[IC] The Estervault
Spend enough time in any major city, and it becomes all too easy to think of it as a living, breathing thing. Its roads its veins, sending the lifeblood of the city about their ways on cobbled stones and muddy trails. Yet for a city as vast as Vincio Alla Sabia, such a thing was only a half truth. Her streets and boulevards were just the surface, centuries of growth having pushed the city not just up, not just out, but down. In basements, around foundations, and under the streets themselves, there existed another city. A twisting and darkly winding place of sewers, long forgotten tunnels, and buried buildings. Many trod those paths, but few called them home, for the undercity was a dangerous place. Easy to get lost, easier still to get turned around, a lightless domain.
Thus it was that for centuries, the Estervault existed as little more then legend. A labyrinthine maze of tunnels, sunken buildings, and hidden streets, the Estervault had always been within Vincio Alla Sabia. Yet it was not a place that mortal feet walked for long, for the Estervault had been constructed long ago not as a home, but as a prison. Indeed, for centuries, the Eye of Shahar had shaped and reshaped those winding paths, making them an inescapable maze capable of trapping a being of almost divine power. For the Eye of Shahar was not so much an eye, but a heart. A golden rod just shy of three feet long, heavily inscribed with Kasirutan spell glyphs so fine, they looked too small to have been done by human hands. A careful study would reveal that, much like the winding tunnels of the Estervault, those glyphs were never exactly the same twice. As if they were constantly shifting and warping when they were not being observed. At the head of the rod is was emerald of stunning size and beauty, deep green, with a lustrous sheen of something royal purple deep within.
Such had been the lock to Vasati the Infinite's prison for more than 600 years, but that was before. Now, the spark of divinity burned within him, and the Eye's never ending dead ends and false passages were no more a barrier to him than the air itself. When Vasati willed it, the Estervault surrendered her secrets. He walked through her halls, moving unerringly towards her beating heart. That afternoon, she had chosen to drape herself in the manner of a Patrian villa, a masterwork of masonry and engineering. The halls continued almost without seam, beautifully carved and fitted to radiate strength and durability. If not for his friends the alleyways, he would be continually turned about within the great maze, but for him the immovable stone always made sure that the path was clear.
In time, he came to an immense hall, arched ceilings in the Patrian fashion. The area was sparely furnished, a trio of richly carved wooden benches surrounding a burning brazier, and a large work desk. The room's defining feature was the endless scroll cases lined the walls, a honeycomb of thousands of individual works of knowledge and information. It was a true hoard, his hoard, the sum total of all his labors. Each scroll represented a deed, or a letter of marque, or a landed title, or some other measure of material wealth.
There were thousands of them.
He walked up to a shelf, tracing his fingers over the brass caps that tipped each scroll as his flashing eyes scanned over the engraved labels. For what he had in mind, he needed something specific. Eventually, his eyes settled upon one labeled "Lorenzo Barbarigo, Locksmith". He withdrew that from its socket in the wall, folding the scroll carefully under his arm, and resumed his hunt. Other scrolls soon joined Lorenzo's, "Serena Cellini, Black Alchemist," "Cosimo Visconti, Bladesmith," "Fiametta Sforza, Shoemaker," and a whole host of others. His arms were full to bursting by the time he retreated to the desk, carefully laying each of the nearly two dozen scrolls out on the table. Then, he went to the wall a final time, to retrieve the most important. This one had its own shelf, and was capped in gold rather than bronze. The label over it was similarly done in gold, and read proudly "Vasati the Infinite, Thief."
When this final scroll had joined its predecessors on the desk, Vasati gathered them all up and placed them into a satchel. His work complete, he pulled forth the list of contacts that the guild had provided him, and asked his whispers where the first of them was.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:49, Fri 19 June 2020.
