41st Day of Summer, 516 AV
"...Because I'm looking for someone."
Elias could tell the old man was deciding in his head whether or not he liked the sound of that. Marshy eyes narrowed above two plum red cheeks as if seeing the hooded stranger for the first time. The mage could also tell what the barkeep was probably thinking too; ‘seemed a polite sort, for a Ravokian, but who petching knew in Nyka these day, right? Even the most doe eyed alter boy probably had a blade tucked under his robes.’
"You wanna elaborate?"
The Ravokian nodded and downed his third drink that night, gesturing for another. Few better ways to keep a tavern owner happy that making use of his tavern's best seller, after all. And, if he was being honest, the ale wasn't that bad, in fact he could barely taste the water and piss, which was a real improvement over most of the establishments that openly served outsiders. It was part of the reason he’d come here so often during his stay in Nyka and the subsequent hunt for the Sylirans. He’d become something of a regular, but Morrison, or Mad Mor as they once called him in his hay day, had early on recognized something in Elias the young man had just as easily seen in the barkeep as well. Though they both knew, neither had had reason to truly speak until now.
"Fellow I'm looking for, seems like he left Ravok in something of a hurry, and I'm guessing everyone that passes through those gates comes through here at some point, seeing as you’re so friendly to foreigners and…"
"Foreign coin?"
"Mhm."
"How long ago was this?"
"Maybe... two, three seasons."
"Good gods lad, come on!" Morrison reared back with a guffaw and nearly eclipsed the lanterns lighting the tavern with his bulk. Elias had rarely beheld a man so... spherical. He hadn't even seen his feet yet, though he assumed they were there, somewhere, struggling away under all that meat. Now said meat’s fleshy face contorted into a perfect mimicry of helplessness, gesturing to the sprawl of smelly humanity infesting his oh so reputable place of business. "Look around. This is just one night, and tomorrow, every face will be different. Now multiply that over three petching seasons, and think about how likely it is for me to remember, hmm?"
"There might have been something to set him apart."
"Yah, they’re called names, lad. Did he have one or what?"
"He had a mark."
"A scar? Unless in was shaped in the image of Nikali’s bare backside I doubt I’d recall-?"
"From a god," Elias said, leaning a touch closer to keep their words private, his cold eyes glittering with intent under the shadows of his hood. "From Sagallius, the great manipulator."
Morrison frowned a little at the reference, dredging through his soggy memory for some glimmer of recognition. Elias had little hope the man would find anything, but that, unfortunately, was the game he was forced to play these past few days. Left to stagnate in Nyka like a stray dog thrown out of his master’s abode, the mage was permitted to roam nowhere else but within the wretched walls of his new -Rhysol help him- ‘adopted home.’ After heroically retrieving the artifact months ago, he had fully expected the orders that would recall him to Ravok, adored and celebrated for his glorious achievements. Instead, he had been greeted with deathly, horrid silence.
For nearly a season he had lingered like a fart, hovering from place to place, watching and waiting from whatever shadow he could wriggle himself into, but for what, he had no earthly idea. Where was Malachai? Where were the rest of the squad? Had they just bloody well forgotten him here like his torturers had back in the dungeons? He was left with nothing but questions and frustration for too long.
When the first letters finally did start to arrive however, they weren’t to congratulate him, no, that would have been too kind. Instead they were there to guide him to his next assignment.
One after the other the tasks came, devoid of emotion or gratitude, but darkly marked with the ancient seal that told him there was nothing he could do but obey the words; find this, kill that, or ensure such and such makes it here- It was petching trivial bullshyke compared to what Elias had accomplished during the winter raid on the Theodosia, but nary a word ever mentioned the bloody artifact, or even hinted at his possible return home. He couldn’t understand it, but he was a good soldier now, and like a good soldier, he followed every order to the T.
It didn’t help that every once in a while, very sparingly so as to keep his chain taught, he surmised, there was a compliment tucked in among the orders, usually tacked on at the end like a half-assed afterthought, but they were there none the less, he couldn’t escape them. In fact, he longed for them. They were the only things keeping him from going insane.
That, and Alija of course.
