Elazan was beginning to become rather agitated. In fact, he was showing certain signs that would have made any vulcanologist scramble to their post. The clerks in front of him didn't recognize him for the imminent natural disaster that he was, however, and continued with their summarization of the several different documents and certificates that he should have in his possession to be inside the city's gates. There were three of them, dark skinned men with tattooed mouths, as if there was string running through them, and a cyllindrical hat that covered their ears.
Now, Elazan wasn't unused to paperwork. He wrote a great deal of papers. In fact, they were one of the reasons he was in the damned city anyway. Nonetheless, one couldn't say that they captivated him, especially when they were not academic in nature and involved the law 39, section c, part iii denying him entrance after a long day of travel and a bunch of robed men waving their scrolls in front of his face. Because of this, Elazan's appreciation for the Sand Clerks' enunciated declarations were minimal at best, and his patience was beginning to reach similar depths.
The four of them, foreigner and clerks, were standing beneath a stone arch in a street that led to the outskirts of the city. Crowds of people jostled past in both directions, avoiding a wagon which presumably belonged to a slavemonguer and bringing with them camels, knapsacks, and baskets filled with various goods. The smell of human sweat and animal dung was nauseously permeating, but Elazan had spent a few years of his life with goblin minions and was used to much worse odors, Another Sand Clerk and common city guards supervised the entrance and the civilians that passed through it, but only Elazan had been accosted by the trio of tattooed auditors who were seemingly passing through.
The wanderer's skin, even if it was parched and weathered by the sun, had probably alerted them to his foreign nature. Apparently, they were also suspicious of something he carried - probably his staff. Elazan didn't really take offense to it, because they would have good reasons to if things carried on the way they were going. He did take offense to them having special legislations for allowing foreign "conjurers" with a "magical object" within the city. The impudence! The nerve! He was a wizard, and he had the PhD to prove it! Elazan had been trying to pointedly explain this fact to the paper wielding solicitors with his somewhat confined knowledge of the language for the past ten minutes, and they had been babbling something about "no foreign credentials" "further questioning" and "expropriation of magical property".
Gruham Elazan was not a patient man. He was actually quite irritable, and when unleashed his temper was as explosive as his alchemical experiments. Nevertheless, he was making an effort to restrain himself. After all, he was a visitor on foreign soil, and a culture clash was to be expected. Besides, he was hoping to get some directions from the buggers and had promised himself to not incinerate at anyone on the first day. That didn't mean, however, that the wanderer didn't notice the shorter of the box-hatted bunch making gestures with his right hand to nearby guards.
Why, I'll show you, yer little candle-hatted basta - even Elazan's internal swearing was interrupted when one of the Clerks attempted to snatch his black pointy hat. It was the last straw. Stupefaction very quickly gave way to anger and in one swift uppercut, the wizard's fist collided with the other's face, with chaos breaking loose even before the unfortunate clerk hit the floor.
Now, Elazan wasn't unused to paperwork. He wrote a great deal of papers. In fact, they were one of the reasons he was in the damned city anyway. Nonetheless, one couldn't say that they captivated him, especially when they were not academic in nature and involved the law 39, section c, part iii denying him entrance after a long day of travel and a bunch of robed men waving their scrolls in front of his face. Because of this, Elazan's appreciation for the Sand Clerks' enunciated declarations were minimal at best, and his patience was beginning to reach similar depths.
The four of them, foreigner and clerks, were standing beneath a stone arch in a street that led to the outskirts of the city. Crowds of people jostled past in both directions, avoiding a wagon which presumably belonged to a slavemonguer and bringing with them camels, knapsacks, and baskets filled with various goods. The smell of human sweat and animal dung was nauseously permeating, but Elazan had spent a few years of his life with goblin minions and was used to much worse odors, Another Sand Clerk and common city guards supervised the entrance and the civilians that passed through it, but only Elazan had been accosted by the trio of tattooed auditors who were seemingly passing through.
The wanderer's skin, even if it was parched and weathered by the sun, had probably alerted them to his foreign nature. Apparently, they were also suspicious of something he carried - probably his staff. Elazan didn't really take offense to it, because they would have good reasons to if things carried on the way they were going. He did take offense to them having special legislations for allowing foreign "conjurers" with a "magical object" within the city. The impudence! The nerve! He was a wizard, and he had the PhD to prove it! Elazan had been trying to pointedly explain this fact to the paper wielding solicitors with his somewhat confined knowledge of the language for the past ten minutes, and they had been babbling something about "no foreign credentials" "further questioning" and "expropriation of magical property".
Gruham Elazan was not a patient man. He was actually quite irritable, and when unleashed his temper was as explosive as his alchemical experiments. Nevertheless, he was making an effort to restrain himself. After all, he was a visitor on foreign soil, and a culture clash was to be expected. Besides, he was hoping to get some directions from the buggers and had promised himself to not incinerate at anyone on the first day. That didn't mean, however, that the wanderer didn't notice the shorter of the box-hatted bunch making gestures with his right hand to nearby guards.
Why, I'll show you, yer little candle-hatted basta - even Elazan's internal swearing was interrupted when one of the Clerks attempted to snatch his black pointy hat. It was the last straw. Stupefaction very quickly gave way to anger and in one swift uppercut, the wizard's fist collided with the other's face, with chaos breaking loose even before the unfortunate clerk hit the floor.
