enchanting work myself.” The layabout claimed in a faux-innocent tone.

As if any of that mattered. Elsynthene had personally seen to it that all of the original enchantments were stripped out and replaced by [Enchanters] that she could nominally trust. Not that she was surprised by the nonanswer.

Myntheria, a fellow founder of the City of Arts. The woman had held—at different times—the titles for the Maestro of Cooking, Architecture, Horticulture, and Music. A second-generation elf, born of the union of two of the godmade. And throughout her long life, the woman somehow remained little more than a spoiled child. She dabbled and grew bored, then superficially changed her personality, just as she changed her class.

In a better timeline, perhaps one of the other founders would have remained within the City of Arts and helped Elsynthene bear the burdens of the city. Unfortunately, she was stuck with a woman that declined to offer a moment of assistance, yet somehow saw fit to intrude and make demands of Elsynthene’s precious time.

“What do you want?” A proper lady should restrain her temper in all things, but she had no patience left to offer the infantile.

“Our dear mutual friend departed today, and you didn’t even make an appearance at her farewell party. She was quite upset about it. She even had a gift prepared for you, believing that you would care enough to be there.” Myntheria indulged in false dramatics as she brushed the backs of her fingers across her own face, as though she was wiping away nonexistent tears.

“She was a poor investment. Nothing more than a liar that dared to invite a potentially dangerous problem into our community. Would it satisfy you to know that I am glad to see her gone?” Elsynthene was willing to sacrifice a little face to be done with whatever games Myntheria was up to. The words were barely even an exaggeration of her true feelings.

“Oh, Elsyny. Do you ever stop and wonder why our mutual loathing is the closest thing you’ve had to genuine friendship for centuries now? It must be difficult to lead a life of willful blindness and utter ignorance.” Myntheria’s barb was outright acerbic, which was more than a touch unusual.

And incredibly irritating.

“She lied to me! I gave her time and energy that I could scarcely afford to spare because I thought she represented hope. Had she actually been a [Priestess] with a divine-granted class, like she claimed, I would have given her everything that was within my power! Instead, she was yet another leech—someone eager to take me for everything that I offered, while rewarding my generosity with hollow promises that are collectively worth less than the shit that flows out their other end.” That was a touch too crude, and the realization allowed her to regain control over her baser emotions. “As promised, I shall maintain her home, simply because I doubt that she would ever have the gall to return. And I see no sense in forcing an elf to live in a tainted space while we have others available.”

“By Papilion’s unreliable tits, how did any of the others stand you? Seriously, how? I’ll admit you got worse ever since you developed this ‘only I can possibly manage the complexities of a small city’ bit, but so much of all of this is just you. You jump to conclusions and the very bloody instant you make your decision, it becomes infallible, to the extent that you refuse to even see any evidence to the contrary. A reasonable person might have learned something when you got tricked by the Wardens into springing that killer’s trap, but no—it’s as if Papilion themself denied you the right to change.

“What is it like in that messed up head of yours? If someone cracked open your skull would cursed sand pour out? Because I can’t see any other excuse for you to be this stupid. Even a halfwit would have realized by now that Ranthia doesn’t deserve your scorn.” Myntheria’s fire and bluster would have been far more impressive had the woman bothered to pick herself up off of Elsnythene’s couch.

“I gave her decades of time. Were she what she claimed, that would have been sufficient. Since she was not, I was forced to do as my obligations as a citizen of this nation demand of me.” Elsynthene had so many better things to do than argue with someone that insisted on having the mind of a child.

“She was level 272 in her [Priestess] class when she got here. Even when she classed up after that whole ordeal with slaying a wyvern with her bunny, she was in the low three hundreds. That number only started to climb after Clover took on a human form. So no, she wasn’t secretly a [Paladin] or anything, you were just expecting a level 300 [Priestess] to outpower a level 3824 [Mage]’s curse. As if one of the five would have ever been the first to break the pact.

“And what was it that he said when he blasted your team? ‘Even if any of you survive, you’ll just endure twelve thousand years of agony,’ or something like that?” Myntheria finally sat up and smiled haughtily, tapping her neck, “Very relatedly, you have something dangling.”

Withering vineyards! Elsynthene triggered [Sparking Step] and entered her bathroom, grabbing the first towel she could reach. She could have decades between episodes, but a quirk of the curse lingering in her flesh meant that areas of her unhealable skin would, on occasion, just slough off. Every time it happened, the resulting wound bled quite dramatically until, at last, new—yet still scarred and ruined—skin sealed it. The process could take months.

Tragically, the towel she grabbed was one of her expensive white ones. Her cursed blood was incredibly difficult to clean out of towels, but she needed to clamp something over the wound before she bled everywhere. Replacing the carpets in her home would cost more than any towel, and she still needed to work her way out of her coat and…

“What in the first frost?” She usually bled through towels within seconds, yet the plush fabric remained just as vividly white as always. And there was no blood on her clothing or shoulder either.