Gods bless that sweet girl, she was so impeccably kind and generous to him, even with the hardships and dread he rained down upon her innocent head with his mere presence in her life. It had been hard at first, naturally, even as a child she had a knack for putting up walls around herself, but once Elias had cracked that shell as he had done back during their time together in Zeltiva, she had accepted him as family once more, if not a bit hesitantly at first.
He needed her, he recognized that now, and she needed him, even if she continued to refuse seeing it as such. Despite his constant pestering his cousin simply rejected his every attempt to convince her that leaving Nyka was for the best. She would have a home in Ravok, with him, under his protection and roof. No more looking over her shoulder, or over her father’s, just the basking light of the black sun to wither away her woes and bring her peace. Everyone deserved that, right?
Even Elias... right?
He was close to giving up, close to saying ‘petch it,’ and packing up his things. He had done his duty, gone above and beyond for petch’s sake. This couldn’t truly be the will of his masters, especially not now when home beckoned to him like a lover from the seashore, crying out for him to come back as he sailed further and further out into the murky depths. This feeling wasn’t just his mind toying with him either, no, this was something real, palpable, and growing ever stronger with each miserable day. Ravok needed him. Rhysol needed him, and Elias needed to answer the call.
That was when the order came. ‘The final one,’ as it had read, and the Caldera lied to himself when he muttered about how lucky they were he had waited. As if he ever had a choice.
Regardless, he couldn’t have been more ready for the mission…
Or so he thought.
Now you have to find this man they’ve sent you after. Crawl through shyke holes like this one for the glimmer, the suggestion of a petching memory, with little else to go on but a mark and an old name no doubt long since discarded.
Time and patience, he reminded himself as he waited unsteadily for the hulking, heaving, tragically built bartender to rub his numerous chins and come to a decision. Time and petching patience, that's what it takes. That, and finding the right connections.
"I... Hmmm. Nope, I don't think I remember." Elias's small ember of hope died, vanished into ash, and then was resurrected again all in an instant as a pudgy finger stabbed the air in abrupt exclamation. "Wait! There was... yeah... there was someone, I think. Bearded fellow. Wild eyes. Looked like he’d been through a hell of a time. Talking about the 'glory of... Sagallius', or something. I recall the lads didn't like him one bit, and when one of 'em tried to toss him out, he just touched him and-”
"He... made people do things?"
"He just touched 'em," Morrison restated, face twisted in the fear and hatred of magic that all his fellow Nykans shared. "Touched two men, and they just fell. Old boy like that, gaunt and starved as he was, and he just held out his hands and poof! Dropped those two like puppets with their strings cut."
Finally, this is more like it.
"Did you hear about what happened to him?"
"A few whispers here and there, but only a few. Someone with that power, he hides it in this city if he’s smart. The people here, they don't like the djed users. Flash that around too much and you'll get strung up by the monks ‘fore too long. That said, I did here that someone like him was around here but now... where... was it again?"
He extended his hand, as a gentleman would for a lady, but Elias knew it was not his feminine charm the now grinning Morrison was looking to indulge in. The Ravokian forced himself to smile crookedly and started rifling through his purse.
"I wondered when this would come up."
"Well, now you know."
Five gold coins were produced. Silence answered them. Ten then. Yet more empty air. Twenty and Elias's face twitched just a little... but Morrison merely cleared his throat and took a sip, glittering mound of gold in his unsatisfied and ham like hand.
"Good information is not cheap, my lad."
"Neither are medical bills.”
Ah, that elicited a furious little gleam from the tavern keeper. Morrison knew full well the kind of man he was dealing with, Elias hypnotic suggestion made sure of it in that very instant. The djed slipped in with the words and began its working, pulling and pushing on memories to make room for itself to nestle. In a way, Morrison knew with all Ravokians, but this one was an extra helping of dangerous the little stray realization told him. At the very least, the fat man should have understood enough not to tarry while the mage held a weapon in his hand, and wouldn't you know it, while one hand counted out the coins, the other was massaging the hilt of his dagger...
"No. They're not." Morrison said tightly, and pushed his hand out further. "But then I'll be battered and bruised and you still won't know shyke, will you?" Elias practically shuddered at the audacity. Petch me, he resisted it... Fifty gold mizas in all then, just to ram the point home, and Morrison nodded his approval, talking even as he examined each and every coin like a slaver his stock. Elias on the other hand, felt as if he had just surrendered a chunk of his soul.