Within the city, the bustling marketplace lined one long street that would eventually lead into the central plaza. The plaza was beautiful, an oasis in a sunny desert with a large fountain spouting water throughout the day. Clerks and Justiciars were concentrated in the area, keeping an eye on sales and keeping drunken citizens out of the fountain respectfully. Merchants prestigious enough to own permanent structures as shops were settled closest to the fountain, their taxes and insurance dues always paid on time--in turn, allowing them to make that money back tenfold selling beautiful jewelry, silk clothes, or lavish rugs and other artistic luxuries. They enjoyed elite costumers, casual banter with the Clerks, and protective watch from the Justiciars.
Further down the road the brick shops turned into stands: they displayed a variety of foods, specialized in cloth, or other daily necessities. While the merchants and traders here didn't enjoy a rich lifestyle, they took pride in their hard work and made what they needed to survive in the city. They kept up with payments well enough to stay afloat--missing even one risked their life's work and losing that money was better than losing all their income. Clerks weren't particularly aggressive, but a smart merchant always had his paperwork stamped and in order and he always remained polite with the city workers no matter what sort of shouting match he fell into with a customer. At least they had customers.
At the very end of the street, there was far less foot traffic. Sleazy merchants here barely had a rug to lie their goods out on, and some hung sheets between their "shops" to maintain what little individuality they might have. Very few of the men and women so close to the city outskirts could afford to sell anything but knick knacks and miscellaneous supplies. Forget insurance, some could barely keep up on taxes. Justiciars were never seen save for the ones too busy patrolling the city borders to protect the citizens' goods. A Clerk in a sour mood could kick five or more merchants off the floor permanently if he wished, and anyone with a promising lot often fell victim the the Thieves Union.
Setting up shop at the very, very end was Ramez Nassiri, dressed in his finest robes yet. He hummed to himself as he stopped his small cart, and immediately went to work. Another watched him from across the street, a pipe between her lips as she sat cross legged before her small collection of dinky little wooden jewelry. It was a wonderful and beautiful concept, and Ramez often wondered how she found the wood for her bracelets and rings. However, it would never catch on if the young woman couldn't buy into the Union. He ignored her today, however, busy hanging sheets around his spot to at least give the illusion his "shop" had four walls. She did not ignore him, though.
"What sort of junk are you selling today, Ramez?" she asked as her glittering green eyes watched him lie down his rug, her voice far too raspy for her age.
He smiled through the irritation, though his toothy grin didn't quite meet his eyes. "Farah, you wound me," he said melodramatically. "And any other day your words might ring true. But today, I have a piece that will buy me straight into the plaza!"
Smoke billowed around the woman as she watched him bend over his cart, shoving aside a variety of items that she was right to call junk. As he reached in, he talked on about his grand plan to take the piece toward the center of the city, where he would make a show out of selling it among the elites who could offer him more and more money because they would fall in love it with so quickly. However, he didn't stand back up immediately, and he felt his blood run cold. His digging became frantic until he was almost falling into his own cart. "Where is it?" he muttered, suddenly standing again as he stared into the cart, his face pale.
Farah sighed and scowled at a passing citizen. "Maybe next time, Ramez," she said, offering cold comfort.
"I had it just last night," he said flatly, his knuckles turning white on his cart. "Damned thieves." He was still for a long time, staring into his cart of...unique tools and toys. It was only after the cold anger ebbed into frustration that he started unpacking again. Once the cart's contents were emptied onto his dirty rug, he rolled the cart to its place hidden away from the street, behind the sheets he had hung.
"No person knows what he will earn tomorrow," Ramez said softly as he kneel at his rug. Then, suddenly, he was smiling, ready to begin his day.
Further down the road the brick shops turned into stands: they displayed a variety of foods, specialized in cloth, or other daily necessities. While the merchants and traders here didn't enjoy a rich lifestyle, they took pride in their hard work and made what they needed to survive in the city. They kept up with payments well enough to stay afloat--missing even one risked their life's work and losing that money was better than losing all their income. Clerks weren't particularly aggressive, but a smart merchant always had his paperwork stamped and in order and he always remained polite with the city workers no matter what sort of shouting match he fell into with a customer. At least they had customers.
At the very end of the street, there was far less foot traffic. Sleazy merchants here barely had a rug to lie their goods out on, and some hung sheets between their "shops" to maintain what little individuality they might have. Very few of the men and women so close to the city outskirts could afford to sell anything but knick knacks and miscellaneous supplies. Forget insurance, some could barely keep up on taxes. Justiciars were never seen save for the ones too busy patrolling the city borders to protect the citizens' goods. A Clerk in a sour mood could kick five or more merchants off the floor permanently if he wished, and anyone with a promising lot often fell victim the the Thieves Union.
Setting up shop at the very, very end was Ramez Nassiri, dressed in his finest robes yet. He hummed to himself as he stopped his small cart, and immediately went to work. Another watched him from across the street, a pipe between her lips as she sat cross legged before her small collection of dinky little wooden jewelry. It was a wonderful and beautiful concept, and Ramez often wondered how she found the wood for her bracelets and rings. However, it would never catch on if the young woman couldn't buy into the Union. He ignored her today, however, busy hanging sheets around his spot to at least give the illusion his "shop" had four walls. She did not ignore him, though.
