Soul Sliver

The Soul Sliver is an artifact recovered from the frozen body of Koravel deep within Netherime.

## Description

Taking the appearance of a dozen silver mirror fragments cloudied and pale, the Soul Sliver is a crystalline shard but a few inches in length. Dimly shimmering ivory-white, its edges are jagged and sharp.

## Research

### Completed by Aphyllia

*Sounds echo from the Soul Sliver, although all are cut short, as if been forced back within the form. Through piecing together the garbled fragments of psyche attempting to break free, you find yourself witness to a trailing series of events that shift and blend freely with each other - despite obvious transitions in both location and time.*

*Cool water streamed between muddied toes as he waited impatiently at the pond’s edge. Idle hands plucked at the tiny red petals of the flowers that bloomed atop the vibrant leaves that sprawled over stone and pebble at the fringes of the water, though his eyes lingered on the swimming form beyond. Another boy, matched to him in auburn-brown hair streaked dark with moisture, albeit taller, already widening at shoulder and chest. It would surely be a few years before he would do the same, so for now he stood waiting, lips moving with quiet reverence as they counted incremental seconds - restarting each time the other boy rose from the surface once more to draw a deep breath.*

*A triumphant call came, a tanned hand streaked with silt raised high, its prize grasped tightly between squat fingers. Wood, stone and onyx, the feline figurine glistened with the pooling moisture, scattering reflections with the warmth and light of the Highreign sunlight overhead. The taller boy began to wade towards the edge of the pond, pausing for the briefest of moments to pry a leech from his thigh before nestling the curious catch within waiting outstretched palms.*

*He was taller now, taller than his brother had been when he had dived to the bottom to recover the figurine. On the edge of the pond he lingered, watching on in rattled worry as the water was lifted, parted with but a gesture, and the remains of what had tried to ravage him as he cast a net, seeking brook lamprey. He did not care to ponder what may have followed if not for the Knight-Errant that pried him from snapping mandibles, sundering the threat with sword and spell alike. Later, returning home without the spoils of his upturned leisure, he found himself not scolded, but rather praised for acknowledging the virtues, sharing in his Prosperity as thanks for the one undertaking the Trial of Spirit. Despite dinner bolstered by lamprey pie, he slept with a smile in spite of torn skin and bruised bones.*

*The banner adorned in crimson flew high, second only to the cross of azure and amber positioned above it. Most were turned away, traits and feats inadequate - or simply in defiance of hopeful parents - but parlor tricks were not necessary. The recruiter had an eye for potential, it was said, though in truth it was surely just a matter of divination. Few others saw it, but he had, and now his gaze held tight upon the ring nestled upon the middle finger of the high elf. Another hopeful, the gemstone dulled briefly, and so the adolescent was dismissed. A smug grin settled upon his face as it seemed to catch the light upon his approach.*

*The wounds of the Archmage had never quite healed, though their lingering presence had been nullified with matters mundane and magical alike. At Broken Hill he’d recovered more than one hundred of the buried alone, and the strain of such arcane had stayed with him for the best part of a quarter century. He was particularly muddled today, mind drifting distant in thoughts soon forgotten, and so his assistant collected up the parchments and scrolls scattered, storing them once again in tubular bindings. The archmage would pass soon, he mused, focusing on the spittle that caked the scarlet collar of the elderly mage’s robes.*

*Grasping a dappled feather quill and a pot of blue-black ink, he made his way to his charge’s side, pulling close a small table upon which to steady shaking hands. Parchment laid flat, he started to guide their fingers to the line. The signature sealed the declaration, a successor chosen.*

*Pepper and clove drifted through the halls, and his stomach responded. A hushed word bubbled him in a Silent Sanctum for a passing moment until it settled, muffling the gurgle. He had not missed much in the conversation, ponderous as it was, but nonetheless the drone of chatter carried upon it some details of concern. The High College had been a thorn in the Guild’s side for centuries, but now, fueled by Astedian ambitions it seemed that it had finally taken root and grown into a full thicket. An ascension in power and understanding unparalleled had been foreseen by Archmage Stepan, and now commonfolk rumour seemed to whisper the same. A response in kind would be prudent, though it seemed for now there was still time.*

*His feet would have spilled out beneath it as the thunderous strides of their monstrosities sundered soil and stone with each step if not for the enchantment that steadied him but a few inches from the thick mud. A trio of bolts, not by measure of the arcane, instead hurled by mechanical means within gnomish bindings of contraption hurtled past, screeching all the while before burying themselves in the filth. Two did, rather, the third shattering into the shield of the knight a few feet nearby, punching through the pair of interlocked rings decorating the enchanted timbers to scramble the flesh beneath plate into a molten mess. A stream of dirt splattered his robes of crimson, though streamed clean, fabric unmarred, untarnished. His gaze settled upon the figure beyond, gilded armour notched, his brow slick with sweat, grim and gore - an aureate band settled upon it. The marching grew closer, a final rallying call faltering as draconic ichor doused the battlefield before them, its source bellowing all the while through its short and final descent. A titanic shadow shrouded him in gloom, so from the gloom he rendered a tear - an urn of blackened stone hovering before him, a faint pale light creeping from beneath the rim.*

*It was not yet done. It would take time to do what was necessary.*

*The teleportation started to draw him away, and with it he shattered his staff over his knee, ruby-red gemstone shattering into carmine dust. The sudden surge of Wild Magic, the Weave sundered and torn threatened to cause the Evocation to falter - and yet, taking deep breath into stagnant air, he sat at his desk once more, ruffled papers collected at his feet by clammy pale claws.*

*The warmth of peony tea stirred within as the chime sounded, his gaze averted as he watched the door shatter in, casting splinters wide through slaked dust. The group of six bustled through, fingers thrumming with fainting-glowing arcane sigils, bound tight against blade handle. A slate-grey uniform tailored asymmetrically angular adorned their presumed commander, though the others were instead clad with a more common affair, gambesons and chain, shielded from the elements by loose fitting robes. A familiar incantation and gesture brought forth by one of their number brought a certain sense of satisfaction, the preparations to mask the glyph hidden beneath the rug before them worthwhile. No sooner did muddied boots press against the Nidaynia weave did the room erupt in immolating flame, unquenchable by mundane means. Dismissing the divining projection of his mind, he reached for the porcelain cup once more - half a continent away from the smouldering remains of those that thought themselves so close upon his trail.*

*They knew he had pried too wide, too deeply. Was that not what he had been bid? And yet the ire came nonetheless, a weight of disappointment unparalleled, sourced from the dismissive gaze of an entity of every understanding yet devoid of truthful emotion. The pull stirred deep, the draw to the ongoing dark - an influence resolute, irresistible, intransigent. The gravity was as inevitable as the entropy that yielded it. Disapproval surged from the one before him, withered gaze scrutinising what he had become, what he still would. A single word muttered, a grasping hand outstretched - then naught but the void.*