“It would be more cost-efficient for the spirits if I subsumed all of you into my alchemic body,” the Alchemist said, staring down at their group.
“It would be more cost-efficient for our sanity if we didn’t,” Argrave rebuked, looking up at the Alchemist.
The Alchemist shook his head as he watched Argrave. “You had my word no harm would come to you and yours, yet you waste precious resources because of distrust. No matter…”
Argrave gestured for everyone to come, and they hesitantly put their hand on the black robe of the Alchemist. His robe of his own hair felt like silk, but somehow that didn’t make things better. The Alchemist held his hand up, casting a spell that Anneliese used frequently: [Worldstrider]. A familiar yet unfamiliar feeling passed over them all, and then they were gone from their roots.
When Argrave next had sight, he gazed up at a solid sheet of white. He stepped back, craning his neck, to make out a gigantic white door. After a moment he spotted vines and excessive jungle growth consuming these white ruins. Argrave’s brain, rotted by Heroes of Berendar, placed where they were immediately—the jungle, west of the wetlands and the Order of the Gray Owl territory. This was where the map of Heroes of Berendar ended.“You use this door to the White Planes? I’m pretty sure there’s another that was closer,” Argrave questioned.
The Alchemist shot Argrave a harsh glare that was frightful enough to stir Argrave’s Brumesingers. They alighted from the pockets of his duster and looked up upon the white gateway. It was a slender and tall archway with two pure white doors. They weren’t stone—they looked like milky glass, almost, or white obsidian. This was one of many entrances to the White Planes. Of all of them, only this one had the good fortune to be on the surface.
As everyone comported themselves surprisingly calmly, Melanie walked up to Argrave. “Mind explaining to me what these White Planes actually are? I know you coached us on what to do, but…”
No answers came to Argrave. It wasn’t something fully explained in the game, and even the gods couldn’t fully explain it. “Won’t take long,” Argrave answered, shaking his head. “You’ll see for yourself.”
The Alchemist reached into his body and pulled free a spherical item. After scrutinizing, Argrave judged it was an enchanted ring that created an actively maintained ward. Within this ward was a strange confluence of green energy.
“Yeah, well, knowing and seeing are a little different,” Melanie whispered insistently as the Alchemist stepped up to the doorway.
The Alchemist dispelled the ring’s ward, and the green light threatened to dance away before the man seized it in his hand. With a push, he thrust this ethereal power against the milky white glass door. It spread out along the surface of it, forming into incomprehensible runes that he couldn’t read—strange, given that Argrave had been able to speak and read everything written here.“We discussed the plan. What more do you need to know?” Argrave asked Melanie rhetorically. “Honestly, I can’t explain it. You’ll need to experience it.”
The gargantuan white doors slowly split open, but what was beyond was not at all like what one saw looking around the sides of the frame. Argrave walked away from a frustratedly confused Melanie, then grabbed Anneliese’s hand as she stepped forward in curiosity. She seemed brought out of a stupor, but then joined along with Argrave. Her Starsparrow flew off her shoulder, joining the Brumesingers.
Argrave looked back. “Just remember what we talked about… and all of you will do fine. All of you are calm, composed, and damn well valuable… but the White Planes can’t be explained. You’ll be safe, so… be bold, gods be damned. Get the first bit done, then we’ll wring the gods dry.”
Elenore was the first to come beside Argrave and Anneliese. Galamon followed, then Durran, and then Melanie. Only Orion, their druidic bonds, and the Alchemist would remain outside, all of whom stood by the slender door on either side. As a show of confidence in their plan, Argrave stepped forward, intending to be the first to enter. Anneliese clenched his hand tighter in trepidation, but followed him with no complaint.
The entire world vanished before Argrave, replaced by bright white. He smelled white, tasted white, heard white, thought white… it was all white. And when next he saw something else beside, he saw a smug young man sitting behind a mahogany desk, his shabby tennis shoes propped up atop the top as he leaned back.
The face was all too familiar, because it was his. Not Argrave—Vincenzo Giordano. It seemed that Argrave’s old form was the whiteness within himself.
“Fitting,” Argrave remarked, walking deeper in.