"What sort of junk are you selling today, Ramez?" she asked as her glittering green eyes watched him lie down his rug, her voice far too raspy for her age.
He smiled through the irritation, though his toothy grin didn't quite meet his eyes. "Farah, you wound me," he said melodramatically. "And any other day your words might ring true. But today, I have a piece that will buy me straight into the plaza!"
Smoke billowed around the woman as she watched him bend over his cart, shoving aside a variety of items that she was right to call junk. As he reached in, he talked on about his grand plan to take the piece toward the center of the city, where he would make a show out of selling it among the elites who could offer him more and more money because they would fall in love it with so quickly. However, he didn't stand back up immediately, and he felt his blood run cold. His digging became frantic until he was almost falling into his own cart. "Where is it?" he muttered, suddenly standing again as he stared into the cart, his face pale.
Farah sighed and scowled at a passing citizen. "Maybe next time, Ramez," she said, offering cold comfort.
"I had it just last night," he said flatly, his knuckles turning white on his cart. "Damned thieves." He was still for a long time, staring into his cart of...unique tools and toys. It was only after the cold anger ebbed into frustration that he started unpacking again. Once the cart's contents were emptied onto his dirty rug, he rolled the cart to its place hidden away from the street, behind the sheets he had hung.
"No person knows what he will earn tomorrow," Ramez said softly as he kneel at his rug. Then, suddenly, he was smiling, ready to begin his day.
Green eyes behind a low-wrapped shemagh pierced through the sun and dust to scan the street before her. On her torso a thin, loose fabric covered both her body and her arms, shielding her pale skin from the potent sunlight, and so that Ilyse's feminine features were nearly completely concealed. With her arms crossed and one leg bent against the wall in a mannish pose, she noted the little intrigues she could see. A small, scraggly child chased a scraggly dog, his calloused feet bare against the scorching sand and stone. A small group of Clerks argued with another man, all of them with hats Ilyse found ridiculous looking.
From the shade of the small alleyway, and with the help of the crate she was perched on, Ilyse could easily see over the heads of the masses bustling past her in the street. The stench of this place nearly turned her stomach, but with years spent by rotting corpses, she had learned to tolerate it just enough. Combined with the rampant necromancy, and Ilyse couldn't think of it as little more than a gods-forsaken pit of the world. But as much as she hated this kingdom, she could not leave, not yet.
Ilyse was stuck here until her mission ended, be it success or failure that drew it to a close, and she had recovered the young man she had been hired to find. It was no simple job, and the pay was lower than she would have liked, but it was all his family could afford. Ilyse frowned behind her shemagh, she was not sure she would have enough money to pay for the help of the scoundrel she had enlisted to help her through the city. The thought was quickly discarded. Even if this mission cost her more than her earnings, it was for a good cause, and an old habit. And Ilyse knew exactly how hard it was to kill an old habit.
Speaking of the hired thief, Ilyse glanced over the builds that lined the street. She could not spot him, or where he had chosen as a hiding place. A glance down the street showed a cramped cart dredging along, pushing through the throngs of people as it made its way toward the market. That was her mark, one of the several slave carts she had been tracking for weeks. Another glance at the buildings and alley ways, searching for the thief, but still to no avail. The cart was drawing closer, almost past the Clerks across the street. The former knight raised her hand up high over her head, as if stretching, and tapped the back of it against the wall. Their signal, if he could see it, to make their move against the cart.
Ilyse pulled her hand back down, watching as the cart began to pass her. Gods damn it, was her last thought before a commotion across the street began. Green eyes peaked over the crowd of heads just in time to see the Sand Clerk falling backwards toward the ground. The cart driver pulled its cart to a stop, watching intently at the scene that was unfolding. In the chaos that began, Ilyse hopped from her vantage point and entered the crowd. With no knowledge of if the thief had seen the signal, she had to assume she was operating alone. Hopping on the back of the cart, the pale, covered figure raised a finger over her hidden mouth as a slave within jumped in fright. Quickly, Ilyse pulled the knife from her boot and dug it into the space between the iron nails and the hinges they held against the wood. With the wear of the cart, the work was quicker than she had expected, but still too slow to be noticed. She was half way through the last nail needed to bust the cage open and bypass the lock on the door before a large mercenary who had wandered to the back of the cart he was guarding.
Ilyse hit the dirt with an mph, but managed to kick against the large figure's knee before rolling away from his sword and springing to her feet. Ilyse figured the mercenary must have been green, because as he fell to his good knee, the other put out of commission by Ilyse's foot, he swung wildly at her and made a long, sideways arc with his sword, extending his arm too far for his own good. With a step toward the man, Ilyse was able to block his arm, and avoid the sword entirely. With a swift jab of the knife's hilt to the base of the man's skull, he slumped forward toward the same ground he had thrown her to moments before. Ilyse did not care to check if he was alive or unconscious, there were more mercenary guards coming pushing through the crowd toward her, and they did not look so green.
From the shade of the small alleyway, and with the help of the crate she was perched on, Ilyse could easily see over the heads of the masses bustling past her in the street. The stench of this place nearly turned her stomach, but with years spent by rotting corpses, she had learned to tolerate it just enough. Combined with the rampant necromancy, and Ilyse couldn't think of it as little more than a gods-forsaken pit of the world. But as much as she hated this kingdom, she could not leave, not yet.
