PM to join Underground [Clyde and Midna]

[Clyde Sullins]

It seemed the Myrian acquaintance of Clyde was not used to being in center stage, nor being the center of sudden adulation and gratitude. He had won the fight, but clearly many of the people in here had profited from it. Their reaction spoke of comradeship, spoke of instant friends in the moment of their high spirits... But clearly Razkar was uncomfortable with it. As, Clyde believed, he would be if in the same situation. He recalled back to the last time he had been treated as such, getting lost in a memory. People looking at him in awe, slapping him on the back... Less of the second than the first. Certainly much of the first, of awe... But also fear. People afraid of him. Perhaps in that respect it magnified the way people felt about martial prowess, versus arcane prowess. They where happy enough to slap one on the back for hacking apart a man in combat... But let that victory be from magic, and people did not react the same... Looking at him in fear, but pretending to be grateful. But in reality Clyde knew that beyond the gratefulness was the wish that he would be gone now that the deed was done. Mages where only wanted when they where needed, and then they best be gone, lest the go insane, start speaking gibberish, and set everyone's tent on fire. All the while Clyde was soaked in the blood of so many fallen yukmen, had slipped in it and fell, was exhausted from his magic usage, needed to sleep. Did not even notice right away the absence of his apprentice, nor the fact that he was dead. "I was thinking much the same thing. And just "Razkar" will do fine, human." Clyde blinked and brought himself back to the conversation, looking down to see a tankard of ale before him, which he could not recall ordering. But apparently he had, if nothing else but by habit. "So... What is this... "job" that you speak of...?" Clyde did his best to fix a smile on his face, but the best he could do was a short flicker of his lips upward, and then a look of neutrality, a bit unnerved by the sudden memory, the connection to now and his own past. "I need a package delivered, and I need to make sure it gets there safely, without being interrupted or intercepted. I am sure you know how the roads and the wilds can be. Nothing to far, just over to Syliras. But the contents are quite valuable, and I need it brought there swiftly. I think having you along guarding it would be a good way of keeping it safe. You would simply be a guard."

[Razkar]

Razkar didn't have to listen long to understand he wouldn't be able to offer her services to the human. Once the word "Syliras" was mentioned, he shook his head, a business-like but brusque gesture slightly muffled by a quaff of ale.

"Ill have to decline the offer, Clyde," he said as he wiped his chin and reminded himself for the tenth time to buy some kind of Razkar. Myrians didn't naturally grow facial hair easily: it took a period of months to grow even a modest beard, and why bother? The females hated them. Still, versatile as his traveling pack was, it had yet to include a shaving kit. "I'm heading east, and your package goes west. It would take half the season to get to Syliras, and I am on a schedule."

It occurred to him he should have added the word "regrettably" somewhere. That was a barbarian trait, after all: acting contrite and apologetic about saying or doing something you felt no guilt about. But Razkar was a Child of Myri first and foremost: for all their savage reputation, they were a curiously truthful people. If they couldn't do something, they said so; if asked why, they would explain, without shame. Any slight or offence garnered was in the mind of the other party, not theirs.

Still, the man may have some use in the future. Best not to leave him completely bereft of hope, hmm?

"However," he murmured after their food arrived, two steaming bowls of thick, aromatic stew with chunks of beef bobbing in it, orbited by diced potatoes, "If you go by Karla and Valini Imports, you may find a man there. Albrecht, his name, ask for it. He runs a caravan on the Kabrin, and I'd wager he'd know just the kind of... men... you'd..."

His words trailed off as that table suddenly rose (or wobbled) as one determined if sozzled group. The Myrian straightened his back and Clyde could have seen a change come over him, like a black sheet draped over his features. Whatever good-natured politeness Razkar had vanished into an expressionless mask; his black eyes became as cold as carved stone. Even the simple action of sipping his ale became mechanical... almost like he was weighing it, and the moment, and the six men who walked towards them.

"What do you want?"

Ah, another Myrian trait: not the barbarian "Can I help you?", which reeked to Razkar of subservience before defeat was even doled out, but instead the nigh-confrontational "What do you want?". The apparent leader of the cluster, squat and with bad ears and a broken nose, scowled at him.

"We lost a lot of money tonight. Too much." His words were slurred and his feet shuffled constantly, as if he was in quicksand. His fingers played openly over the hilt of his dagger. "Because of you."

"You bet on the wrong man."

"I think we deserve some of it back."

"That's now how it works."

