Chapter Text
Aurens Povarot is working the desk at the offices of the Cerberus Assembly in the Soltryce Academy. He hates the post, but anything to get into the good books of the professors so he can be accepted. Most days it is quiet, people arriving for arranged meetings with the Headmaster or his council. But not today.
Today, at around 2:30pm, the doors to the foyer burst open and in stride three figures. They're dressed in incredible vestments, leather armour, with visible weapons on two of the individuals. Adventurers with money to their name. The group stride straight past Aurens and he leaps to his feet.
"Um, I'm sorry, you can't just go in there! Do you have an appointment with one of the professors?" The group rounds on him and Aurens gulps.
They look pissed.
There are two female half-elves and a human man, fairly youthful years and muscular in the way adventurers are. Aurens knows powerful magic when he sees it and this group sings with it. From the long blue cape over the human's shoulder; to the gnarled staff the red-headed half elf carries; to the beautiful bow slung across the shoulder of the dark-haired half elf, the power is incredible. And, oh shit, is that white dragon hide armour she's wearing? Aurens is quickly regretting his decision to stop them.
"Young man, we have a severe complaint to make. I want to speak to the Headmaster," says the dark-haired half elf, her accent distinctly Tal-doreian.
"Um, I'm afraid the headmaster is in a meeting? Maybe you could make an appointment?" Aurens tries and she only looks more angry.
"Darling, I did not travel halfway across the world specifically to make this complaint to be told I need an appointment," she hisses and the man gently takes her arm.
"Vex, dear, leave the boy alone, he's just doing his job," says the other half elf placatingly. Then the man turns his steely blue eyes and Aurens who shirks despite himself.
"Tell the Headmaster Lord and Lady de Rolo of Whitestone and the Voice of the Tempest wish to see him, urgently. The name Vox Machina may help." Aurens nods, stumbling around his desk.
He knows Vox Machina. He has heard about them, about their heroic tales from only a couple of years ago. They’re not quite a household name here in Wildemount, but he runs in the right circles to know them. The three in front of him can only be Lady Vex'ahlia, Lord Percival and Lady Keyleth.
Aurens bows to them and skitters up to the office where Headmaster Zivan Margolin is having a meeting with several other archmages. He knocks sharply on the door, which opens by itself.
"Yes?" spits the headmaster, clearly unhappy with being interrupted in their meeting with Archmage Trent Ikithon and Lady Vess DeRogna.
"Headmaster, I'm terribly sorry to interrupt but you have some very important visitors."
"Can't they wait?" huffs Lady DeRogna. "We're busy."
"I'm very sorry, madame, but they are very insistent. Its, ah, they are members of Vox Machina. Lady and Lord de Rolo of Whitestone and The Voice of the Tempest. They are insistent on speaking with you, Headmaster."
Archmage Trent Ikithon sighs. "We can't risk offending the de Rolos. Whitestone is the only producer of residuum glass."
"Fine, fine," says the headmaster, getting up. "Trent, Vess, let us go see what these ex-heroes want."
Aurens bows and heads out of the office, leading down the headmaster and archmages. As they enter the foyer, the members of Vox Machina are waiting for them.
Before the Headmaster can say anything, the posture of the heroes changes. Lady Vex'ahlia reaches for the quiver on her back, other hand on her bow. Lord Percival places on hand deliberately on the weapon at his side, his firearm. Lady Keyleth's hands catch fire. And Aurens swears that for just a second, he sees a fourth figure between the half-elves. Black armour where Lady Vex’ahlia’s is white, teeth drawn back in a snarl and glowing daggers held out in an offensive stance.
"So," says Lady Vex'ahlia, her voice like ice. "Care to explain why you've been experimenting on children with residuum glass?
“So, care to explain why you’ve been experimenting on children with residuum glass?”
Percy can hear the quiet, insidious anger in his wife’s voice as he rests one hand on Animus, the other on Manners, prepared for these mages to have an issue. They had heard that their new partners cannot be trusted fairly rapidly after opening trade with them. So, they had sent Jarett, an excellent spy himself to investigate the Cerberus Assembly. And Jarett, trustworthy as ever, had found out about the experiments. So here they stand, not 5 years after the destruction of Vecna, still fixing problems. The archmage wearing the fanciest robes, likely the headmaster, coughs slightly.
