Museum of Grimoire - 4.0 - Early Access (Patreon)

A book rests on a podium, flipped open to a specific page. Those who pass by observe the scrawling words alongside the depiction of a spirit. The nearby plaque explains the significance behind this tome.

“Imperial Bible, circa Fourth Age. Replicas available for purchase in gift shop.”

It was Florence’s first time visiting the former imperial capital, and she could immediately tell that the title absolutely was well-warranted. While there was of course majesty and grandeur in Harten’s capital, it paled comparatively to what was once the seat of power on the continent. The city arguably still was too, being an independent bastion of faith that had weathered the fall of their former liege and endured the trials of time.

Clinging onto those trappings of divinity to see them through, to this very day.

The warlock hadn’t even taken more than a few steps before marveling at the surroundings, drinking in the worn buildings that still housed businesses and individuals to this very day. “It’s like we’ve stepped back in time, to the old empire!” she whispered eagerly, glancing at her companion with visible confusion. “But you’re so… nonplussed. I had expected otherwise.”

“I have been here before, so the reaction has already been spoiled for me,” Noire confessed with a slight smile, yet her eyes still roamed the landscape to drink it all in. “The city is an incredible piece of preserved history, one that I would nothing more than to comb through with a fine eye to seek the remnants of antiquity. But alas, we’ve more pressing matters.”

“Really? Again, I would have thought otherwise, given your thirst for preservation.”

“A fair assumption, though one that I have long since come to terms with.” The archaeologist gestured to the paved streets with an easy motion. “The city has stood the test of time, and it will continue to do so, as long as the Followers of the Divine call this their headquarters. In contrast, those beyond these limits do not have such fervent caretakers- so it is only right that we prioritize their excavation, recovery, and archival first.

“In a hundred years, this city will likely still stand, and so will I.” She paused, then let out a brief sigh. “Perhaps if I were to secure permission to establish like a base of operations on these grounds, then I could spend more time studying the very rocks that line these streets. As is, my current establishment is elsewhere.”

That was the first time Florence had ever heard of Noire already making headway into a ‘museum’ elsewhere. Though on reflection, the act of archival must imply a physical location to which accumulated records and collections must be stored. She idly wondered where it was; perhaps the site of her former workplace? No, the historian was adamant about her great distaste about her own former employment.

So preoccupied with thought on the matter, the apprentice did not notice the way the older woman’s gaze flicked to the banners hanging on the streets, the way her jaw tense up slightly. It was only when she spoke that Florence was brought out of her reverie. “I do believe over there is a blacksmith.” A small pouch of coin was pressed into her hand. “Why don’t you go ahead and get your buckle made? I’ll make arrangements regarding our lodgings.”

Noire’s tone did sound a little weird, perhaps bordering on exasperation. But Florence thought nothing of it as she accepted the allowance and went off to fashion herself a piece of history. She trusted that whatever was going on, the quite clever woman had it well in hand.

The skull broach come out better than expected, and Florence marveled at the way the surface caught the light at just the right angle to gleam. She could already see it in her mind’s eye, how the light of her ethereal scythe could perhaps cast a pale glint off it in darkness. “This is perfect. Thank you,” she told as she already began to affix it to her robes.

“Glad to hear that it came out to your liking!” told the blacksmith with no small amount of satisfaction. “A bit of an odd request, but a fast one since we had an example to work off. You said it’s from times past?”

“Yes, from the Fifth Age to be exact. About after the old empire fell.”

“Ah… that was a nasty time.” The blacksmith bent their head slightly and made a sign with their hands. “Spirits grant peace to them all. May they be ferried safely to the beyond.”

At those words, Florence could feel her patron stir through their bond. A sense of… offense? The spirit of death the warlock was contracted to didn’t feel pleased by the prayer. It almost wanted to rip those arms of for such insolence-

A sharp sigh escape the apprentice’s lips as she reined in the connection, establishing herself as the one in control in their relationship. The blacksmith she had been working with seemed to interpret her exhale as something entirely differently, blinking and looking up. “Oh, sorry miss. I’m just one of the faithful, you know. Plenty of the them in this city.”

“No, no- I have nothing against those with sincere beliefs,” Florence hastily reassured with a shake of the head. “It was something entirely different. My partner, you see, sometimes they get worked up.”