A snort, then a guffaw, echoed by his cronies like good little sycophants. The tables about them managed to edge away a little; not an easy feat considering hardly anyone stood up. Leader shook his head. "And what would a savage know?"

Razkar shrugged and brought his tankard to his lips. "Enough to win, it seems."

Leader's hand gripped his dagger and his eyes were aflame and there, Razkar made his decision.

"Not now, not with six of-"

A blur exploded from the booth, and after a blink, Clyde realized it came from the end of Razkar's arm. Without any warning, hesitation nor the remorse that would measure such action, the Myrian lashed out and up at Leader's face-

-using the solid wooden tankard to smash his nose across his face-

-rising at the same moment and jerking his other hand to the back of the dazed human's head-

-smashing it down hard onto the table. Then he flung himself at the next with a yell straight from Falyndar.

A tick. Maybe two of them. Enough for shock to numb his mates, but the Myrian knew in such scarce slivers of time Dira danced. Thus far, Razkar had always been able to keep step. These humans? Perhaps less so, though reaping souls for Blessed Myri was, he thought, a little excessive for tonight. Bodies stink, and draw the law in barbarian lands. No, better to teach them a lesson and keep Clyde out of it.

Razkar would marvel afterwards at how naive that had been. He'd seen mages and djed-wielders before; even been graced by the sight of Ivak's Champion banishing a Zith horde with a sky of fire. But Clyde Sullins in the Midnight Mule Tavern... ah, that would be a memory...

[Clyde Sullins]

"Ill have to decline the offer, Clyde. I'm heading east, and your package goes west. It would take half the season to get to Syliras, and I am on a schedule." Clyde was saddened to hear that his hunt would have to go on, that the man he spoke to could not assist him. It would have been far easier if he could but... Nothing he could do about it really, he reasoned. But as Razkar went on, he was happy to hear he did have some information to give to Clyde, which he was happy to take... Even if it was more consolatory information. "However, If you go by Karla and Valini Imports, you may find a man there. Albrecht, his name, ask for it. He runs a caravan on the Kabrin, and I'd wager he'd know just the kind of... men... you'd..." It was clear why the Myrian had wandered off before finishing his sentence, as Clyde saw several men coming over. Unlike the earlier ones, they did not seem in good cheer, if anything they seemed mad. And they were drunk, a bad combination. "What do you want?" "We lost a lot of money tonight. Too much. Because of you." "You bet on the wrong man." "I think we deserve some of it back." "That's now how it works." Clyde found the entire thing a bit funny, seeing the situation from his perspective. The men where trying to approach a man, and force him to give back their lost winnings... From a man whom they had just seen beat another senseless, and bite off his ear. And they wanted to force him to give back money? That seemed rather foolhardy. Clearly they had drunk far to much in such a short time... Or they where just that stupid to begin with. "And what would a savage know?" "Enough to win, it seems." Clearly Clyde could see this conversation was going in a bad way, and so Clyde surreptitiously slid his left hand downward, closer to his belt, till he felt the steel head of his hammer tucked away there. He did not yet grip, but was ready to, and with one motion he could pull out the hammer, and toss it. Of course, him tossing a hammer was the least of his foes worries, if they did indeed try to attack him. Clyde readied to move, as the leader of the dimwits readied to grab his own dagger... "Not now, not with six of-" In a flash of motion Razkar moved, Clyde had drawn his hammer in his left hand and held it up before himself, before his mind even registered why, as he saw a second motion, and saw the mans face be smashed into the table, even though he had already hit him with something else. It took Clyde a moment to register the tankard he had been drinking from, had been used as a weapon. In that time of felling the first man, the others finally registered what was going on. Clyde stood from his chair, tilting his hand back that was holding the hammer, and then sweeping it down, and tossing the hammer end over end like one would throw an axe, aiming for the assailant closest to him's chest. Instead the hammer went wide, and impacted on the mans left shoulder, causing a small cry of pain to rise out of him. Before he could regain his composure he lifted up his staff, now in a two handed grip, and brought it down right at the mans head, this time his aim true. The wooden staff smashed on the top of his skull, and the man fell to the ground, possibly unconscious. Clyde was unsure if he had felled him because he was so drunk, or if perhaps Clyde truly had gotten a good strong hit in. But he did not have time to ponder it. Instead he had to deal with another man, one who had drawn a dagger and was coming at him, and seemed all to capable of fighting without tripping over his own feet. Without thinking Clyde breathed out a heavy gust of breath, issuing forth a small cloud of bright silver res, which floated right towards the man coming at him with a dagger. Clyde took a step back to make some room between them, but the man was still coming at him. Clyde watched as the man ran right into the cloud of res, unable to stop his forward momentum in time. As the res reached a safe distance away from himself, he willed the res to transmute, and watched as the mans entire midsection and torso burst into flames. Even from where he was a few paces away, Clyde could feel the sudden burst of heat on his skin. Luckily for the man it was a thin cloud of res, otherwise the fire would have been much worse, and much hotter. As it was it instantly caught the mans clothes on fire, and the blaze quickly began to spread out from his torso.

