“Reports say they have fin-like tails to allow for paddling, no arms, and speak to swimmers and fishermen ‘with their minds.’”
“Do you believe them?” Near the back again.
“I’m not sure. I mean, it’s possible. The ocean takes up most of Adra, so having a sentient aquatic species makes sense with how many live on land. And it’s certainly possible for species to communicate via telepathy, but magic is new enough I’d be surprised to learn a species developed without communication until magic came along. I’m waiting for more evidence.”
“Ever wanna go out and find one yourself?” A student in the front.
“I suppose it’d be fun, but I’m not an adventurer. I don’t raid ancient tombs or excavate ruins or clean bones; I read reports and teach, spreading the word as best I can. Granted, if the school paid for me to go out and study with a team, I probably would, but I digress.”
She stared at the class, looking for additional hands. “Anyone else have immediate questions? No?” The students’ only sounds were scratching quills and quiet coughs. “All right then, let’s get into the nitty gritty and deal with a bit of their history…”
Chapter 15: Just One Simple Job
The City of Arghan’Sul, Ghostfire Prefecture
The darkness had enveloped her for a half a cent now, though every other sense was tingling. She smelled the city air for a while, a mix of hot leather and sterile cleanery, but now, as she was being led, she smelled sweat, blood, and anise. Anise? Why anise?
The steps of the man leading her thudded in time, her tail undulations following a rough rhythm with it. Loud voices surrounded her, taunting, laughing, screaming. She knew where she was headed, the hood was superfluous, but she figured if it made the establishment feel better, it didn’t hurt her.
Suddenly, the hood was torn from her head and a bright light blinded her. She attempted to cover her face, but found her hands bound.
“Welcome to Arghan’Sul, Gorenyan bitch. I hope this place eats you alive.”
A boot connected with her spine, sending her careening into a tiny cell roughly twice the size of her cot. Steel bars kept her contained, as well as every other prisoner in this entire cell block. She could see the cell across from her, one to each side of it, and half of the cells next to those. The door slid closed, clamping her tail between the bars and door, eliciting a scream from her and a laugh from the guard. Quickly, she wriggled the rest of her body in as the door slammed shut, this time ending with a click and a lock.
As she coiled and righted herself, she scanned from left to right. She spotted an old, scraggly Northman with a beard down to his knees, a massive Milaric with biceps rivaling her own, a young Northman with stubble and a lean build, a slender Nojernan crying on her cot, and what appeared to be an empty cell, the occupant of which could easily be out of sight. She took this in, processed it, and suddenly recognized his face just in time for the young Northman to speak up.
“Oh. Oh by the gods. Is that Osadoguhn Viaxy I see in the cell across from me? Oh, it is! Oh, what a treat this is!” He spoke in a thick north-Milakrian accent, which would normally be surprising coming from a small Northman. Osa, however, recognized this man well.
“By The Commander, of course I’m put next to you.”
“How’ve you been, my scaly friend?”
“Oh, you know. Doing jobs, getting coins, doing my-”
“So being free, then?”
She stared into his eyes tightly. “Yeah.”
“So not being locked up in a damned asylum because your partner stabbed you in the back?”
“By the blade,” she sighed with the full capacity of her lungs. “No, Albreight. I did not betray. Master Pretorius did.”
“You let it happen.”
“Hah. No. Very much not.
“You ran away back to your master to get a purse in your hand.”
“He’s your master too.”
“Was. And indeed he was, and look where that got me. And you, looks like.”
She slumped back further into her coil. “No, I just got cocky, stupid, and not lucky all at one time.”
“How’d they finally catch you? Did they follow the bodies far enough to actually find you? Spend too long on a display?”
“Like I said; cocky, not lucky, stupid. I don’t know what I did wrong, but they came before I could get going.”
“Get going? On your target I assume?”
“I didn’t get to start the piece; they came too fast.”
“Your piece?”
“It was weighty too. Still mad.”
“Oh, wait a minute. Were you the Rilarian trask champion from Gorenya that unseated the Secundus, joined him to his house for a drink, and when caught by the guards, decided to cut open his throat and stab him in the brain? Was that you?”
Osa stared across the hallway at him.
“I thought that sounded like a certain Rilarian trask champion from Gorenya with a tendency to stab and/or cut people.”
“Hey, they came too fast. I was gonna have time to make an art.”
“I’m sure you were. Why’d you kill ‘im and fight your way out instead of bolting out the window? Oh wait, you’re you.”
“Cocky. Not lu—”
“Okay, seriously, Viaxy. Did you consider the possibility that the guards burst into the office because Pretorius sent them? Did you possibly consider that what happened to me, your old partner, right in front of your eyes, might happen to you? Why else would the guards burst into the personal office of the Secundus when he specifically stated he was having a private drink with the only person to best him in trask?”
She continued to glare wordlessly at the young Northman.
“You’re a fool, Viaxy. You’ve always been a fool, but not this bad. I’m surprised you didn’t rip out the throats of all the guards too. I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“I tried.”
