Today You Found Me Too (Part 2)
Rashala reveals the hidden command center of her clade, Jon steps into a world where faun technology rivals magic itself—a journey through portals, ancient halls, and living memories brought to life.
With those words, Rashala stepped up to the nearest terminal, manipulated one of the aqueous symbols floating just beyond its display, and turned toward the adjacent wall.
There, a concealed door slid open — revealing a much larger interior space beyond.
Alongside Rashala and Azini, I stepped through the entryway and into a bustling command center.
“Oh, my goodness!” I said, as I looked around and the full scale of the operation dawned on me.
The bay contained hundreds of workstations, each manned by a faun or fauness. Dozens more darted between them.
It reminded me of something you might see at NASA — a control center overseeing a manned mission to space.
But NASA could only dream of the technology on display here, within Nar’Zhavel’s version of mission control.
“Is everyone here a member of your clade?” I asked my companions, still in awe as I surveyed the operation.
“They are,” Rashala replied, her smile tinged with pride.
Azini’s was, too.
They could tell I was impressed.
This pleased the faunesses greatly.
At that moment, a faun approached us.
He was tall — even taller than Azini, whose goat-like legs already seemed to stretch on for days.
Clad in a suit and tie, he carried an authoritative air that left no doubt:
this was the one in charge of operations within the bay.
“Jon, this is Tarellan. He’s the clade’s Chief of Energy and Manifestation,” Rashala said, confirming my assumption about his rank.
As with every faun or fauness I’d met, Tarellan bowed once the introduction was complete.
“I exist to serve, Master Jon.”
I placed my hand on his upper arm.
“Just Jon will do,” I said. “No more, no less.”
The faun smiled.
“Tarellan, report,” ordered Azini, her curt, no-nonsense demeanor fully engaged.
“Sierra, triple two, seven has complied with near-flawless precision.
Energy draw is optimal. It’s stable. It’s efficient.
The scenario will be suitable for entry in moments.”
“Very well, Tarellan,” said Rashala.
“Lead the way.”
The faun led us out of the command center and back to the section of the adjoining hallway the clade had been transforming into a portal just before we’d entered the bay.
Now, the thick clouds of mist and steam were gone—
as was the dank smell.
In their place stood a pristine gateway, leading into a long corridor within the priory—
a space that featured prominently in many of the stories I’d written about Marissa Bonifay.
I recognized it immediately, drawn from the memories etched in my mind’s eye.
Tarellan inspected the data terminal positioned at the exact threshold where Nar’Zhavel’s sterile, corporate corridor gave way to the rustic, stone-walled interior of the priory.
He took a moment to study the readout, then adjusted a pair of symbols.
Half a dozen others shifted from red to green.
“It’s ready,” the faun proclaimed.
Rashala was the first to cross the threshold.
The moment Tarellan announced the scenario’s readiness, she stepped forward without hesitation—
passing through the boundary from our current reality into the one crafted by her clade.
Once inside, she turned and gestured for me to follow.
And I did, without reservation.
With Azini at my side, I entered the priory as it stood during the time of Marissa Bonifay’s youth and adolescence on the Isle of Indamar.
And I noticed the environmental differences immediately.
The air inside the priory was warmer than the Nar’Zhavelan replica of my study—just slightly—but with a touch more humidity, too.
There was a shift in air pressure.
The smells were different.
This world was older.
Raw.
Rustic.
Worn by time.
And if the stone walls and floors of that ancient building hadn’t made that clear, its scent certainly did.
“This is incredible,” I said, glancing around. “It’s just as I’ve always imagined.”
That wasn’t hyperbole. It was truth.
I’d envisioned myself walking these very halls while crafting stories about Marissa.
And now… I was here.
Really here.
A sudden wave of weakness swept over me, my knees nearly buckling under the surreal weight of the moment.
A steadying hand found my shoulder—Azini.
“Would you like to encounter others who might have frequented this place during our time here?” Rashala asked, her smile undisturbed by the awe that had overtaken me.
I glanced back toward the point of entry.