[Razkar]

Razkar had long-since learned that once you accepted the fact you were going to get hit, and it would hurt, everything became a lot easier. It was a microsm of a warrior's acceptance of death, and the liberation from fear such a realization endowed one with. The setting and scale and, indeed, the cost was different but... it was fine. He understood it.

Just like he understood the pain didn't matter; making sure he doled out more to them, did.

There was a crunch to his right and he saw a thick, black staff crash down on the head of one of the Leader's minions, clutching his shoulder as if it was broken. Well, a tick later he didn't have that problem anymore; or any other waking concerns, for that matter.

"Fucking bastARK!"

If they'd been sober, the sight of the mouthy leader and friend getting brained and battered in ticks might have broken their will. But with a dozen ales in them and their blood up, the humans were all for a brawl, and there was the a sinister hiss as one drew a dagger, raising it-

-only for Razkar's forehead to smash into his nose, shattering his vision into a red flare followed by dancing black stars-

-then a knee like a mule's kick ruptured something very dear to him between his legs-

Razkar knew he wouldn't get much better than that. Two down for the count, three with Clyde unexpectedly helping, but the others, especially the one wiggling a set of brass knuckles onto his hands, they'd be-

"FUCKING SYLIR!"

The cry and the shock from it rushed around the room like... like... like a ball of flame half-incinerating a man. Days later, Razkar would run the moment through his eyes again and again and still, still, he couldn't quite believe it. He saw Clyde cough, only... gas... fog... came from him lips, tangible as smoke from a flame, but much clearer. One of the drunks was floundering through it, dagger waving wildly and then-

Flame. Bright and flickering and willed with a single motion from Clyde, sprouting into life like lightning from a cloud. The beery duo of thugs, getting ready to rush Razkar, sobered up in three ticks what had taken a bell to get drunk on. They just stared as Frank started to beat on his chest, shrieking high and disbelieving like a woman, smashing at the hungry tendrils of orange and red until-

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

-a torrent of ale was thrown all over him and fortunately Old Elgar watered down his sodding beer enough for it not to accelerate the flames. Shirt now a charred ruin, dark tufts of body hair poking everywhere, singed and smoking, he knelt on the ground, quivering, staring at Clyde... like everyone was...

Another hiss. The drunken duo still standing glanced Razkar's way... and saw a gladius three feet long in his hand. One of them gulped; the other's eyes were flickering between the bloody-headed savage and Clyde.

"Er... n-no refunds, right?!"

"Wha'duz that-"

"Run!"

They did, and Razkar was surprised they didn't just smash straight through the door rather than bother opening it. Still the silence pervaded. A queer sight they must have made: tall, bruised and blood-flecked Myrian with sword in hand, taller human djed-wielder flanking him, three men unconscious at their feet, food and drink spread and wasted over the floor... and the stench of burnt cloth and flesh hanging over it all...

"Clyde? We should leave."

[Clyde Sullins]

Clyde had not really thought out his attack, the repercussions, what would happen after. He acted on instinct, albeit a willed instinct that would not have happened had he not directed his thoughts and willed them to happen. But he had. But he certainly could not have expected the results of his single action. The flare of light and heat as the res turned into pure flame, the shriek of the man who was inside of it at the time. How unfortunate for him. He had not wanted to. They had made him. He had been attacked. He had done nothing wrong... And yet... He could already picture the looks the other patrons would be giving him, without even bothering to look. It was the same expression he had seen time and time again. Fear. Hate. A mixture of other base feelings and emotions brought on by a lack of understanding, by the power they had just seen a mortal man so easily exhibit. "Clyde? We should leave." He looked over at the Myrian, happy for a moment that he did not see fear on the face. Of course, he had likely seen things as bad as he, probably understood where others would not the reasons one did the things they did. Why they took action. Clyde nodded, but did not leave directly. Instead he looked about the room, on the ground, searching for something, stopping as he saw it. His hammer on the ground where it had fell. Clyde headed to it, walking with a purpose and with haste, but not running. He bent down, picked up his hammer, tucked the handle into his belt, and then turned to leave. More or less in the same state as he had entered... Heading whichever way Razkar would lead him once he left, at least for now. Once they where outside, Clyde would turn to Razkar, and shrug. "I suppose that was a bit of a damper on the evening... What now?"

