“Regardless of one’s particular arcane interests, regardless of how rare it is for even the most talented arcanist to even see an aetherian, a good and proper practitioner must always keep them in mind. Remember, they all deserve proper reverence! What is the difference between the smallest sprite and the legendary theoretical existence of an awesome Divine? They can both, under proper conditions, cause untold havoc upon the corporeal plane. Do not be the reason for one of their outbursts, dear reader.”

- The Firmament’s Field Guide: An Aetherian Dossier for the Young Arcanist

Nemira, stripped down to her underwear, stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror with a critical eye. No new scars anywhere that she could see. No odd growths or alarming colorations or freckles rearranged into strange shapes. She pinched at the ample flesh of her thighs, prodded the curves of her waistline. Did her skin feel right? It was always difficult to tell, but she wasn’t about to call Sai-em up to her bedroom and pinch him for comparison. Her hair, too, received a thorough investigation. She wrapped a stray curl around her finger, considering its texture with care. A little on the fuzzier side a couple of days out from her careful washing routine, but otherwise same as ever. No notable changes to speak of. It was the result she got every time, and in all her years of performing her self-examinations she still could not figure out if that was a good thing. She gave her reflection one last, pensive frown and turned away from it.

Once appropriately re-dressed and flying license tucked safely into the traveling bag hanging at her waist to ward off any Grays from the Arcane Traffic unit looking to hand out tickets, she dashed out of her bedroom and into the living room, staff in one hand and a pair of sandals dangling from the fingers of her other hand. The living room, with its plethora of potted plants and overstuffed bookshelf, all the vividly colorful Yamban pillows and floor cushions, to the bold Rhuzian embroidery that adorned the large rug and the decorative cloth spread over the low-slung oaken table, was her private pride and joy of interior decoration. She stepped around the space with a not-insignificant amount of longing for what should have been a lazy weekend afternoon of lounging around and reading, slipped her sandals on over the mat in front of the sliding glass doors that led onto her balcony, and stepped outside.

Chilly air filled her lungs as she took the steep wrought-iron staircase up to the roof. Below her, a streetcar packed with riders sped down the tracks that turned the corner on 8th and Priory, the many wooden hooves of the Sleipner autobeast that pulled it pounding against the wet concrete with enough weight that Nemira felt the vibrations under her feet.

A giant, shallow stone bowl that sat in the center of the roof taunted her as she ascended up the last steps. She ran a hand along the rough, carved surface of its lip as she passed it, wondering as she always did if the Council could perceive her somehow even when it remained unlit.

At the edge of the roof, she finally paused and looked out before her. The cityscape below was a wet, muted gray that warded away the usual hustle and bustle of the afternoon and the clouds above were fat and dark, threatening to burst with rain at any moment. Cutting through the oncoming storm, just a scant few blocks eastward and ever at the periphery of her and the eyes of everyone else in the city, was Central Ward’s dome of heavy, swirling fog that veiled the Necropolis. Strange curves of harshly-white architecture jutted out from the top of the dome and into the sky like the rib bones of some ancient giant long since laid to waste and left to rot where it had been slain. Above them rose the enormous boughs of a Caeltree. The autumn season had knocked most of its iridescent leaves away, and its bare branches scrabbled at the sky as though trying to grab hold of it and pull itself free. She shot the area one of her most disgruntled looks. Central Ward did not respond in kind.

First preflight ritual complete, she sucked in another bright, cold lungful of air. "Okay," she murmured, before clearing her throat. Energy rolled through the inner workings of her body, tugging at her vocal cords and searing her tongue with a lovely heat. She could see countless slyphid-class sprites swirling around her in the Firmament in anticipation of her words. The aetherian microorganisms, glittering like tiny shards of glass caught in the sun. She couldn’t imagine a life without their fluttering, all-encompassing presence.

"O my ancient shadow, my dark twin that resides in the Firmament, lend me thy wings.”

She jabbed her torch heavenward. The tornado of sylphids that swarmed above her split in half, ripping an uneven hole in the sky. A hand descended from the seething dark expanse within. Enormous, desiccated. Brilliant gold rings glittered under its bony knuckles as it grabbed her torch and burst into the flames of her pneuma, chilly blue and more wild and blinding than ever before, burning against her palms like ice. The fire then blew out as quickly as it had appeared, and under the torch’s dangling lantern flapped a pair of enormous wings. They were blue-black and ragged, scattering dry feathers with every movement. The hand was nowhere to be seen.

