The Whispers of Ambervale

Onethrîn
Dec 4
8 min read

The characteristic late autumn weather enveloped the valley in a milky veil, the mist lingering among the trees like a breath held in the cold air. Where once stood what appeared to be an old workshop, now remained only a tangle of broken walls, their stones, eroded by lichen, littering the uneven paving stones. The thick silence seemed to hold the memory of forgotten knowledge, while at times a fine rain made the ruins glisten with a cold sheen.

Moving slowly, on the lookout, the archaeomancer and I observed the rubble with the meticulousness of researchers, the kind that comes with study and patience. Vhaerön, as some call him, is a long-time friend whom I met in our younger years, at a time when every discovery, whether simple or strange, fed our imagination and our experiences. This friendship, one of those that endure through the ages without faltering, was born in the dust of the archives. Marked by a form of respect that confers sacredness and arises when we recognise in another a spark that responds to our own without necessarily resembling it, it led us, often at our expense, to places where knowledge and caution are at odds.

Over time, I learned, by watching him, to notice certain signs that escaped me and to let them guide me. Where my craft concerns itself with essences and their transformation, his seeks out resonances, buried echoes. He hears what stone does not speak, as others might sense the true pitch of an instrument, and perceives in ruins the pulse that once stirred the heart of the world. Little by little, his approach nourished my own: to transmutation I learned to add intention; to substance, awakening.

Beyond his sharp mind, his gentle nature that dispels all weariness, and his keen eye for detail, I must admit it was his faint streak of recklessness that pushed me, too, to leave the comfort of my library and explore the world - sometimes with him, sometimes alone. It was hardly surprising, then, that we found ourselves delving into the remains of this forgotten workshop.

We had not chosen the place at random. A few weeks earlier, Vhaerön had stopped by my home, returning from one of his journeys through the southern lands. As always, our reunion was filled with long conversations, mixing travel tales, a flood of memories, and a healthy measure of affectionate teasing, as befits old friends who enjoy each other’s company without ever taking themselves too seriously.

We spent entire evenings talking and leafing through the notebooks he had brought back. The notes, some half-faded, betrayed their author's haste to grasp an idea before it slipped away. Here and there, they were supplemented by sketches and attempts at mapping. It was in one of those pages that we stumbled upon mention of an old workshop tucked into a green hollow. The text, more poetic than precise, spoke of a hermit’s retreat, his work and motives shrouded in mystery. The lines suggested only that he had devoted his life to peculiar practices whose scope no one had ever fully grasped.

Yet it was the details that caught our attention. They spoke of substances unusual and obscure to the uninitiated, but capable of stirring our curiosity. We agreed at once to investigate, convinced such a site would not disappoint. Old maps placed it a short distance from my domain, in a gap known for its mists and tales of strange apparitions. Local farmers avoided the place, claiming that at nightfall strange lights drifted between the trees, accompanied by disquieting murmurs, and that the air bore a sharp, resinous tang no one could quite name. We knew each other well enough to understand that neither of us would turn away from such a discovery. At dawn, our packs were ready, and the valley awaited.

***

At the edge of the ruins, nature seemed to have patiently reclaimed what had once been shaped by human hands. Careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the place, we moved with slow precaution, each step cracking the debris beneath our boots. Here, the exposed paving stones formed almost deliberate patterns; elsewhere, the sunken ground revealed a web of roots entangled with shards of pottery and polished stones.

Despite the desolation, one could still discern the circular layout of the workshop. Here stood the rocky trace of a vanished stand; there a shallow channel that must once have carried some long-dried fluid. If one looked closely, faint translucent deposits, like thin layers of hardened plant resin, gleamed on displaced stone blocks. At times, as I examined the surroundings, I sensed a peculiar stillness, as though a silent, benevolent presence lingered over the abandoned place.

Vhaerön, searching quietly on his side, halted by what seemed to be the remains of a collapsed worktable and called me over. Between two cracked slate tiles, something glimmered faintly. In the diffused daylight I first mistook it for shards of glass, but as I approached, warmer hues revealed themselves. It was amber, trapped in the dust. I drew a small knife from my pack to free the fossilised resin from its setting, then handed it to him. He turned it between his fingers, thoughtful, holding it to the light to observe its veined surface and the strange clouded colours within. When he passed it back to me, I felt a faint vibration, almost imperceptible, like a slumbering whisper within the material. It was no mere curiosity. Everything in its very structure confirmed the impression. In our respective arts, certain processes are never used lightly. A single glance told us we both recognised what had been at work here.