Ilyse was stuck here until her mission ended, be it success or failure that drew it to a close, and she had recovered the young man she had been hired to find. It was no simple job, and the pay was lower than she would have liked, but it was all his family could afford. Ilyse frowned behind her shemagh, she was not sure she would have enough money to pay for the help of the scoundrel she had enlisted to help her through the city. The thought was quickly discarded. Even if this mission cost her more than her earnings, it was for a good cause, and an old habit. And Ilyse knew exactly how hard it was to kill an old habit.
Speaking of the hired thief, Ilyse glanced over the builds that lined the street. She could not spot him, or where he had chosen as a hiding place. A glance down the street showed a cramped cart dredging along, pushing through the throngs of people as it made its way toward the market. That was her mark, one of the several slave carts she had been tracking for weeks. Another glance at the buildings and alley ways, searching for the thief, but still to no avail. The cart was drawing closer, almost past the Clerks across the street. The former knight raised her hand up high over her head, as if stretching, and tapped the back of it against the wall. Their signal, if he could see it, to make their move against the cart.
Ilyse pulled her hand back down, watching as the cart began to pass her. Gods damn it, was her last thought before a commotion across the street began. Green eyes peaked over the crowd of heads just in time to see the Sand Clerk falling backwards toward the ground. The cart driver pulled its cart to a stop, watching intently at the scene that was unfolding. In the chaos that began, Ilyse hopped from her vantage point and entered the crowd. With no knowledge of if the thief had seen the signal, she had to assume she was operating alone. Hopping on the back of the cart, the pale, covered figure raised a finger over her hidden mouth as a slave within jumped in fright. Quickly, Ilyse pulled the knife from her boot and dug it into the space between the iron nails and the hinges they held against the wood. With the wear of the cart, the work was quicker than she had expected, but still too slow to be noticed. She was half way through the last nail needed to bust the cage open and bypass the lock on the door before a large mercenary who had wandered to the back of the cart he was guarding.
Ilyse hit the dirt with an mph, but managed to kick against the large figure's knee before rolling away from his sword and springing to her feet. Ilyse figured the mercenary must have been green, because as he fell to his good knee, the other put out of commission by Ilyse's foot, he swung wildly at her and made a long, sideways arc with his sword, extending his arm too far for his own good. With a step toward the man, Ilyse was able to block his arm, and avoid the sword entirely. With a swift jab of the knife's hilt to the base of the man's skull, he slumped forward toward the same ground he had thrown her to moments before. Ilyse did not care to check if he was alive or unconscious, there were more mercenary guards coming pushing through the crowd toward her, and they did not look so green.
What a mistake... What was he thinking drudging so far north of Nordalant until the greenness of the plateaus devolved into rough bitter sand? Well, determination could be a factor as to why he wandered so far; determination to fight another equal. But oh yes, he found more than just his equal, in fact, it was thrice that amount.
The duelist, upon reaching the sands of Dei Iuris (a region he had never heard of until now) found himself face to face with a large body of Dune Raiders. Although his Marsalisian presence and aptitude for swordplay held them off for a brief moment, he was incapable of fighting off so many at once. During this skirmish, he was blind-sided but didn't surrender. He fought with vigorous gusto akin to a grizzly bear, spinning and moulinetting his longsword to keep distance. In the end, it was fruitless. After having been bested by the Dune Raiders, he had no choice but to surrender; a part of him wished he didn't and instead die in combat... He most certainly regretted it soon after...
He was escorted by the Raiders, his armaments confiscated. Soon enough, the rest of his armour was confiscated once thrown into a small cage amidst other unfortunates. Wait... they all have rather dark coloured-skin... that would explain why he thought the sun looked as if it'd never set on this land. He tried to keep as calm as he could, closing his eyes and meditating quietly amongst the riff-raff of the prisoners. He wore only a single loincloth, his pale body contrasting with the rest of the prisoners. Then the warden came.
"You! Out!" Well... he spoke Common; there's just no telling as to how much he knew; those words may have been the full extent of his lexicon.
The warden pried open the cage. The duelist slowly raised himself. Once fully standing, he tackled the warden. Despite being smaller, he managed to throttle him to the ground and submit him in a headlock. It wasn't long before his men rushed in and started beating the duelist with truncheons. Eventually, the duelist let go. Later on, he was whipped by a nine-tails.
And there he was, in that same cart, nasty scars on his back and bruises everywhere. He breathed slowly and huskily, almost looking as if he were suppressing his rage. He looked up to see sandy roads. No, not just that, but the buildings as well! What interesting designs! He had never seen such architecture! Just like the captives he saw amongst the cages, everyone seemed dark-skinned. It almost made him feel embarrassed having such a pale exterior Damn... now he REALLY has gone far from Tannenford... He sighed heavily and looked down at the floor of the cage.
He remained looking at the ground, too focused on his anger to mind the growing crowd. Upon hearing feet hitting the cart he was on, he jumped and looked at the figure in front of him. His eyes widened for a second, but then he looked down... he forgot he was wearing nothing but a loincloth. He blushed and nodded at them. He raised his finger to his lips in acknowledgement for him to hush. Then, they started cutting the cage. He seemed to almost light up at the sight of this, nearly ready to bust open the cage any moment. But then, at the corner of his eye, he caught the mercenary behind them. He was about to call out, but it was too late...