"On the far end of the Eastern Quarter, there’s a gang called the Aquilas. Basically got their own little neighborhood to themselves, a compound I guess you could call it, walled off from the rest of the city, it’s patrolled and guarded at all hours. The monks leave ‘em alone cuz they got enough coin and manpower to convince ‘em not to try otherwise."
Elias was genuinely surprised, but didn’t let his recognition of the name show. "That is where he is, with the gang?"
"Last I heard." Morrison said nonchalantly as he tipped the golden pile into his apron pocket. “The servants, well, they talk, don't they? Say he can control you with a just a touch, shyke like that. Sounds very much like your man, hmm?"
"His name," Elias rasped, eyes gone from glinting to flaming, raging and hungry as a starving wolf's. "What was his name?" He had to know for sure.
"Not sure I remember." Morrison had the balls -somewhere under all that flab- to smile, but then snapped his fingers and forestalled any brutal retaliation the mage had planned for him. "But he was from Ravok, I heard. Plus, from what I can tell, he’s the one leading the Aquilas these days. Uh… Al- something or other."
“Alaric Dumat.” Elias finished with a chuckle. “Alaric Dumat leads the Aquila gang.” The laughter grew, even stifled by a pale, scarred hand, it grew and grew until it became so loud everyone in the tavern was passing him a weary glances. The mage didn’t care. If they had known how lucky he had just become, they would have laughed right alongside him.
After a while Elias wiped a tear from his eye and sighed jovially into his mug before taking another swig. Well, this was an improvement, if not the best damn news in the world. Now he knew where to find his prey at least, but if he thought about it, that was like finding out that money was kept in a bank vault. All well and good, but how to get to it? He scratched under his chin and turned it over in his head for a while. He could tell Morrison was staring at him the whole time, no doubt perplexed and a little worried something in his brew had gone bad and warped the mind of one of his patrons.
“Morrison?”
“Uh… Yah?”
"My thanks."
"Oh, no." The barkeep said, jingling his purse with a sly smirk. "Thank you."
Elias could tell the old man was deciding in his head whether or not he liked the sound of that. Marshy eyes narrowed above two plum red cheeks as if seeing the hooded stranger for the first time. The mage could also tell what the barkeep was probably thinking too; ‘seemed a polite sort, for a Ravokian, but who petching knew in Nyka these day, right? Even the most doe eyed alter boy probably had a blade tucked under his robes.’
"You wanna elaborate?"
The Ravokian nodded and downed his third drink that night, gesturing for another. Few better ways to keep a tavern owner happy that making use of his tavern's best seller, after all. And, if he was being honest, the ale wasn't that bad, in fact he could barely taste the water and piss, which was a real improvement over most of the establishments that openly served outsiders. It was part of the reason he’d come here so often during his stay in Nyka and the subsequent hunt for the Sylirans. He’d become something of a regular, but Morrison, or Mad Mor as they once called him in his hay day, had early on recognized something in Elias the young man had just as easily seen in the barkeep as well. Though they both knew, neither had had reason to truly speak until now.
"Fellow I'm looking for, seems like he left Ravok in something of a hurry, and I'm guessing everyone that passes through those gates comes through here at some point, seeing as you’re so friendly to foreigners and…"
"Foreign coin?"
"Mhm."
"How long ago was this?"
"Maybe... two, three seasons."
"Good gods lad, come on!" Morrison reared back with a guffaw and nearly eclipsed the lanterns lighting the tavern with his bulk. Elias had rarely beheld a man so... spherical. He hadn't even seen his feet yet, though he assumed they were there, somewhere, struggling away under all that meat. Now said meat’s fleshy face contorted into a perfect mimicry of helplessness, gesturing to the sprawl of smelly humanity infesting his oh so reputable place of business. "Look around. This is just one night, and tomorrow, every face will be different. Now multiply that over three petching seasons, and think about how likely it is for me to remember, hmm?"
"There might have been something to set him apart."
"Yah, they’re called names, lad. Did he have one or what?"
"He had a mark."
"A scar? Unless in was shaped in the image of Nikali’s bare backside I doubt I’d recall-?"