There was no trace of the sterile hallway—
no fluorescent lights,
no polished white floors.
No fauns.
No faunesses.
The grand old priory had swallowed it all.
“Yeah… I think I’d like to see those who called the Isle home,” I said, finally answering Rashala’s question—though absently.
I still couldn’t believe what my eyes were seeing.
The exactness of this place—how flawlessly it mirrored what I had imagined while writing those stories—was a testament to Marissa’s power.
Her ability to communicate complex ideas and vivid imagery had shaped my mind in ways I hadn’t fully understood.
It was humbling.
And magnificent.
Azini studied her datapad, adjusted a floating lime-green symbol—
and people appeared in the hallway.
They wore clothing authentic to the time and place:
a collection of individuals of all ages, genders, and walks of life.
Some stood chatting in small groups.
Others strolled casually down the corridor—
a few caught mid-stride, as if their existence had never been interrupted.
None showed any awareness they’d just been crafted from nothing.
They moved with the certainty of lives always in progress—
as if they had always existed, and always would.
My attention settled on a pretty woman in her thirties,
with two young boys in tow.
Brown hair.
Curls.
Straight nose.
Fair skin.
I saw her resemblance in both children.
“Good morning, Jon,” the woman said in passing.
“I hope you are well.”
“Good morning,” I replied.
“I’m doing just fine. Thank you very much.”
She continued down the hallway, and it took me a few moments to realize—
I had understood every word she said,
even though I shouldn’t have.
“She spoke English,” I said, turning to my companions.
“But with an accent. A pleasant one—though I can’t quite place it.”
Azini nodded.
“We can have the denizens of Nar’Zhavel speak any language you choose, Jon.
And with any accent.
Would you prefer they speak Lyconian?
Or an authentic dialect of old Indamarian?”
I chuckled.
“No, English will be fine,” I said.
“I think I’d prefer to understand what people are saying.”
Azini nodded politely.
“Jon, we’ve taken the liberty of making a few slight adjustments to this reality as it existed on the day Marissa walked the Isle as an eighteen-year-old,” said Rashala.
“You’ve already noticed one — language.
We did this to facilitate a better experience for you here.
Other changes were made to ensure your safety.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“My safety?”
“Yes. Being a native of Earth, your body is accustomed to coping with a specific profile of pathogens — bacteria, viruses, that sort of thing.
On Talway Nine, for instance, you’d encounter microbes your immune system has never faced.
So, we believe it’s best for a scenario like this to include certain limitations on exactness in some areas.”
She gave a slight nod.
“That said, I can assure you — none of these accommodations will affect your mission.
Nor will they ever.”
“That’s amazing,” I said, my astonishment clearly written on my face.
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“Yes.” Rashala winked.
“We’ve had plenty of time to iron things out.”
I laughed.
“The length of an age,” I said.
“The length of two ages,” Azini corrected.
“Now — on with the quest.”
I wandered through the priory’s many corridors, admiring its architecture and appointments.
The entire place was a veritable repository of art.
Naturally, most of its paintings and sculptures were tied to the Kingdom of Malakanth’s Obricon religion, and I took my time with each piece.
Yes, they were crafted by skilled hands —
but more than that, they were ancient.
These works had been created thousands of years before I was born,
by artists who lived in a culture where magic — both legal and forbidden — shaped daily life.
A society far from Earth in time, distance, and mindset.
The planet itself lay halfway across the universe from home.
And somehow, I stood here, immersed in it all.
That thought filled my heart with wonder.
All in all, I felt privileged beyond measure to experience such a thing —
and thankful to Rashala and Azini for allowing me to explore it at my leisure.
I visited the priory’s main sanctuary, where crowds gathered on feast days to hear sermons from the prior and practice the state faith of Malakanth.
I visited the Commons.
The kitchen and galley.
The dining hall.
I walked through many of the places that had hosted scenes from my stories about Marissa.
And it was all exactly as I had imagined it.
Eventually, my attention returned to the true purpose of my visit.
But by then, I had little doubt:
I had gotten the story right.