Nemira threw a leg over her newly-feathered torch. A single flap lifted her well above Books On 8th. Sounds of city life grew distant, the air even cooler. She nudged it in the direction of the Supernatural Public Guard's office and tucked her legs underneath her.

"Think you can get me there in about twenty minutes?" she asked. "I want to get this assignment over with as quickly as I can."

The wings gave another flap behind her, and she shot through the sky with the ease of a seasoned crow.

Roughly half the journey ended up a solitary affair. If any other arcane flyers were out and about despite the looming inclement weather, they were not heading in the direction of Twin Justice Street. It would have been downright leisurely had it not been for the utter absence of aetherians in the sky along with her. On a normal day they flitted between the Firmament and the mortal plane regardless of their classification, going who-knows-where and sometimes stopping to speak with her if they saw her flying through the skies nearby. She’d catch snatches of conversation, arguments, otherworldly song. The pervasive silence felt eerie in contrast. Unnatural. Was such emptiness what the average mortal experienced every day? She could hardly imagine it.

A voice rang out from behind her just as she began to wonder if she needed to stop on the nearest rooftop and call upon another of her cousins for answers, so close and sudden her torch came to a screeching halt in her shock.

"Hail, sapling!"

An aetherian swam up to her side with powerful beats of its leathery wings, its scales glinting and warped like raw obsidian. It stretched twice the length of her on her torch, and was almost as tall. Nemira wanted to hit herself for being caught so off-guard by it. You, of all people, need to expect aetherians anywhere, any time. She could hear the words in a particular nagging old man’s voice perfectly. No doubt he would have laughed at her had he witnessed such a lapse of alertness.

"Hail, honored dragon." Heart still pounding against her ribs, Nemira bowed her head, but inwardly she winced. Dragons came in a myriad of shapes and sizes but were always difficult to deal with. Its celestial core, an orb of stinging white fire more dense and powerful than the unrefined aura of a mortal’s pneuma, burned in the air between its branched horns like the crown jewel of a royal diadem. Unlike the spritely class below it, daemons had intellect and individuality to spare. She would have to walk on eggshells around it. 

"A mortal has ensnared my kin and fled into the rotten heart of this land." It stared at her with crimson, slit-pupil eyes and gave a mighty snort. Lightning crackled out of its wide nostrils. "The insult. The pain. Who would seek to emulate the old bloodsoaked kings of Adalia, those insatiable devourers of flesh and fire? We choose to flee these skies 'til our safety is guaranteed. The Council promised succor. Are you that promise, little sapling?"

"Honored dragon," said Nemira, keeping her eyes downcast. It shifted closer to her, the long tendrils of its whiskers reaching out to touch her face. She didn’t flinch away. Dragons were easily offended. "I am that which the Council has promised."

"Bah!" The dragon gnashed its maw of serrated fangs. "Up close, your tenderness is unmistakable. Not even a sapling, but a vulnerable, weak-fleshed sprout!"

Nemira bowed her head even lower. It was a great way to hide her face. Not that this deterred the dragon’s curious whiskers. One kept patting her cheek. The other was a little too close to sliding up her nose for her comfort. "Mighty dragon, I will do what I can, aided by the generosity of our kin whose powers I borrow with gratitude. The Council would not command me to take care of this emergency if they did not think I could do it."

"Oh? The sprout speaks with confidence, for all her fragility. I sense the steadfastness of your bright core. Partake in this drop of wisdom I shall grant you, and use it to ease the fears of my brethren!” It finally withdrew its whiskers from her face and twisted in the air, a strangely playful gesture undermined by its wickedly pointed ivory claws. "When you find the fool who did this…separate its head from its body! It has no regard for its own kind, nor ours. Show it no regard in turn. All shall celebrate in its slaying!"

With that proclamation, it launched itself straight downward. Nemira saw the air tear itself before the dragon, revealing another peek into the great, glittering darkness that swallowed it before the cleft sealed itself back up. Nemira sat back on her torch with a heavy gasp of relief.

“Why has everyone around me been so damn violent lately?” she asked aloud.

Above her, a peal of thunder cracked across the sky, shaking her bones down to the marrow with its inscrutable reply.