Surprisingly though, the figure managed to best the much bigger mercenary. He was certainly impressed, if not slightly on edge.
"On your tail!" The duelist called as more came. He looked down at the weakening nails and hinges and his eyes glowed yellow. With his bare foot, his eyes glowed intensely, before kicking at the door of the cage with the power of a bucking stallion. Naturally, the weakened cage burst open, setting the duelist free. He climbed out.
"I am in your debt, my friend." He stated happily, as he picked up the sword from the fallen mercenary. Odd... it was single-edged, like a messer and with a ridiculously deep curve... there was no nail on the side either... How the hell can you fight with this thing? It barely had any hand protection! He best be careful with this one.
"What's the plan, then? We run?"
The duelist, upon reaching the sands of Dei Iuris (a region he had never heard of until now) found himself face to face with a large body of Dune Raiders. Although his Marsalisian presence and aptitude for swordplay held them off for a brief moment, he was incapable of fighting off so many at once. During this skirmish, he was blind-sided but didn't surrender. He fought with vigorous gusto akin to a grizzly bear, spinning and moulinetting his longsword to keep distance. In the end, it was fruitless. After having been bested by the Dune Raiders, he had no choice but to surrender; a part of him wished he didn't and instead die in combat... He most certainly regretted it soon after...
He was escorted by the Raiders, his armaments confiscated. Soon enough, the rest of his armour was confiscated once thrown into a small cage amidst other unfortunates. Wait... they all have rather dark coloured-skin... that would explain why he thought the sun looked as if it'd never set on this land. He tried to keep as calm as he could, closing his eyes and meditating quietly amongst the riff-raff of the prisoners. He wore only a single loincloth, his pale body contrasting with the rest of the prisoners. Then the warden came.
"You! Out!" Well... he spoke Common; there's just no telling as to how much he knew; those words may have been the full extent of his lexicon.
The warden pried open the cage. The duelist slowly raised himself. Once fully standing, he tackled the warden. Despite being smaller, he managed to throttle him to the ground and submit him in a headlock. It wasn't long before his men rushed in and started beating the duelist with truncheons. Eventually, the duelist let go. Later on, he was whipped by a nine-tails.
And there he was, in that same cart, nasty scars on his back and bruises everywhere. He breathed slowly and huskily, almost looking as if he were suppressing his rage. He looked up to see sandy roads. No, not just that, but the buildings as well! What interesting designs! He had never seen such architecture! Just like the captives he saw amongst the cages, everyone seemed dark-skinned. It almost made him feel embarrassed having such a pale exterior Damn... now he REALLY has gone far from Tannenford... He sighed heavily and looked down at the floor of the cage.
He remained looking at the ground, too focused on his anger to mind the growing crowd. Upon hearing feet hitting the cart he was on, he jumped and looked at the figure in front of him. His eyes widened for a second, but then he looked down... he forgot he was wearing nothing but a loincloth. He blushed and nodded at them. He raised his finger to his lips in acknowledgement for him to hush. Then, they started cutting the cage. He seemed to almost light up at the sight of this, nearly ready to bust open the cage any moment. But then, at the corner of his eye, he caught the mercenary behind them. He was about to call out, but it was too late...
Surprisingly though, the figure managed to best the much bigger mercenary. He was certainly impressed, if not slightly on edge.
"On your tail!" The duelist called as more came. He looked down at the weakening nails and hinges and his eyes glowed yellow. With his bare foot, his eyes glowed intensely, before kicking at the door of the cage with the power of a bucking stallion. Naturally, the weakened cage burst open, setting the duelist free. He climbed out.
"I am in your debt, my friend." He stated happily, as he picked up the sword from the fallen mercenary. Odd... it was single-edged, like a messer and with a ridiculously deep curve... there was no nail on the side either... How the hell can you fight with this thing? It barely had any hand protection! He best be careful with this one.
"What's the plan, then? We run?"
The blurred shadows of a scampering mutt and its hounding tyke passed a window draped in pink silk. Within, an intruder drenched in shadow peered through the softly wavering fabric. A mother clung to her child as they both knelt deep into the farthest corner away from him. She was a smart woman, recognizing the man’s interest in what was occurring outside rather than any of the mundane belongings lining the floor. So long as they kept quiet, there wouldn’t be a need to silence anyone. Ishmael silently thanked his luck. Fore if he’d crept into the home of a newly made wife unaccustomed to the intrusion of thieves whilst her husband was away, a method more harsh than a simple “hush” sign would have been used without hesitation.
With a quickening heart, the thief known underground as Chameleon kept his sharp eyes primed on his client across the street. Only a smidgen of the lost lamb could be made out at this chosen angle. He was sure to keep her in sight. Though a professional such as he intended to keep to his ends of this brazen heist of the material most valued, he was not apt to think the same of anyone else. Especially a foreigner. It seemed a curse to work with one in his and all his confidants’ experience. Whether they turn tail when the sands became red, or failed the most basic of water rationing and died between villas, the success rate of the jobs off records involving the milk-skinned were less than ideal. Ishmael hadn't a choice with union sanctioned jobs limited with his meager status within its ranks. He hadn't yet procured the magic parchment to allow him his own marks. Instead, he hit what he was told to; no matter how much his arrival was anticipated or what needed retrieval. He was being used as a lapdog for an indifferent master, being thrown bones with only a scab of meat still clinging. That would not be for long. It couldn't. It wouldn't.