"From a god," Elias said, leaning a touch closer to keep their words private, his cold eyes glittering with intent under the shadows of his hood. "From Sagallius, the great manipulator."
Morrison frowned a little at the reference, dredging through his soggy memory for some glimmer of recognition. Elias had little hope the man would find anything, but that, unfortunately, was the game he was forced to play these past few days. Left to stagnate in Nyka like a stray dog thrown out of his master’s abode, the mage was permitted to roam nowhere else but within the wretched walls of his new -Rhysol help him- ‘adopted home.’ After heroically retrieving the artifact months ago, he had fully expected the orders that would recall him to Ravok, adored and celebrated for his glorious achievements. Instead, he had been greeted with deathly, horrid silence.
For nearly a season he had lingered like a fart, hovering from place to place, watching and waiting from whatever shadow he could wriggle himself into, but for what, he had no earthly idea. Where was Malachai? Where were the rest of the squad? Had they just bloody well forgotten him here like his torturers had back in the dungeons? He was left with nothing but questions and frustration for too long.
When the first letters finally did start to arrive however, they weren’t to congratulate him, no, that would have been too kind. Instead they were there to guide him to his next assignment.
One after the other the tasks came, devoid of emotion or gratitude, but darkly marked with the ancient seal that told him there was nothing he could do but obey the words; find this, kill that, or ensure such and such makes it here- It was petching trivial bullshyke compared to what Elias had accomplished during the winter raid on the Theodosia, but nary a word ever mentioned the bloody artifact, or even hinted at his possible return home. He couldn’t understand it, but he was a good soldier now, and like a good soldier, he followed every order to the T.
It didn’t help that every once in a while, very sparingly so as to keep his chain taught, he surmised, there was a compliment tucked in among the orders, usually tacked on at the end like a half-assed afterthought, but they were there none the less, he couldn’t escape them. In fact, he longed for them. They were the only things keeping him from going insane.
That, and Alija of course.
Gods bless that sweet girl, she was so impeccably kind and generous to him, even with the hardships and dread he rained down upon her innocent head with his mere presence in her life. It had been hard at first, naturally, even as a child she had a knack for putting up walls around herself, but once Elias had cracked that shell as he had done back during their time together in Zeltiva, she had accepted him as family once more, if not a bit hesitantly at first.
He needed her, he recognized that now, and she needed him, even if she continued to refuse seeing it as such. Despite his constant pestering his cousin simply rejected his every attempt to convince her that leaving Nyka was for the best. She would have a home in Ravok, with him, under his protection and roof. No more looking over her shoulder, or over her father’s, just the basking light of the black sun to wither away her woes and bring her peace. Everyone deserved that, right?
Even Elias... right?
He was close to giving up, close to saying ‘petch it,’ and packing up his things. He had done his duty, gone above and beyond for petch’s sake. This couldn’t truly be the will of his masters, especially not now when home beckoned to him like a lover from the seashore, crying out for him to come back as he sailed further and further out into the murky depths. This feeling wasn’t just his mind toying with him either, no, this was something real, palpable, and growing ever stronger with each miserable day. Ravok needed him. Rhysol needed him, and Elias needed to answer the call.
That was when the order came. ‘The final one,’ as it had read, and the Caldera lied to himself when he muttered about how lucky they were he had waited. As if he ever had a choice.
Regardless, he couldn’t have been more ready for the mission…
Or so he thought.
Now you have to find this man they’ve sent you after. Crawl through shyke holes like this one for the glimmer, the suggestion of a petching memory, with little else to go on but a mark and an old name no doubt long since discarded.
Time and patience, he reminded himself as he waited unsteadily for the hulking, heaving, tragically built bartender to rub his numerous chins and come to a decision. Time and petching patience, that's what it takes. That, and finding the right connections.
"I... Hmmm. Nope, I don't think I remember." Elias's small ember of hope died, vanished into ash, and then was resurrected again all in an instant as a pudgy finger stabbed the air in abrupt exclamation. "Wait! There was... yeah... there was someone, I think. Bearded fellow. Wild eyes. Looked like he’d been through a hell of a time. Talking about the 'glory of... Sagallius', or something. I recall the lads didn't like him one bit, and when one of 'em tried to toss him out, he just touched him and-”
"He... made people do things?"
