Stranger than Fiction

The bare stone walls of the Lyceum felt dull compared to the decorated marble halls where Martel had spent twice an evening this fiveday. Not only the ornaments, but the lack of music, rich foods, and any sign of festivities despite this being summer solstice. The Lyceum could only boast of one thing; it had magic. As he arrived in class, Martel found a seat and waited for Master Fenrick to begin this Manday's lesson.

"The fiends of the Nether." Their teacher glanced over the classroom. "A dreadful subject, which we shall not dwell upon, but at least one lesson must be devoted to them."

Martel thought again about the statue of Atreus and wondered at what kind of magic battle was entailed by fighting these monsters.

"We have no illustrations of how they might look, which is perhaps for the best. Our written descriptions of them are little better, often disagreeing with each other," Fenrick explained. "This may not be because they are wrong, but rather, because the fiends are far more diverse than our own kind."

"So how are they described?" asked a novice.

"In all manners you might imagine. Some have many arms, others slither like snakes. One eye or countless. Hairless skin or fur of any colour. Teeth sharp as a predator's, or a slit where a mouth should be." Fenrick looked from student to student, smirking at their uncomfortable expressions. "This would suggest that either the fiends of the Nether are as diverse as the animals of our world, or perhaps that they do not have physical forms as we understand it."

"But master, they're not here anymore, right?"

"No. None have been sighted since the Archeans disappeared. We don't know the connection between the Nether and the wizards of Archen, and I hope we'll never have to find out."

~

In the evening, a trio of mages moved across the market district. One wore the novice's robe, the other two the black tunic of a mageknight. Maximilian in front, pushing a path through the crowd, they reached the square hosting the travelling theatre. Arriving early, they had no trouble finding decent seats; as for the boy in bright garbs collecting payment from the audience, he simply grinned at them and continued.

"At least risking our lives against that Tyrian oaf has earned us some good will with the entertainment profession," Maximilian remarked.

"Any idea what the play is about?" asked Eleanor.

Martel strained his neck looking at the stage, but he could not catch a glimpse of the actors that might give away a clue about the performance. "No idea. Regnar said it was something new, so it could be anything."

They chatted for a while longer as the square filled up, and finally, the troupe began their play. The storyteller arrived on stage, command in silence. "Good folk of Morcaster, we bring you a tale plucked from the ranks of your own people and the streets of your own city. If anything should seem too fanciful, let me assure you, that every word, gesture, and action happened as shown. For there is no greater story than the truth."

To Martel's astonishment, he saw a figure enter smoking a familiar-looking pipe, and for a moment, he thought Regnar had joined the ranks of the actors. Yet this hedge mage moved spryly rather than as an old man, and it had to be simply another player dressed up. Martel's amazement only grew seeing the next actor appear, clad in furs and with painted markings on his face. Although he did not exactly resemble the real thing, the implication was clear; he was meant to be a Tyrian berserker. Over the next hour, a story played out never seen on stage before, unknown to all in the audience except a few, who knew it intimately.

Familiarity with the tale did not impede Martel's enjoyment. His heart was in his throat as the intrepid mageknight and battlemage snuck into the derelict castle to save their childhood friend, whom they had not seen since that fateful day when the Tyrian raiders attacked the village. Martel audibly gasped as the berserker revealed himself, interrupting their rescue attempt with his vicious-looking axe. Relief filled him as the Tyrians were defeated and the childhood friends reunited at last. His opinion seemed shared by the audience; as the play came to an end, the spectators showered them with applause.

"That was incredible!" Martel turned to his companions.

"I looked good. Heroism suits me." Maximilian crossed his arms with a smile.

"A few details seemed inconsistent," Eleanor argued. "Three children born with magical talent in the same village? Close in age? Impossible."

"What matters is that they captured my dashing stride. Though I do not recall having that much trouble fighting the berserker," Maximilian grumbled.

Martel looked at him. "He was about to kill you when I threw that golden chain around his neck."

"Maybe. We will never know now, will we?" Maximilian looked around with a superior expression.

"Come on," Eleanor said to the others. "We should thank the players for performing your story and compliment them on the acting feat of making Maximilian almost likeable."

~

The actors were in high spirits, which only climbed higher seeing the trio of mages. "Our heroes," Regnar exclaimed, puffing on his pipe. They sat in a small courtyard created between the stage on one side and their carts and wagons on the other.

"What do you think of our tale?" The storyteller practically beamed.

"It captured my likeness well enough," Maximilian considered.

"I have a few notes concerning your attention to detail," Eleanor remarked.

"It was perfect!" Martel's wide eyes underlined his enthusiasm.

The actors raised cups with cheers upon hearing the final assessment. More wine was brought out to supply each of the guests, paving the way for further merriment and revelry. Ian, the boy in bright clothes who collected payment from the audience, showed himself as an adept juggler with a knife from each belt of the three mages. The storyteller played a harp while others sang, giving Martel the opportunity to pull Eleanor to her feet and whirl her around. In this manner, the small group spent the evening with a solstice celebration of their own.