Ishmael found his gaze wandering. It was taken by a clerk being socked flat. It was a crime quite shocking to see preformed so publicly, if satisfying. Yet the thief recognized his folly when he centered his focus on Ilyse's location once more. She was gone.
The resident of the house was relieved by Ishmael’s hurried launching through the window. He landed clumsily, rolling onto his feet to the surprise of a few not already gawking at the commotion at the entrance. He sprinted dead ahead for the cart. The guards were moving, yelling, unsheathing iron as they made for what could only be assumed was Ilyse. One lagging behind the rest was met with two sandals followed by the entire weight of Ishmael’s sprinting drop kick. The swordsman’s head bounced off the iron bars before landing on the well-trodden road. Ishmael rolled twice before springing to his feet. He left the man writhing there, moving on to find what fate begot his client. He found four backs facing him. Katars readied from within his garb, he was quick to dig one into a guardsmen. The thick blade hit heavy resistance, cutting shallow. The agile cut-purse ducked from a responding swipe. His own blade dug further to a proper length. The lever on the H-shaped hilt was pulled, releasing the thick blade to spring apart, revealing a third finer within. The shallow wound was suddenly made grievous, and the man fell grasping his reddening side. Ishmael retreated smoothly as two swords swiped at him. They furiously clanged against the three pronged daggers, each becoming caught between them and slid away with such fluidity it could be mistaken for a practiced performance. There were certainly hollers of appraisal from those accustomed to the sight of violence.
The flurry gave way to a quick standoff. Ishmael peered betwixt the guardsmen, finding the client and the matching milk-toned slave at her side hadn’t died yet. That glance was all that could be spared before the swordsmen advanced with noticeably more composure. As the three danced more cautiously, Ishmael found his parries becoming less and less effective as ruthless aggression turned into careful stabs. He was on the defensive.
With a quickening heart, the thief known underground as Chameleon kept his sharp eyes primed on his client across the street. Only a smidgen of the lost lamb could be made out at this chosen angle. He was sure to keep her in sight. Though a professional such as he intended to keep to his ends of this brazen heist of the material most valued, he was not apt to think the same of anyone else. Especially a foreigner. It seemed a curse to work with one in his and all his confidants’ experience. Whether they turn tail when the sands became red, or failed the most basic of water rationing and died between villas, the success rate of the jobs off records involving the milk-skinned were less than ideal. Ishmael hadn't a choice with union sanctioned jobs limited with his meager status within its ranks. He hadn't yet procured the magic parchment to allow him his own marks. Instead, he hit what he was told to; no matter how much his arrival was anticipated or what needed retrieval. He was being used as a lapdog for an indifferent master, being thrown bones with only a scab of meat still clinging. That would not be for long. It couldn't. It wouldn't.
Ishmael found his gaze wandering. It was taken by a clerk being socked flat. It was a crime quite shocking to see preformed so publicly, if satisfying. Yet the thief recognized his folly when he centered his focus on Ilyse's location once more. She was gone.
The resident of the house was relieved by Ishmael’s hurried launching through the window. He landed clumsily, rolling onto his feet to the surprise of a few not already gawking at the commotion at the entrance. He sprinted dead ahead for the cart. The guards were moving, yelling, unsheathing iron as they made for what could only be assumed was Ilyse. One lagging behind the rest was met with two sandals followed by the entire weight of Ishmael’s sprinting drop kick. The swordsman’s head bounced off the iron bars before landing on the well-trodden road. Ishmael rolled twice before springing to his feet. He left the man writhing there, moving on to find what fate begot his client. He found four backs facing him. Katars readied from within his garb, he was quick to dig one into a guardsmen. The thick blade hit heavy resistance, cutting shallow. The agile cut-purse ducked from a responding swipe. His own blade dug further to a proper length. The lever on the H-shaped hilt was pulled, releasing the thick blade to spring apart, revealing a third finer within. The shallow wound was suddenly made grievous, and the man fell grasping his reddening side. Ishmael retreated smoothly as two swords swiped at him. They furiously clanged against the three pronged daggers, each becoming caught between them and slid away with such fluidity it could be mistaken for a practiced performance. There were certainly hollers of appraisal from those accustomed to the sight of violence.
The flurry gave way to a quick standoff. Ishmael peered betwixt the guardsmen, finding the client and the matching milk-toned slave at her side hadn’t died yet. That glance was all that could be spared before the swordsmen advanced with noticeably more composure. As the three danced more cautiously, Ishmael found his parries becoming less and less effective as ruthless aggression turned into careful stabs. He was on the defensive.
The commotion hadn’t reached the market, though it would likely not be that way for long. After all, the squabble taking place was related to one of its trades, and it just would not do for any resistance to be stirred to life against it. Not too much, anyway. One does not willingly become a slave- but it was often a better solution to stay, for those caught. Life was always a better choice in the face of death.
But these thoughts did not cross a young man’s mind that day, for he did not know what was going on around the entrance of the city. No, he was deeper inside, amongst the most populous place the city had to offer, where goods were traded and thieves thrived and merchants shouted to be heard to cantankerous crowds.
The markets were always busy.
