[NoR] - [07] – [IK01] – Good Morning

A cold breeze blows down the empty hallway, brushing past you and into the room beyond. You close the door, unsure of exactly what just transpired. Something unnerved you about that old man. He wasn’t right...for whatever measure you could make ‘right’ to be. Now that you think about it, your whole head is a bit mushy. Thoughts congeal and squish, not quite finding the same purchase as before. You manage to focus on locking your apparently new door, noting the fine silver filigree inlaid over the bolt. A fine door for a fine price. The stranger had mentioned something about the apartment being granted to you through a Guild Deal, which meant that your paycheck would inevitably be a bit smaller. Considering your line of work, you can’t say as you’re worried about it. One of the benefits to excelling within the Orzhov is a marked comfort in your surroundings.

You turn to the room you awoke in, taking the chance to tally the possessions you now possess. Candles, lit in their sconces. The walls are a solid black, the painted brick placed atop a beige tiling that covers the floor. A wooden crate is set against the far wall, streaked with moonlight. A glance to the ceiling reveals the sunroof, streaked with external grating. Iron cuts harsh shadows through the creamy light above. The open window allows for the scent of the Basilica’s censers to creep in. The dark corner hints at furniture hidden within the shadow. Otherwise, the room is far too dim to make much out right now. Irritation swells within you as you curse not being able to see through the darkness, unsure of why you expected anything different. You now take stock of your person. Your robes are still there, the same long satin sleeves with the wide magician’s cuffs. The familiar click of your boots still ring true. A small wave of relief. At least some things are familiar.

Click, click, click, you step proud as you are to your chest, kneeling deftly and placing your hands to its corners. Closely you examine the wood, leaning in to inspect each grain. A dull recognition rings through you, and you slide the lid off the top out of instinct. Trinkets sit within, ranging from chalks and candles to a wide assortment of somatic components. Everything you might need to practice spellcraft, neatly organized in the revealed compact metal lattice. The efficiency of the design doesn’t surprise you, and yet, it surprises you.

Your eyes flutter as you pause, looking about yourself expectedly. The conflicting thoughts bring your mind to a brief halt.

Um...

Ignore it. Probably just a side effect of whatever that old stranger had mentioned as happening to you. Come to think of it, what did he say...?

Havoc festival...

That's right. A Havoc Festival. The ‘parties’ that destroy entire neighborhoods in a cyclone of hedonistic deviance and destruction. The Demon Rakdos likes to announce them from time to time without rhyme or reason. As an Inquisitor, you’ve been to your share, and never willingly. Unfortunately, thanks in no small part to the Demon's proclivities, they aren’t uncommon on Ravnica.

Ravnica...

The city-plane, a realm entirely made of mortar, a concrete jungle in the truest sense of the phrase. Which...you don’t remember where you heard...

These continued memory issues bring a scowl to your face. The slaughter games that some of the cultists play with their victims often result in the physical removal of large segments of the victim's memories. You’ve seen it before, but you had hoped that you wouldn’t see it from this angle. Still, you’ve dealt with worse. The possibility of injury is part of the job. Being an Inquisitor meant being adaptable. On its face, being an Inquisitor is a simple affair; if someone doesn’t pay their debt, you go make sure it doesn’t happen again. The wide varieties of clients have an even wider variety of excuses, and some have a still wider variety of ways of trying to say no. In the end though, Inquisitor Korr always makes sure that they keep their end of the bargain.

Inquisitor Korr...

This is your name, obviously. How could you forget? Another brisk shake of your head clears the introspection, bringing you back to your case of components. You slam the lid closed and pull yourself to your feet, making your way to one of the lit candles. The flame flickers as you reach to pull it from the sconce, bringing it closer for a better look. There is a heft which seems unusual to you. The wax is oddly solid, and you notice the flame doesn’t seem to be melting it in the slightest. An ever burning candle, eh?

Convenient.

Holding the flame aloft, its light brings new detail out of the closest corner as a large wooden desk slowly reveals itself while you approach. A journal or two lay askance, with a series of quills and ink ready to be used. Nothing looks to have been moved since it was placed there however long ago. All of it very conspicuous. All very fake. Almost as if it were being shown to potential buyers immediately before it was claimed. Nothing unusual about that, considering the nature of your injury.

Injury?

You figure your injury is whatever decided to decimate your memory. You’d rather not assume that you’ve endured multiple mind-altering assaults. Instead, your focus returns to your surroundings. This new chamber is suitable for your purposes...you think. At the very least, you can find nothing wrong with it. You raise your candle, noting additional sconces above. Gargoyles glower down at you as they grasp their vacant torches. You turn on your heel, heading for the far corner. The shadows by the doorway hide similar decor, but not additional furniture. It would seem the desk was all that came with the apartment. As you note the simplicity of the design, an urge overtakes you to return to the chest. You realize with slow awareness that a magical inspection may be in order as well. There have been times in your career that ‘friends’ have not always been so. Without thinking about it, you toss the lid open before your hands dive into the rack, pulling various materials and shutting the crate as quickly as you had reached for it. Arms full of things, very important things, you turn to the center of the space and prepare a basic circle.