“Bullshit, my lovely lady. If you tried to kill them, they’d be dead. I’ve seen you—”
“They got me fast, okay? They did magic, lightning. Damned guards have lightning that stopped me dead without killing. Fucking annoying.”
“And so here you are.”
“Yeah. So here I are.”
“Am. So here I am.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“No, you — Ugh, never mind.”
Osa dropped back down onto her cot on her side, arms flopped aimlessly in front of her, tail flung at the bars and dropped on the floor. The fact that she couldn’t sleep on her back didn’t trouble her much, few Rilarians could, her being Vipera meaning she especially couldn’t due mostly to the long spines running down her back and up her head. Sleeping on one’s side their entire life makes it fairly easy to continue doing so without second thought, however. On the plus side, when coiled, the lower spines could flatten enough to comfortably lean.
The man she called Albreight simply leaned back against the wall, watched her for a bit, and began to ask, “So Viaxy, what exactly—” before being cut off by the stupidly large Milaric in the cell beside him bellowing, “By the seven, I thought you two fucking parrots were done.”
With a humph, he leaned back and went to sleep. Osa, however, took in her scenery. This included stone walls, a stone floor, a stone ceiling, iron bars, and other cells she had already inspected. The ceiling, however, caught her interest due to the oddly shaped bricks. The entire stonework above her was an intricate tessellation that seemed to blur itself easily into straight stonework in the hallway, then blur into an entirely different tessellation above every cell.
She pondered this as she stared into the ceiling, taking in the tessellation, letting her mind wander, trying not to smell the candied anise in the air, sweet but bitter. It bit at her nostrils, no matter her
efforts to ignore it. She tried nonetheless.
“Oy! Get up, ye lazy bastards. Go out to the yard. Exercise time.”
She jarred awake to the sound of a distinctly large Atrok walking past banging on the cells. As he strolled down the hallway, his arms reached out and dragged planks of wood along the bars, his arms reaching both sides of the hallway with ease. After he had passed, the doors on their cells would unlock themselves, allowing them to be opened.
Osa sat up into a coil and waited as Albreight waltzed out of his cell and over to hers. “What do you think you’re doing, Viaxy?”
“Calming.”
“Ooohhh no no no no no. Not now. It’s yard time.”
“And?”
“Aaaand it’s yard time. That means we get the fuck out of our cages and get some exercise. For one, it’s a good excuse to escape the claustrophobia, which is apparently not hitting you quite yet. And two, trust me, you want to get out there. You don’t wanna test the guards. You have to leave.”
“And if not?”
“You don’t ‘not,’ you just do.”
“No.”
“Trust me, Viaxy. You want to get out.”
“Oy!” The Atrok called back. “Northie! What the fock do you think you’re doin’?”
“Why, getting my lovely lady friend to join—”
“Don’t you gimme sass, boy. Get the fock out.”
“Sir yes sir. You asked for it, Viaxy.” With that, he ran out. As he left her field of vision, the Atrok found his way into it.
“New girl think she got balls, huh? Get out and run, Slagskin.”
“What the fuck did you call me?”
“I said. Get. The fock. Out. You godsdamned scaly piece-o-shit Slagskin.”
“No one calls me a Slagskin, Kruger.”
“I call you what I want to call you, ye spiny bitch. Now get out!”
Somehow, before she could react, her door was flung open and a beefy hand was wrapped around her neck, while a smaller hand was resting atop her head. She noticed his other two hanging casually at his side. He only needed one side’s arms to kill her.
She wanted desperately to say something pithy at him, but found herself quite unable to speak. Either he sensed this attempt at pithiness or was simply pissed off, as after grabbing her he slammed her head into the wall. Not yet satisfied with this display of violence, he walked out of her cell holding her by the neck, high enough up she couldn’t quite get the balance or strength to reconstitute herself, and slammed her head down into the hallway floor once, twice, thrice, then raised her up and attempted to put her head through the ceiling. Failing to do more than leave a blood splatter, he threw her into the outdoor yard. She found herself in the air for at least ten meters before hitting the dirt outside. She found a stubbly Northman laughing at her.
“Told you to go with it.”
As much as she wished to tell him to piss off, talking didn’t sound like a particularly good idea. No, in her mind, sleep sounded way better right now. Should I sleep now? Isn’t sleeping with head damage bad? Eh, nah. They got healing folks here. Yeah? Before responding to her internal dialog, her consciousness faded.
Chapter 16: End of the Line
Greater Voorhaven Township, Fellblade Prefecture
She waltzed calmly back to the house, groceries in hand. One of these desses, she thought to herself, I’ll have to get me a horse.
Eh, I’m not so sure, she counterpointed. It’s good exercise, I get to see people.
Ah, but those people would still be there, I’d just be above them. Not to mention yes, it’s good exercise, but I work out enough in my regular routine. Plus, if I had a horse, I could get cold groceries without worrying about them going bad on the walk home.