Umran bumped against a customer, whirling around and bowing in hasty apology. “I’m sorry!” he squeaked, cowering a little under the customer’s glare- then was jostled by yet another buyer, repeating the process all over again. It seemed to be busier than usual, sellers visibly competing over similar wares and buyers all but crowding around several others, hoping for a good deal. His heart sank as he failed to find the usual merchant.
“Excuse me!” he said, panting, as he tapped on an irritated old woman’s shoulder. “Er- that is- have you seen-?“
“Oh, lad!” she shouted. He winced. It’s a good thing he tapped on her shoulder, even with the frightening look she’d shot initially before she recognized him. Being half-deaf in a place like this had its disadvantages sometimes… “What is it?!”
He opened his mouth to explain, gesturing towards the spot where different wares were usually placed, manned by another merchant, and her eyes lit up in understanding. “Ah, well, the old man’s sick today, so he’s not here! Sorry!” She paused, mouth agape, then waved him off. “Uh, excuse me- HEY! THAT’S MY SHOE YOU RASCAL-“
He stumbled out of the way, barely breathing as he was swallowed by the crowd yet again. He flailed a little, trying to find a way out while he was resignedly dragged half-blind to who knows where. Feeling a solid push, he finally broke free, finding himself in the middle of a thankfully less crowded area. There was just enough people around for him to know that it was still in the good region of the market, and he sighed in relief.
He slowly walked passed a stall full of pottery, another with wooden jewelry- and stopped at one with seemingly random diverse objects, some with practical use and others with decorative properties. Books, trinkets, ink-
Perhaps this stall would have what he needed? He quickly walked over and smiled somewhat shyly at the merchant manning his varied wares.
“Pardon me,” he said softly, picking at cloth strips around his forearms. “Do you happen to sell any herbs?”
But these thoughts did not cross a young man’s mind that day, for he did not know what was going on around the entrance of the city. No, he was deeper inside, amongst the most populous place the city had to offer, where goods were traded and thieves thrived and merchants shouted to be heard to cantankerous crowds.
The markets were always busy.
Umran bumped against a customer, whirling around and bowing in hasty apology. “I’m sorry!” he squeaked, cowering a little under the customer’s glare- then was jostled by yet another buyer, repeating the process all over again. It seemed to be busier than usual, sellers visibly competing over similar wares and buyers all but crowding around several others, hoping for a good deal. His heart sank as he failed to find the usual merchant.
“Excuse me!” he said, panting, as he tapped on an irritated old woman’s shoulder. “Er- that is- have you seen-?“
“Oh, lad!” she shouted. He winced. It’s a good thing he tapped on her shoulder, even with the frightening look she’d shot initially before she recognized him. Being half-deaf in a place like this had its disadvantages sometimes… “What is it?!”
He opened his mouth to explain, gesturing towards the spot where different wares were usually placed, manned by another merchant, and her eyes lit up in understanding. “Ah, well, the old man’s sick today, so he’s not here! Sorry!” She paused, mouth agape, then waved him off. “Uh, excuse me- HEY! THAT’S MY SHOE YOU RASCAL-“
He stumbled out of the way, barely breathing as he was swallowed by the crowd yet again. He flailed a little, trying to find a way out while he was resignedly dragged half-blind to who knows where. Feeling a solid push, he finally broke free, finding himself in the middle of a thankfully less crowded area. There was just enough people around for him to know that it was still in the good region of the market, and he sighed in relief.
He slowly walked passed a stall full of pottery, another with wooden jewelry- and stopped at one with seemingly random diverse objects, some with practical use and others with decorative properties. Books, trinkets, ink-
Perhaps this stall would have what he needed? He quickly walked over and smiled somewhat shyly at the merchant manning his varied wares.
“Pardon me,” he said softly, picking at cloth strips around his forearms. “Do you happen to sell any herbs?”
The merchant would have liked to focus on potential customers, but he found himself busy with keeping sand and dirt off his wares and rugs. Occasionally he would fling a curse at a passerby, once earning a rock thrown at his head. He hopped up to fight the brute, but when the man walked over and glared down at Ramez, his eyeballs half a foot higher than his own and his shoulders twice as broad... Well, Ramez was not a total fool. He laughed, offered an apology and even a discount on any of his good as he sheepishly sat back down. The man was not amused nor interested, so Ramez only scowled at his backside when he finally walked off.
Farah, at least, was the silver lining to a gloomy day. The merchants squabbled and bickered, but it seemed to be good fun--competition at worst. Ramez even offered to marry the woman when he became rich so she could sell her beautiful bracelets to even Custodians. She refused him, again. He laughed and returned to his business of harassing citizens and foreigners, trying his best to get a customer--any customer. So when the kid asked for some herbs, Ramez responded with a wide, white smile.
"Herbs! Yes, yes, of course. What sort of herb are you looking for?" Ramez stood up and brushed his robes free of sand. "Something for tea? Medicine? Seasoning and spice?" He stepped over his rug to rest an arm around the boy's shoulders, gaze falling temporarily on the bandages that peeked out of his dusty colored robes. Ramez allowed his mind to gloss over that detail, quickly looking to the kid's face again, maintaining that overly friendly smile. He would lead him around the rug and within the "walls"--sheets hung to protect the merchant from the sun and prying eyes. Only then would he let the smaller male go to duck halfway under a sheet and lean into his cart. "Tell me, kid, what sort of herb are you looking for exactly? I'm sure I have it."