[Razkar]

They flitted from alley to alley and shadow to shadow like thieves in the night, leaving the stunned congregation of the Mule to regain its senses. They were a street away when the unmistakable uniform crunch of a dozen iron-toed shoes rang through the night. Razkar stopped in a doorway, frozen and listening intently...

Soldiers. No, probably Waveguard... but close enough in this place. More distance, I think.

They neared the Denvali Quarter by the time Clyde made his comment. Razkar turned to him with a cocked eyebrow, impressed and dismayed both by the human's glib tone. A bit of a damper? What Myrian could fail to admire such a cool appraisal... and pity such flippancy in the face of potential capture.

More the first part, anyway.

"Well..." Razkar said in something of a sigh, slowing their escape to a slow walk through the foggy night and rustling around in his pack. "... I think further dining and drinking may be unwise. Word travels fast in cities, I find. Best to stay out of sight... but... such niceties are still to be found..."

The Myrian's hand came up from the confines of his pack and held a simple but well-kept wooden pipe. It had served him well from Riverfall to Syliras and across the Wilds, always smelling faintly of pleasurable smokes whenever the warrior could sneak them. He filled the bowl with practiced hands and a thumbed it down, then patted himself down... for...

Huh. Well. Since he's here...

"Would you mind?" He said with a wry grin, Leth-light catching sharpened front teeth. "I seem to have misplaced my tinder. Feel free to take the first draw. Taloba Grey. Hard to find outside of the jungle..."

[Clyde Sullins]

Clyde knew he was not the most athletic person about. But he still did his best to keep up with Razkar, and to be as stealthy as he. Running, trying to do as he had seen him do with the placing of the feet, the way he moved his hips and legs... It was not easy. Clyde tried to move his legs right, but never seemed to quite step in the right placing. The feet thing however was a bit easier, it was sort of a rolling forward, keeping ones momentum and not laying ones foot down to harshly or heavily. Walking lightly. First he tried rolling his foot forward, landing on his heel and letting his foot roll forward. Then he tried landing his steps on his toes, and slowly letting his foot down a bit, not even always lowering it all the way unless they stopped, and then shifting to the other foot. It seemed to help, and he seemed a bit quieter than normal if nothing else. Until he caught his shoulder as he was turning a corner, and had to clench his fists and stop himself from letting out a small moan of pain, digging his nails a bit into his palm as he did so. Clearly he still had much to learn, and he needed to be more aware of his body itself, if he wanted to get better at being stealthy and silent. So focused was he on following Razkar and being quiet, that he lost track of time and where they were going. But being so lost to start with, he doubted he would have been any less lost had he been trying to be aware of where he was. "Well... I think further dining and drinking may be unwise. Word travels fast in cities, I find. Best to stay out of sight... but... such niceties are still to be found..." Razkar chose that time to go rooting about his pack, after answering Clyde's statement. When he finally retrieved what he was after, he came up with a wooden pipe, and something to smoke, and began preparing it for use. "Would you mind? I seem to have misplaced my tinder. Feel free to take the first draw. Taloba Grey. Hard to find outside of the jungle..." Clyde shrugged, and held up one finger near the pipe. "I don't actually smoke, but I suppose you are free to." With that he struck out his left hands index finger, pointed it at the pipe, and then made a small swatting motion, like he was trying to pluck a invisible string in midair. As he did, a single drop of some bright silver glowing substance flew off the tip of the extended finger, and with a neat arc landed in the pipe. Letting out a sigh, and looking about and away from the pipe, Clyde pulled back his finger to return it to its normal position. As he did, the small drop of res ignited, lighting the pipe with a small flame. "So, what happens now? I mean I suppose we did nothing wrong, after all it was self defense. Though I am unsure if the guard would see it as such. Nor am I sure the story all the bar patrons would tell would be the truth of it... Though I also suppose patrons at such a bar would be less than cooperative with the guard..."

[Razkar]

"I don't actually smoke, but I suppose you are free to."