As we ventured further among the rubble, more fragments of amber appeared. Some held tiny stones whose striations seemed to speak of time’s slow passage; others preserved minute plants, frozen mid-motion as if caught in the act of living. They seemed like early experiments: traces of patient research, of stubborn trial and error reaching toward something greater. Yet none resembled the first piece we found.

We pressed on, shifting sodden debris and pushing aside vines and briars. Beneath the remains of a large collapsed shelf, we discovered a small wooden chest, divided into many compartments and drawers, reminiscent of an apothecary’s cabinet. Vhaerön approached it cautiously, his hand hovering a few inches above it, hesitant. At last he lifted it free and set it on a fallen wall that offered a relatively flat surface.

We examined it carefully. The box exuded a camphor-like, waxy scent. Though the drawers were aged, they opened easily. Some held candles and incense - no doubt the source of the aroma - others small vials of murky liquids behind crumbling labels. The remaining compartments contained more resin fragments, threaded with the same nebulous shapes we had seen before.

One could sense something that might, clumsily, be described as an echo of life. A new tension settled in the air, as though the surroundings themselves were watching us, weighing our movements. It was clear we had found what we had been seeking without knowing it.

After a final search through the ruins to ensure nothing had been overlooked, we began the journey home. The ruins faded behind us into the mist, as though choosing once more to hide from the uninitiated. For an instant, I thought I saw an amber glow flicker among the drenched stones - but perhaps it was merely a trick of the light.

Focused now on what we had unearthed, we walked without hesitation, no longer driven by the thrill of discovery but by a calm resolve. Vhaerön strode with steady pace, eyes far away, somewhere between the road and his own thoughts. I knew that silence well; it was how he sorted his ideas. I, meanwhile, sifted through the day’s findings in my mind, already anticipating the work ahead. Gradually our thoughts aligned. Now and then a word escaped, but for the most part we moved in quiet harmony, our steps and reflections falling into the same rhythm. We knew the true labour would begin upon our return.

***

By the time we crossed the threshold of my home, night had settled and the cold had taken hold. While the archæomancer laid out his notes across the workshop’s wide table, I rekindled the fire and lit a scattering of candles, including those we had found earlier. Their flickering glow mingled with the red light of the hearth, casting shifting shadows across the walls and dancing reflections over glassware and alembics. The scent of warm wax and stone thickened the air, and soon the room was wrapped in a welcoming heat. It was time to begin.

Vhaerön prepared the amber fragments, turning each in his hands with care, studying their veins and inclusions as though listening to them, then cleaning away the impurities gathered through the ages. I readied my own tools - mortar, pestle, alembic - and sorted my reagents, consulting our combined notes. Our movements, measured and precise, might have seemed ceremonial to any outsider, yet to us they were simply natural. We spoke little. Only the crackle of the fire, the soft clink of tools, and the rustle of pages read in low murmurs accompanied our quiet choreography, guiding the slow metamorphosis of the materials under our hands. Time seemed to stretch, each second almost tangible, as the weight of the moment and our focused intent deepened. Now and then a faint tremor stirred the air. A forgotten resonance travelling along shelves lined with heavy tomes, acknowledging, perhaps, the fragile balance we laboured to shape between two worlds. Our hands, our eyes, every sense was devoted to that silent presence.

A newfound lightness filled the workshop, as though our silent conversation with the material had finally led it to its rightful place between the solid and the living. We stepped back, letting our eyes linger on what we had wrought. The dragon eggs rested there, brimming with contained energy, as though stone itself had learned to awaken. Transmuted and stabilised, it had become the perfect cradle for the fire soon to be kindled within. Two retained the warm, shifting hues of the amber we had gathered. The others, no less heirs of the valley and its workshop, bore distinct colours: one evoked the cool blue-grey of slate, another the deep burgundy of the scented candles from the wooden chest, and the last, larger than the rest, carried shades of green reminiscent of the lichen clinging to the ruined masonry. Vhaerön approached slowly, solemn yet calm, aware of the quiet magic of our accomplishment. He placed a hand upon one of the amber eggs, as though to listen. We stood there for a time, contemplating the fruits of our labour, until he nodded: he had recognised in the stone the lingering echoes of the mist-shrouded hollow.

Night had long settled by then. Outside, the rain had ceased, leaving behind the stillness that heralds dawn. I placed a hand on my old friend’s shoulder - a simple gesture, yet full of meaning. He carried the pride of work well done, and that fraternal affection born of shared paths and those still to come. For a moment we stood there in silence, gazing at the cluttered workbench. And in that quiet breath, I felt once more the calm presence that had seemed to dwell among the ruins.