“Ah, Archmage Ikithon, would you like to explain the nature of your training?” they suggest and the mage opens his mouth to speak when prompted and Vex’s hand twitches on her bow.
“I don’t believe my wife was quite clear,” Percy says, his voice dripping with all the false courtesy his noble-born background provided him. “We do not care what you have been doing, we just want it to end. Now.”
“You must understand,” says the mage who as to be Ikithon and Keyleth hisses in the back of her throat, the Spire of Conflux glowing bright and angry.
“No,” she spits and Percy hasn’t heard her this angry since they dealt with Raishan. “You understand this; it will stop now. You will show us your proteges and you will end this torture, Archmage.”
“And if I refuse?” presses Ikithon and Percival draws Animus in a blink.
“I’m sure you’re powerful, archmage, but I assure you, we are faster. We are members of Vox Machina; the Slayers of the Chroma Conclave, the defeaters of Vecna, the Undying One, God of Secrets,” says Percy, his voice level.
“So, unless you think you’re more powerful than a god,” simpers Vex, Fethras drawn. “I would back down and do as you are told.” Ikithon looks like he will challenge for a second longer, but Percy’s gaze never wavers and he finally backs down.
“Take them to see the boy,” he mumbles quietly to the man who had been sat at the desk. Percy speaks up,
“This ends now, Headmaster, Archmage Ikithon. Whitestone will provide you no more residuum.”
“But what about our research?” protests the other archmage before quailing as they wheel around on her.
“You should have considered that before you decided to torture children,” spits Vex’ahlia and she follows the other who was at the desk out, anger still glowing in her eyes. Percival sheaths Animus and follows her immediately, Keyleth behind him.
“Can you believe them?!” explodes the druid as they head through the winding corridors. “Justifying the torture of children as though it was some simple tinkering project." Vex nods, seething through her teeth,
“If they weren’t so high up in the magical community, I would have put an arrow through his eye socket. Where are we going?” she asks their guide sharply.
“To our small medical wing, Lady de Rolo,” murmurs the man, clearly shaken by the experience. “The youngest of Trent’s proteges is there. He was due to be sent to the asylum in two days.”
“The asylum?” echoes Keyleth, her voice stormy.
“He is very unwell, Lady Keyleth. He will not speak Common and has attempted to seriously harm himself several times in the last few days.”
“And their brilliant idea is to lock away this traumatised child?” hisses Percy. He knows enough about being lost in his own head, about being locked away and afraid. He can’t imagine anything worse than that for this child. “Show us.” And their guide picks up the pace. Soon, they reach a set of locked and guarded heavy doors, with the muffled sounds of screaming from inside.
“Um,” says the secretary. “Archmage Trent Ikithon has instructed me to show these people to his student.” The guards glance over at them and nod, moving to open the door.
And Percy enters a place of misery. There is only one out of the four beds in this room filled and the boy in it is making a desperate racket, screaming and crying and begging in a language Percy does not speak. He is tied to the bed with belts which are leaving deep red welts on his arms, matching with the deep and rough scars that litter his arms.
The residuum must have been inserted into his arms, thinks Percy and immediately feels sick. Keyleth is immediately at his side, murmuring softly to the boy.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, child, you’re going to be okay.” He simply whimpers and thrashes under her hands. He’s pale, paler than Percy which is unusual considering his climate and his hair is the colour of fire, shorn short against his head.
Vex gives Percy a desperate look and Percy makes a decision.
“Release him. Does he have living relatives?”
“No, Lord de Rolo,” replies the secretary quietly.
“Release him. We will take him back to Whitestone and care for him.” No matter that Vex and he already have two young children, this boy, likely only 16 or 17 years old, needs their help. The secretary seems nervous and Keyleth scowls.
“Coward. He’s just afraid.” And she takes her own dagger, cutting the bonds loose. “I will try to help, see if I can do anything.” She pauses, placing her hand on his forehead and the boy whimpers, going still under the druid’s touch. She smiles reassuringly and murmurs quietly, her hands glowing green. The boy goes limp, eyes wide. He looks astounded and grateful.
“There we go,” says Keyleth gently. “There we go, child. Would you like to leave here?” He nods, vigorously and Vex comes over to help Keyleth pick him up. He is wary of the contact, but also too weak to resist it.
“We’re leaving,” declares Vex, as Percy flanks her. “Do not try to stop us.” And with that, the members of Vox Machina turn tail and leave, carrying the boy gently between them.