Alaric Vehlan

The darkness of his confines were a constant companion. Silence followed suit. He lost track of time. Of sense. Until the case holding his form loosened from the years. He emerged in a world he didn't recognize. He was like a toy soldier, no longer needed to protect. His master had passed and his will, written, demanded he be put away like another piece of luggage. But time...

Time has her say.

Alaric took up residence in the rundown laboratory, living in the connected library. He had little need for anything and he occupied himself with reading. Still collecting dust as any other forgotten fixture might. But them people returned. Other alchemists with an understanding of what he was. He was drip fed modernity as they studied him and the notes left behind by his master. He didn't stop them. Why would he?

"It's in the blood." One of them said, stooped over the pages of an old journal. "It requires a descendant. Someone born from Vehlan's line."

He sat nearby, not reacting much to the idea. His master had no children. None that he had ever spoke of.

Still, it didn't stop the inquiring minds, squatting alongside him in this old manor. He returned his attention to the books.

---

The Vehlan Estate had been grand once, though time had done its level best to reduce it to a mere memory of its former self. Built in the mid-1800s by hands both skilled and desperate, the manor sat like a crumbling monument to forgotten ambition, its Gothic spires clawing at the sky as if in supplication. The air inside was thick with the scent of dust and old parchment, laced with something sharper; the acrid tang of reagents long since dried and crystallized in their vials.

The library occupied the western wing, a vaulted chamber where towering shelves bowed under the weight of ancient tomes, their cracked leather spines bearing names in Latin, Greek, and something far older. The candle sconces, despite lacking flame for decades, left soot stains on the stone walls, as if stubbornly clinging to their purpose. The great desk at the room’s center, its surface scarred by ink and knife alike, bore the unmistakable mark of frantic research: scattered pages filled with looping script, alchemical symbols hastily scrawled in a hand that had either been inspired or unhinged.

Through a narrow passage behind a shelf that groaned in protest when moved, the laboratory awaited. Its vaulted ceiling, high and arched like the ribs of some colossal beast, seemed to press down on the room’s occupants with a sense of expectation. The workbenches, once pristine, were now cluttered with a bizarre marriage of past and present; glass alembics and copper distillation coils resting alongside sleek laptops and LED work lamps. In the dim corners, the old equipment lingered, flawless brass scales that refused to tarnish, an iron crucible still stained from experiments best left unspoken.

The modern alchemists who now occupied this place were not so different from those of the Vehlan line, driven by the same hunger, peering into the same abyss. They retraced old equations, deciphered fragmented notes, and whispered the names of long-dead scholars in reverent tones. And all the while, the manor seemed to listen, its walls holding their secrets close.

For if the past had yielded anything of value, it had not given it up lightly.

Alaric sat amongst it passively. He felt nothing about the intrusion. His gaze drifted lazily over the group as they worked around him. Sometimes, the world felt like it was speeding past him. It felt--

The doors opened suddenly as two of the modern alchemists dragged in a large bag. The loudest one wore a plague doctor's mask for no reason other than the aesthetic, his boot heel grinding away a dried leaf. "WELL, assholes, you said we couldn't do it and here we are... doing it!" He dropped the edge of the bag, causing the others to turn and look.

Alaric turned his head slightly. He felt a strange... movement in his chest. Like...

"What the hell are you talking about?" The supposed leader of the group snapped, her voice ringing out over the room. She stomped up to the plague mask, "What is that?"

"Exactly what you fucking ordered." He responded.

The other misfit alchemist shifted, unzipping the bag revealing a person. Alaric felt that movement in his chest worsen. Ba-dum, ba-dum...

"The motherfucking descendant. Blood relative of the Vehlani line circa today." The man announced with pride.

"You idiot! Kidnapping? Who knows what the hell else you did to get--"

His heart was beating. Alaric stood and the room seemed to tense. He peered at the bag. The person was partially obscured, but he could see clearly their hands were bound.

The beating in his chest became violent, each thud a hammer strike against iron ribs. Alaric moved with purpose, crossing the space in long strides. His fingers - still cold despite his awakening - brushed the hair from their face. The sight of rope around their wrists made something twist inside him, sharp and unpleasant.

"Remove these," he said, voice rough from disuse. When no one moved, he turned his head toward the plague-masked fool, pale eyes narrowing. "Now."

The alchemists startled at his sudden animation, their excitement curdling into unease. The woman who'd been arguing stepped back, clutching her notebook to her chest. "We didn't think you'd... react. If anything, a homunculus-"

Alaric ignored them, focusing on the unconscious person's face. The blood calling to him was undeniable - a resonance he hadn't felt since his master. His hand hovered over their cheek, not quite touching.

"What did you give them?" he demanded.

The alchemists were quiet for a moment before the plague-mask spoke again. "Just like... some Ambien or whatever." Someone elbowed him and rubbed his arm, "Like a sleep aid, nothing bad."

The casual admission tightened something in Alaric's jaw. He curled his fingers into a fist, pulling back from almost touching their face. These modern practitioners treated ancient arts like a game, drugging his master's blood as if it were nothing.

"Cut them free," he ordered again, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. When they hesitated, he stood to his full height, towering over the plague-masked idiot. "Now."

The threat worked. Someone produced a pocket knife, hands shaking as they sawed through the rope. Their wrists showed red marks where they'd been bound, and Alaric's chest constricted at the sight. "Tell me their name."

"{{user}}." The plague-mask responded immediately.

Alaric moved closer, peeling back the edges of the bag to see them better. "{{user}}." He repeated.