Incantations long ingrained in your subconscious flow from your lips as you fiddle with your materials. You find yourself in a sort of trance as you cast your spell. The wards serve to open the gates of the magical wells within the very foundations of the tenement, allowing you to bask in the mana contained therein. Your mind tingles with energy as the latent power seeps into your periphery. Nothing about it alarms you. Somehow you know that it is safe. Shadows cover many parts of this city, yet this building manages to maintain a brilliant aura of faith and community. You would expect nothing less of an Orzhov apartment.

A slight pulse draws your attention to the hallway beyond your door. Another follows shortly thereafter, and another, each slowly getting weaker than the last. Your curiosity draws you to the door, which opens to reveal a small crack in the air before you. It flickers an unearthly violet as it pulses, and your eyes trace the fractures in space as they recede into the scar.

Cold…

The air is definitively cooler the closer you get to the anomaly. The brisk chill that greeted you before must have come from it. Cautiously you reach out to touch it, your curiosity raising with your arm hair as instead your fingers slide through it. Your temporary spell of awareness allows you to see the ethereal mists that follow your fingers as they pass, smokily billowing about. The imperceptible caress tries vainly to remind you of something, succeeding only in assuring you that it is harmless. The very nature of the thing feels like it should be second nature to you, and yet you draw nothing but a blank. You frown again at your incomplete mental catalog. This is quickly getting very frustrating. The pulses are fainter now, and the as the last subsides before your eyes, it leaves a faint ripple in the air. The ether about it dissipates, and you are left with only the comfort of home.

You return to your chamber, ignoring the circle you left on the floor. Another ward won’t hurt. You gather up your trinkets, placing them carefully in their varied containers. The lid clicks as you replace it, and your thoughts turn to your new home. Come to think of it, this is the only place you can remember as being definitively ‘yours’. You trudge through your memories, seeking some semblance of belonging. You have a faint recollection of a large manor, but you can’t place the location. Visions flash briefly of a small shrine, hosting a large statue with countless hands overseeing an eternal flame. The image of the creature depicted is the only thing clear to you as you study the image of a porcelain mask between a pair of brilliant red horns. And yet, there is still nothing that will tell you where you can find it.

Stupid Festivals. Now I can’t find my own home in this City…assuming It was here to begin with.

You pause again, unsure of why you added that last bit. Of course you had a home. Who doesn’t? Of course it was here. Where else would it be? Why would you even entertain that thought? You put it far from your mind, chalking it up once more to your ‘injury’. As the thought sets itself aside, another realization erupts to the fore.

Repair!

You remember a conversation of an indeterminate time past, focusing on a rumor of Mind Mages that are capable of repairing the damage done by the Demon’s Thugs. A smile crosses your face as you decide to find them. But where to begin looking? Seeking the help of the Undercity Excisors might not be the best starting point, since they seem to take a keen joy in removing memories, and pointedly not restoring them. Otherwise, you have no really good leads on mentalists, besides yourself, and you already know that performing mind magic on oneself is always obscenely dangerous. You decide to inquire about it when you next see the Pontiff of your local Basilica. He owes you a favor or three as it is for all of the questions you never asked.

You prepare yourself for a brief foray into the world beyond. You check your sleeves for the components they should conceal, finding only empty pockets. The cultists must have picked them before you were found. Again, this doesn’t surprise you. Thankfully the church saw fit to grace you with the crate of things, which you return to so that you can stock up for the trip. Once you’ve put your parts in their places, you walk out your door, stepping past the now invisible source of cold and down the stairs at the far end. Torches blaze brightly in the stairwell, supplementing the soft radiance of the Izzet-installed magical glow stones. Their power appears to be weakening, as the light occasionally flickers and flares before leveling out. Step after step, click after click, you descend from your apartment to the surface level, making sure to count all sixteen of the flights you take. At the appropriate level, marked by a convenient sign printed in the common tongue, there is a large foyer inlaid with gold enough to make any dragon envious. The thrulls guarding the far entrance pay you no mind, instinctively knowing that you belong. As the doors open, the cool night air rushes in. Your eyes are met with the familiar sea of spires and alleys, and the ever-present droning of city life echoes through the darkened streets as locals mill about for their various reasons. The Basilica’s spire is barely visible from your front plaza, and the smell of spices is stronger at surface level as the thin fog absorbs the scent. Click, click, click. You make your way toward the church.

Let’s get some answers.