"He just touched 'em," Morrison restated, face twisted in the fear and hatred of magic that all his fellow Nykans shared. "Touched two men, and they just fell. Old boy like that, gaunt and starved as he was, and he just held out his hands and poof! Dropped those two like puppets with their strings cut."
Finally, this is more like it.
"Did you hear about what happened to him?"
"A few whispers here and there, but only a few. Someone with that power, he hides it in this city if he’s smart. The people here, they don't like the djed users. Flash that around too much and you'll get strung up by the monks ‘fore too long. That said, I did here that someone like him was around here but now... where... was it again?"
He extended his hand, as a gentleman would for a lady, but Elias knew it was not his feminine charm the now grinning Morrison was looking to indulge in. The Ravokian forced himself to smile crookedly and started rifling through his purse.
"I wondered when this would come up."
"Well, now you know."
Five gold coins were produced. Silence answered them. Ten then. Yet more empty air. Twenty and Elias's face twitched just a little... but Morrison merely cleared his throat and took a sip, glittering mound of gold in his unsatisfied and ham like hand.
"Good information is not cheap, my lad."
"Neither are medical bills.”
Ah, that elicited a furious little gleam from the tavern keeper. Morrison knew full well the kind of man he was dealing with, Elias hypnotic suggestion made sure of it in that very instant. The djed slipped in with the words and began its working, pulling and pushing on memories to make room for itself to nestle. In a way, Morrison knew with all Ravokians, but this one was an extra helping of dangerous the little stray realization told him. At the very least, the fat man should have understood enough not to tarry while the mage held a weapon in his hand, and wouldn't you know it, while one hand counted out the coins, the other was massaging the hilt of his dagger...
"No. They're not." Morrison said tightly, and pushed his hand out further. "But then I'll be battered and bruised and you still won't know shyke, will you?" Elias practically shuddered at the audacity. Petch me, he resisted it... Fifty gold mizas in all then, just to ram the point home, and Morrison nodded his approval, talking even as he examined each and every coin like a slaver his stock. Elias on the other hand, felt as if he had just surrendered a chunk of his soul.
"On the far end of the Eastern Quarter, there’s a gang called the Aquilas. Basically got their own little neighborhood to themselves, a compound I guess you could call it, walled off from the rest of the city, it’s patrolled and guarded at all hours. The monks leave ‘em alone cuz they got enough coin and manpower to convince ‘em not to try otherwise."
Elias was genuinely surprised, but didn’t let his recognition of the name show. "That is where he is, with the gang?"
"Last I heard." Morrison said nonchalantly as he tipped the golden pile into his apron pocket. “The servants, well, they talk, don't they? Say he can control you with a just a touch, shyke like that. Sounds very much like your man, hmm?"
"His name," Elias rasped, eyes gone from glinting to flaming, raging and hungry as a starving wolf's. "What was his name?" He had to know for sure.
"Not sure I remember." Morrison had the balls -somewhere under all that flab- to smile, but then snapped his fingers and forestalled any brutal retaliation the mage had planned for him. "But he was from Ravok, I heard. Plus, from what I can tell, he’s the one leading the Aquilas these days. Uh… Al- something or other."
“Alaric Dumat.” Elias finished with a chuckle. “Alaric Dumat leads the Aquila gang.” The laughter grew, even stifled by a pale, scarred hand, it grew and grew until it became so loud everyone in the tavern was passing him a weary glances. The mage didn’t care. If they had known how lucky he had just become, they would have laughed right alongside him.
After a while Elias wiped a tear from his eye and sighed jovially into his mug before taking another swig. Well, this was an improvement, if not the best damn news in the world. Now he knew where to find his prey at least, but if he thought about it, that was like finding out that money was kept in a bank vault. All well and good, but how to get to it? He scratched under his chin and turned it over in his head for a while. He could tell Morrison was staring at him the whole time, no doubt perplexed and a little worried something in his brew had gone bad and warped the mind of one of his patrons.
“Morrison?”
“Uh… Yah?”
"My thanks."
"Oh, no." The barkeep said, jingling his purse with a sly smirk. "Thank you."