I seemed attuned to this place — perfectly — through her magic.
Such is the power of a mighty Sorcerai witch.
“Jon, pause and listen,” Azini said.
The fauness had activated her datapad and was adjusting the floating symbols on its display.
“Tell me what you hear.”
I stopped and did as she asked.
At first, I heard nothing.
But then — after straining my ears — I detected a faint sound.
One that had no business being inside the priory.
“Seagulls,” I said.
Azini smiled. “Indeed.”
“Those are the same sounds Marissa Bonifay heard while roaming these hallways when growing up,” said Rashala.
“The ones everybody thought she was crazy for hearing,” I replied.
Rashala giggled. “Yep.”
“After all, the sea is far from here,” I added.
Azini nodded.
“I would say you did this story justice, Jon.”
I was certainly happy to hear that.
“We made a few adjustments to your anatomy and physiology for the purposes of this scenario,” she continued.
“You now have the ears of a Sorcerai witch — so you can hear the subtleties in your surroundings just as Marissa did on the day she discovered the Baelthorne Journal.”
“Unbelievable,” I said.
In response, I heard the faint, yet distinct, tolling of a fog bell —
the kind you’d typically hear in a harbor.
That sound was part of the story, too.
Curious, I asked,
“How far away are we from the ocean?”
Azini studied her datapad for a moment.
“Twelve point seven leagues,” she said.
“That’s 38.1 miles, or 61.3 kilometers.”
She wiggled her eyebrows.
“As the crow flies, of course.”
I smiled.
“Of course.”
“Jon, place your hand upon the wall,” said Rashala.
I did so.
And I felt precisely what she meant for me to feel.
Vibrations.
The inexplicable sounds of the sea were permeating the stone—
just like they did in the story.
These subtle tremors were what ultimately led Marissa to the source of the sound…
and ultimately, to her journal.
“The source is near the Rose Chapel,” I said, just as the gulls cried again and a faint tremor pulsed beneath my palm.
I gestured toward where the hallway was leading.
“It’s up ahead.”
The faunesses smiled.
“Lead the way,” said Rashala.
I’ll admit — discovering the exact painting that concealed the secret room where Marissa first laid eyes on the journal (and a whole trove of other books that set her on the path of learning) was… a little anticlimactic.
Deep down, I knew it would be there.
I knew it would look exactly as I’d envisioned it while writing the story.
Still, it was lovely to behold.
The painting depicted a woman in an elegant red robe, climbing an ornate staircase crafted from giant thorns.
“The Bearing of the Roseblade?” I asked, hoping the title I’d given it in my story matched the real one.
“That’s its name,” said Azini. “Well done.”
“Do you happen to know the artist credited for painting it?” asked Rashala, looking rather coy.
In an instant, I knew I was stumped.
“I do not,” I admitted.
“This painting was rendered by Master Ori Brightscale,” said Rashala.
“He lived many centuries before Marissa’s birth and is best known for his attention to fine details — as well as his arcanographism.”
“It’s lovely,” I said.
“Master Brightscale did have an eye for detail. That’s obvious with just a glance. Perhaps he would have made a fine writer.”
Rashala’s eyes twinkled.
“Perhaps.”
Now, this extraordinary painting was located near the Rose Chapel — a popular spot within the priory where many of its smaller daily services were held.
The chapel had appeared in several stories I’d written.
Intrigued by the idea of seeing it firsthand, I decided to delay activating the mechanism that would swing the sizable painting open like a door — revealing the hidden chamber beyond, where the journal and the source of the sea’s sound awaited.
Instead, I chose to visit the Rose Chapel.
With a pair of demonesses at my side, I stepped into the sacred space.
And like every other room in the priory, it appeared exactly as I had imagined.
There were plenty of nods to the chapel’s namesake scattered throughout.
An elegant bouquet of long-stemmed pink blossoms stood in a vase upon the altar.
Other arrangements adorned the sills of the stained glass windows — windows that, of course, featured roses in full bloom.
The scent of freshly cut flowers hung in the air.
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