“Your partner?” They looked around her carefully, then spoke tersely. “You um… seem to be alone, miss. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Oh right. Warlocks like her were among the definite minority, even among those who probably called themselves practitioners within the school of invocation. That was to say nothing of the incredibly varied executions of the art itself out there in the world, meaning that there was little reason for the blacksmith to be aware of her practice.

For a moment, she entertained the idea of perhaps waving the matter off as just something to not be concerned about. Yet Florence was struck with the reminder that there had been at least one out there who accepted her for who she was- perhaps there would be more as well. If she continued to pretend to be somebody she wasn’t, how would she eventually come to know them?

It hadn’t been so long ago that she stopped hiding, so why should she continue?

“Well, you see,” Florence began with a smile. “My partner isn’t one you can typically see. They’re-”

Her explanation was suddenly forestalled by shadows being cast at the open entrance of the smithy, accompanied by the gait of heavy footsteps. Moments later, armored individuals entered and the assorted workers inside paused their activities, turning to face the newcomers with a mix of trepidation and reverence. It was easy to understand why, if they too were the faithful- these were not simply city guards.

They all bore the insignia of the faith, marking them as paladins of the belief.

The lead one now cast his eyes across the workshop, settling upon Florence as her gut churned. Something was very wrong, especially when he approached with intent in that glare. “Are you the warlock?” he all but demanded, the other smiths retreating from his advance. “The one who claims a contract with the spirit of death?”

“H-huh? I…”

“Do not lie and make this worse. We already have your accomplice in custody. The divines will reveal the truth sooner or later, and their judgment does not favor falsehood.”

Florence hesitated, then gritted her teeth. Well, if she was going to commit, might as well. “I am then who you seek. Under what charges, might I add?”

“… You stand accused of defiling a holy spirit, of chaining the divine to your very bidding.” His hand surreptitiously came to rest on the pommel of his sheathed sword. “You will stand trial.”

Her patron fed a surge of adrenaline that powered her outrage. “On what basis? Your faith has no authority over me, I am not a follower of your religion!” The apprentice would have continued protesting, had she not caught a glimpse of the fear and terror in the looks of the blacksmiths about. Then she noticed how the other paladins too were clearly tensing up, more than ready to make this a fight if need be. It appeared they would be prepared to use force if need be.

And if that happened, regardless of her success or escape, this entire establishment would be caught up as collateral. Which they didn’t deserve.

She brought her blood to cool and pressed her lips tightly together, considering the options. “This trial is a farce,” she said aloud, but held up her empty hands. “But I do not wish to cause trouble. I will go along with you.”

The lead paladin studied her, then gave a curt nod. “A wise decision. One that saves you from accompanying us in shackles.” That last sentence was actually barked instead at one of his subordinates, who had seemed to eagerly palm a set of chains when she made her intent to comply known. They shirked now, casting a most unsaintly look at their leader but saying nothing.

Florence’s eyes narrowed at the seeming disconnect between the two servants of the faith. Something was going on, but she wasn’t clued in. If Miss Noire had been here- wait. They mentioned having an accomplice already in their custody.

Was that her? Did she go ahead and turn herself in to the faith already? Why?

There was a definite sort of burning curiosity that wanted the apprentice to question everything, but this simply was not the circumstances for such. The paladins didn’t seem like the type to answer her inquiries so willingly and some might perhaps retaliate. So she kept her lips sealed while accompanying them outside, where a carriage awaited.

Curios bystanders surrounded the vehicle, their questions less restrained and circumspect. She almost envied them but knew that they surely would not get an answer either-

“This woman shall stand trial for blaspheming the spirits which guide us all!” one of her minders abruptly announced, the same one who had been so eager to clap her in chains. “She stands accused of committing the heresy of slavery!”

Gasps of shock and dismay echoed throughout, an angry clamor rising that had Florence’s heart leaping into her throat. Equally furious was the lead paladin, who pulled his subordinate in with an angry hiss. Whatever triumphant expression they had was abruptly removed by a smack of an armored glove against their cheek, drawing blood briefly. “You fool,” he snarled.

“You simpleton,” was the response in kind before they made to stand at the rear of the carriage.

Florence barely had time to process the exchange before she was forcibly shoved into the carriage, the door all but slammed behind her. Scantly a moment later, the first stone clattered against as a chorus of hateful roars echoed outside. It was only by what sounded like the paladins forcibly dispersing the crowd that her latest prison began to move.

The warlock found herself swiftly reevaluating her earlier thoughts with a grimace. Perhaps it was too soon to be so open about her profession. That earned what was like a grumble from her patron.