Oh, it’s not so bad, I mean, after all —
Her thought was cut off by the sight of their typical postman. He was a Sheduvian, as were most postal workers in Antra. The birdmen had an easier time getting from place to place in a city, not troubling themselves with roads and whatnot. As he saw Ani approaching, he waved a talon in a friendly manner, flapped his wings out and promptly took off.
The process intrigued her, how their wings were so easily folded, but with a simple flick of the arms, with just the right flex, all those feathers came flying out and formed perfectly working wings. How they turn wings into a fuckin’ coat I’ll never know.
She waltzed over to the mailbox and checked, finding a collection of letters, one of which specifically caught her eye. An envelope sat in her hands with the Arghan’Sul official seal from one Alasdair Torbanson, Secundus of Arghan’Sul, a large city in the Ghostfire prefecture.
Memories flooded back of long nights by the campfire exchanging bad jokes and poorly told versions of bard tales they heard long ago. She remembered the battles, each of them at each other’s back, fending off enemies from every which direction. She remembered storming the throne room... and the look on Alasdair’s face when he saw Ani standing there... Her warhammer...
Hair flew in every direction as she shook her head violently to get the images out of her head. Mail in hand, she sauntered into the house, plopped down at the kitchen table, and cut the official letter open with a butcher knife. The letter informed Ani that she was not invited but ‘required’ to visit Arghan’Sul and join Secundus Alasdair Torbanson for a drink, ‘for old time’s sake.’ It also informed her of the free portal waiting in the mage tower of Voorhaven, including vouchers for a trip both to Arghan’Sul and back for her and her sister.
As much as she knew Lea wouldn’t be terribly happy about taking a portal, she got up and made her way to her sister’s office. She winced, preparing for a lecture about the danger of using portals, how anything requiring your body to be sent into one of the other planes and back was not to be trusted, and how she’d gladly spend two¬, two and a half turns in a carriage rather than take a portal. She found herself needlessly prepared, as Lea was not to be found in her office.
Taking a quick snoop around, she found an open journal. Being an upstanding protective sister, she took it upon herself to read the journal entry currently open.
3:1549 - Tendess
The sun is setting on the horizon and I’m on my fifth dess of straight work and research. There’s no end in sight. My legs elude me. No. Death eludes me. Magic is all-powerful, omnipotent, some might say, though incorrectly. The gods themselves, masters of the arcane, cannot return life. Perhaps they can and choose not to, but history shows otherwise. They’ve had the opportunities and never once have taken it. Death can be staved off, one can even be yanked from death’s clutches, but once they’ve been taken, there’s no coming back.
The best priests in the world cannot return a man to life more than three minutes after death. The brain ceases function, the heart stops pumping, internal rot begins. Memories, thoughts, personality, knowledge all begin to die.
My legs lie dead. My blood pumps through my veins, but treats the legs as a battered wasteland, warning its brethren to not tread beyond the knee. My arms lie weak, though not yet broken.
The lungs were easier than I expected. Easier in concept, harder in execution. It’s highly conventional to drink a potion, less so to inject it, even less so to inhale it. I’ve worked as an alchemist for many, many turns, studying the art of combining herbs and enchanting them to get what I want. Never before have I had to create a non-liquid powder made for inhalation.
The herbs weren’t hard, nor was the enchantment. The powdering, drying, the actual act of enchanting it, all more difficult than I imagined. Thankfully, it was effective enough. My breaths have leveled out, allowing intake more easily. My voice has even smoothed out.
After getting organ manipulation down, muscle wasn’t terribly far off. Same blood, same power source, same type of signals being sent. Took about eight turns to come up
with a growth spell. Thankfully, my arms were still functional, just barely. Now, I have enough strength in my arms to allow physical therapy. I have weights I’m practicing with now. Not nearly as often as I should be, but my arm muscles are finally returning to life.
Unfortunately, however, my legs completely elude me. I’ve lost everything below the knees, possibly the knees themselves. I can’t bring them back. No matter what I pump into them, no matter what I cast on them, my legs are gone. I have no choice at this point. I have to amputate them. I have failed. I won’t let this happen again.
Chapter 17: Making Believe
The City of Bargatha, Ghostfire Prefecture
"You want some tea?”
“I would delight in some, baby.”
Elon placed his blood-red teapot on a trivet resting on the coffee table between them. The water inside began to heat as a light red inscription glowed beneath it. A jar of pitch black tea leaves sat on the hearth to his left, a small spoon just next to it.
“Now this is ‘black’ tea?”
“Yeah, it’s a Milakrian thing.”
“And it’s not steamed or anything?”
“Nah. Story goes the Nojerna brought their leaves over the strait to show the Milarics how to make tea. After they showed the natives how to properly process the leaves, the Milarics kinda screwed around with the formula. Since they weren’t near as savvy with magic as their guests, they couldn’t steam or effectively cook their tea, so they just left it out, letting them turn black. To preserve it, just like their meats, they smoked the leaves dry instead of air-drying. Makes an entirely different tea than what we’re used to, huh?”
“Yeah. How odd.”
“I love the stuff.”
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