Razkar didn't bother hiding the roll of his eyes. That was the problem with the barbarians, he'd found: they valued their lives too much, and in doing so, denied themselves such little pleasures that may have shaved a few slivers off them. He supposed Myrians never saw it that way. They were all doomed... no, destined, to die in the Glory of Myri, then be reborn unto her embrace. Why worry about just one life?

But dismissive as he was, Razkar's eyes still shone with wonder as Clyde's hands weaved and conjured flame from the very air. He frowned as he saw the small shimmering ball before the flame, somehow... ignited, like one would a tinderbox to dry wood. The little ball sputtering into life and a tick later, the rich, heady aroma of Taloba Grey was curling from the pipe along with its smoke.

"My thanks..."

He took a deep, grateful drag of the pungent tobacco. Took it down deep, held it... let it warm and burn his lungs... remind him of barrack room laughter and battlefield aftermaths... all those images conjured with something as sure and sudden as any djed... then expelled into the air in a cloud of blue smoke...

"Definitely a habit not easy to deny."

"So, what happens now? I mean I suppose we did nothing wrong, after all it was self defense. Though I am unsure if the guard would see it as such. Nor am I sure the story all the bar patrons would tell would be the truth of it... Though I also suppose patrons at such a bar would be less than cooperative with the guard..."

Lips wrapped around the stem of his pipe, Razkar listened. Occasionally his cheeks would pucker and a little gust of smoke would ooze from the corners of his mouth, but his eyes did not waver. The human was concise in his appraisal, that was for certain. He knew how to see the angles. Fortunately, the problem was easily solved.

"We go home." He said simply and with a shrug. "I know places like that tavern. The guard are no more welcome there than wanderers such as us, and unlikely to glean more information about what transpired. Only coin would loosen their tongues and the city has scare enough to spend on knowing what happened with one brawl in one tavern in a corner of Zeltiva the great and good-" a cynical tone stoked his words like scornful poison "-couldn't give a shit about. No... much easier to melt back to our lodgings and let it blow over."

Despite his words, a regretful sigh flooded from his lips along with a stream of smoke. It was so much... simpler, in Taloba. In battle. Your enemy was before you and you killed him, without any need to justify or explain after. And in the Sacred City of Myri, order was far more rigid... and yet far easier to maintain. Every Myrian brawled, at least once; it was seen as near-natural, and once you got your head knocked around a little bit, you were better for it and had it out your system. But here he had to skulk and slide around like a petty criminal.

Razkar didn't understand, didn't approve... but didn't dwell. They were barbarians, after all.

"We are..." His head jerked around and found some scraps of Denvali graffiti on the walls. "... near the Denvali Quarter. Can you find your restings from here, my friend? I would be happy to escort you. Perhaps in the meantime you could regale me as to how you became a human match."

A joke, from a bruised brawler with blood and skin still under his nails. Razkar chuckled and the smoke wreathed him like a jolly demon.

[Clyde Sullins]

His casting was the spell of a low order, something that took so little attention it was the equivalent of scratching ones nose. Even a novice would find a single droplet of res the size of a drop of rain easy. So it did not occur to Clyde that such a thing would be amazing. But then, many things were a marvel to one not an initiate of such arcane. But then, most personal magics where flashy and immediate, like Reimancy, so drastically different than the World Magics... World Magics on the other hand... Clyde preferred them over his own personal magics, though he was better known for his work in said personal magics. "My thanks..." If Clyde was in a normal situation, he would not have done it, even such a low order casting, especially not in front of a non-Wizard... But then, the cat was already out of the bag, Razkar had seen him do much more, so there was little point in hiding his gifts at this point. Plus, he was only using the one element of fire. As far as the other man knew, Clyde could possibly only create and control said fire. So it did not reveal his skill in Reimancy to greatly. Though he supposed only a person knowledgeable of Reimancy would know that ones control over various numbers of elements was a direct sign of ones ability in the magic. "Definitely a habit not easy to deny." "We go home. I know places like that tavern. The guard are no more welcome there than wanderers such as us, and unlikely to glean more information about what transpired. Only coin would loosen their tongues and the city has scare enough to spend on knowing what happened with one brawl in one tavern in a corner of Zeltiva the great and good-couldn't give a shit about. No... much easier to melt back to our lodgings and let it blow over." Clyde could not fault Razkar's logic or reasoning in regard to what they should do, and was glad to see that his earlier assumption about the bar had proved right. It was a bit of a relief that it was unlikely the news of what had transpired would spread to far... Probably anyways... All they had to do was make themselves scarce and hide out at their lodgings for a bit. "We are... near the Denvali Quarter. Can you find your restings from here, my friend? I would be happy to escort you. Perhaps in the meantime you could regale me as to how you became a human match." "Hmmm... No, I believe I am still rather lost. I lodge at the Worlds End, as I suppose many out of towner's do. I would greatly appreciate a guide. Hmmm... I might even have an idea of a small gift I could repay you with... It only seems appropriate... I can make it once we are back at my room." Clyde in this case was thinking of a new idea he had been having, that of a defensive scroll to tell him of being under the influence of another's spell... The poisoner back in Ravok had given him the idea, and he had yet to do it. It should not take more than a few chimes to whip it up once they were back in his room. Though he would need to ponder the exact wording of the trigger mechanism. But surely such a item would be of use to Razkar, even if it only worked once. "As for how I became a "human match" as you call it... Well, I would advise you in the future not to ask such questions, most mages don't find it a easy topic to talk about. Not all mages after all had the luxury of being initiated in such a "scholarly center" as Zeltiva." Clyde made some hand motions using a pair of fingers with each hand, as he said scholarly center, when talking of Zeltiva. Clearly there was more to the story behind this, but Clyde did not go on. "I myself found myself initiated in well... A less than pleasant circumstance. I was only five. Lucky to survive I suppose, most of such a young age would not have made it through such a ordeal. But then, most people are not bound and forcibly initiated against ones will... Especially into Reimancy, which has few magics more traumatic in its beginnings. After that, well, I suppose my route was somewhat set after that."