But she had seen the skin hanging from her neck before she covered it, had she not?

Hesitantly and carefully, Elsynthene slowly peeled the towel upward, expecting to see a messy gush of dark blood at any moment. When she finally revealed the dangling skin, she nearly clamped the towel back down on impulse, but she persevered until, at last, the gaping wound was fully uncovered.

Except, there was no wound to be found.

She had a strip of dying skin peeling off her neck, sure enough, yet beneath it was something that Elsynthene had almost given up on ever seeing again.

Pristine skin. Healthy, with a slightly pink paleness that was in dire need of sunlight. Smooth and perfect.

“For a [Priestess] not yet at her level 768 class up, I think managing to accelerate a curse by more than ten thousand years in just eighty-two years is pretty flipping great. There’s a reason I didn’t bother to come by yesterday. I really figured I’d have to wait a few more weeks, but Xaoc clearly has a sense of humor. Seriously, do you never pay attention to your reflection? I mean, I can see why you wouldn’t, but—” Myntheria quipped from the doorway.

“When?” There were no other words in her mind, just a desperate need for… Fields and forests, she had no idea what she even wanted!

“Your scars began to look more like wrinkles six months ago. And the aroma of your corrupted flesh first changed about a full season before that. I didn’t exactly mark the date.” Myntheria shrugged, witnessed by the mirror that Elsynthene was still obsessively staring into. “It’s amusing. Ranthia probably would have had the audacity to mention something had you just kept visiting her.”

“Then I…?” Elsynthene could hardly believe the truth, even with clear evidence in front of her eyes.

“You caused problems for a perfectly decent woman who did you the greatest favor imaginable, just because you decided it was taking too long. Sylphene wasn’t a danger to anyone either—she’s a lovely, if somewhat paranoid, woman.” Myntheria was offering her a vicious smile. “With a ‘friend’ like you, who needs enemies?”

“Should I presume that you have already informed her?” It was unfortunate. Yet there was no way to undo what was already done.

“Nah. I did what I could to get her ahead of the problems you created, but I doubt she’ll realize just how badly you fucked her over, unless someone comes after her screaming like a zealot. If I was in your shoes, I’d worry more about what’d happen if our local nameless outcast ever found out. The Black Flame could kill you in a heartbeat and she wouldn’t even have to go all-out to do it. But I won’t be the one to tell her either.” Myntheria turned away with that.

“And what will you do?” Elsynthene forced herself to ask the question, knowing that she would hate the answer.

“I was going to claim the tea blends Ranthia carefully prepared for you myself, but at this point I think it’ll be crueler to leave them here. You can lament your own foolishness and ingratitude with every sip. And we’ll wait and see just how badly your latest fuckup screws us all.” Myntheria kept walking as she answered.

“She isn’t that powerful or important. Especially not as a [Priestess].” Truly, the immature were overly prone to spouting absurdities.

“You really should pay more attention to the world around you, Elsyny. She and Sylphene left in the company of an ‘uncle’ of mine—Ranger. We already live in increasingly interesting times. And on top of the brewing problems, the Council’s authority has been undermined by several incidents in the past couple of centuries. So, I wonder just what will happen if Ranger ends up slaughtering a group with ties to the clergy? People always underestimate just how much power the greatest temple has.” Myntheria had already reached the door.

“Our era of peace is too resilient for scattered incidents to ruin it.” Elsynthene spoke with utter conviction as she walked toward her wayward peer.

“It is, but every crack will stress the foundations. I’ll be resetting within the next decade or three to take combat classes. Make of that what you will. But for tonight, you should give yourself a good scrub for once in your life. See a [Healer] tomorrow to see if the last dregs of that curse of yours can be purged.” Without warning, Myntheria abruptly turned to face her, moving far faster than a woman of her level should have been able to manage.

Elsynthene found herself backing into her chair as Myntheria drew near with an alarmingly predatory expression on her face.

“I wonder just how sensitive you’ll be until you adapt to having functional skin. I almost envy whoever ends up bedding you first.” Myntheria reached over and roughly seized a handful of Elsynthene’s white hair, raising it to her nose.

“Get… out.” Elsynthene hated how little conviction was in her demand. But the blonde menace simply laughed.

“Good night, Elsyny. Do let me know what you think of the tea.” And with that, Myntheria let herself out.

She truly was an absurd and despicable child, no matter how many thousands of years she lived.

Not that Elsynthene was feeling much better about her own wisdom as she sat there in her chair, lightly poking at the tiny patch of renewed skin on her neck. She had committed a grave offense against someone that she owed everything to.

But she was a woman that was somewhat used to living with regret. So long as the itch continued to fade, she could endure the simple emotional burden that replaced it.