[Razkar]

Razkr couldn't help but have his curiosity aroused, though he was a little weary of "gifts". In his experience, they hardly ever came without strings...

No reason not to see it through. A favor from a mage can be... very useful.

"World's End..." He said quietly, eyes focusing on nothing beneath knotted eyebrows. "Yes... I have heard of that place. At the docks, yes?"

The Myrian looked up and saw the blazing tower of the University to the west. Taking that as his guide... yes, the Docks would be south, down-

"This road." He said, nodding down the shadowy expanse. "It should take us through East Street and to the sea. Once we are there we can turn west and find your lodgings."

Which was exactly what they did. Less cautious than before, the mercenary still kept his eyes and ears open for the tramping of more Waveguard patrols, furtive eyes logging alleys and darkened doorways as a matter of course. Razkar was rightly proud of his abilities with blades, but he knew that knowing when not to leave a heap of bodies lying around was just as important. Even more than that, he didn't fancy explaining his way out of a charge sheet.

"Mmmhmm..."

He tucked away the tip about mages for future reference. He'd always thought of them as duplicitious creatures: how else could you be so, when your strength and power was drawn from djed and not feats of strength or arms? But that made them far more dangerous in his eyes and, he had to admit, infinitely harder to defeat. What good was a sword, after all, against a man who could fry you to ashes from a hundred feet away? Or put you under his thrall with a thought?

Any weapon would be welcome, and knowing their minds and ways is perhaps the greatest.

"I myself found myself initiated in well... A less than pleasant circumstance. I was only five. Lucky to survive I suppose, most of such a young age would not have made it through such a ordeal. But then, most people are not bound and forcibly initiated against ones will... Especially into Reimancy, which has few magics more traumatic in its beginnings. After that, well, I suppose my route was somewhat set after that."

The Myrian's pace slowed a touch and he turned to regard the tall, slight young man with something a little closer to respect than before. He didn't know much of the lives of mages; the handful of disciplines he did know he'd learned long after childhood. Razkar had always assumed they were... well, disciplines. You studied and perfected them like art or craft or perhaps rarefied study.

But to have such chaotic power forced onto you, and so young? Not only that, but then surviving it? Clearly this Clyde was more than the strutting djed-wielders he'd seen before. Most of them lorded their manipulations of magic over others, like minor pompous gods. Clyde... did not seem that way.

"The beginning, perhaps," he said quietly as the sound of surf and nesting gulls greeted them from the end of the road, "But when you chose to walk a route, you decide your direction."

He knew it sounded trite, but some part of the savage wanted to impart a little wisdom to the barbarian. He could think of few things worse than feeling trapped in your own life, with all choices made for you and all roads denied save for the one you were compelled to take. Razkar had never seen his life that way; why should others?

"Ah... I think that is our destination."

He pointed to the squat stone building looming ahead of them, strange tall cairn of stones at the front of it. "This is the World's End, correct? I remember someone saying something about a tower of rocks..."