Hopefully something brown, he thought. Mostly hidden among robes and sheet, Ramez found an empty--if cracked--vial in his cart. Behind the curtain, he would fill it with sand and squint at his creation in the shade. Worth a shot, he decided with a shrug before ducking back out into the open. The young customer was listing off a variety of ingredients, some Ramez knew and some had Ramez wondering if his leg was being pulled. As it turned out, he didn't have any of the ones the kid stammered out: rowan, mullein, cedar, aconite, yew, apple, copal---
That was where Ramez decided to cut him off. "Copal?" he repeated, turning back to the boy, pity in his eyes. "Kid, haven't you heard? Clezite here is copal's much more potent and flavorful cousin, from the faaaaar East." His voice was distant suddenly, and his arm waved slowly toward the East with wonder in his eyes. He seemed to shake himself out of it and passed the vial between his hands, encouraging the other to watch it but not watch it too much.
"You can use half as much as get twice as much out of the pinch with Clezite, I'm telling you. Though the vial is cracked--I did my best to keep it safe, you see--" and he paused to hold the glass up just long enough for Umran to eye the jagged line. Though no "herb" seemed to be coming loose from the vial--a shallow crack, at most. "And it is a unique brown color, quite exotic. Quite beautiful. So I can sell you this Clezite at a discounted rate, especially since you've been the only one smart enough to inquire about it." He winked and walked over, guiding the kid back toward the front of his makeshift tent. "How does 100 silver sound?" Of course, he expected the price to be haggled lower, but even then 100 must've sounded like a lot.
Farah, at least, was the silver lining to a gloomy day. The merchants squabbled and bickered, but it seemed to be good fun--competition at worst. Ramez even offered to marry the woman when he became rich so she could sell her beautiful bracelets to even Custodians. She refused him, again. He laughed and returned to his business of harassing citizens and foreigners, trying his best to get a customer--any customer. So when the kid asked for some herbs, Ramez responded with a wide, white smile.
"Herbs! Yes, yes, of course. What sort of herb are you looking for?" Ramez stood up and brushed his robes free of sand. "Something for tea? Medicine? Seasoning and spice?" He stepped over his rug to rest an arm around the boy's shoulders, gaze falling temporarily on the bandages that peeked out of his dusty colored robes. Ramez allowed his mind to gloss over that detail, quickly looking to the kid's face again, maintaining that overly friendly smile. He would lead him around the rug and within the "walls"--sheets hung to protect the merchant from the sun and prying eyes. Only then would he let the smaller male go to duck halfway under a sheet and lean into his cart. "Tell me, kid, what sort of herb are you looking for exactly? I'm sure I have it."
Hopefully something brown, he thought. Mostly hidden among robes and sheet, Ramez found an empty--if cracked--vial in his cart. Behind the curtain, he would fill it with sand and squint at his creation in the shade. Worth a shot, he decided with a shrug before ducking back out into the open. The young customer was listing off a variety of ingredients, some Ramez knew and some had Ramez wondering if his leg was being pulled. As it turned out, he didn't have any of the ones the kid stammered out: rowan, mullein, cedar, aconite, yew, apple, copal---
That was where Ramez decided to cut him off. "Copal?" he repeated, turning back to the boy, pity in his eyes. "Kid, haven't you heard? Clezite here is copal's much more potent and flavorful cousin, from the faaaaar East." His voice was distant suddenly, and his arm waved slowly toward the East with wonder in his eyes. He seemed to shake himself out of it and passed the vial between his hands, encouraging the other to watch it but not watch it too much.
"You can use half as much as get twice as much out of the pinch with Clezite, I'm telling you. Though the vial is cracked--I did my best to keep it safe, you see--" and he paused to hold the glass up just long enough for Umran to eye the jagged line. Though no "herb" seemed to be coming loose from the vial--a shallow crack, at most. "And it is a unique brown color, quite exotic. Quite beautiful. So I can sell you this Clezite at a discounted rate, especially since you've been the only one smart enough to inquire about it." He winked and walked over, guiding the kid back toward the front of his makeshift tent. "How does 100 silver sound?" Of course, he expected the price to be haggled lower, but even then 100 must've sounded like a lot.
Chaos had installed itself in the street like another of its pungent aromas. A woman accidentally dropped her basket as a guard brushed past her, stepping on her figs and apples and tripping into a nearby camel. People looked in fascinated horror as two very angry bureaucrats assisted their unconscious colleague, screaming for the guards. Some groups of bystanders egged on the mercenaries and the people they were fighting, revealing an enormous temerity or at the very least an enormous lack of something better to do. These bystanders were not as unwise as to stand directly near the fight, however, and stood at its edges, with children darting in and out of the crowd into dark alleys . They also did not prompt the guards or the man who had punched the clerk the same way they prompted the mercenaries: one thing was an incident between slavers and their rebellious prey, another was a direct attack against an official of the state.
Sparks flew from the scimitar as metal struck metal and curved blade was parried by silvery grey staff. Of the three city guards that had been guarding the entrance, only two were confronting the wizard. Elazan took a step backwards, positioning himself against a wall to avoid surprises from the back and to get a better view of his opponents. One had a longspear in his hands; the other, a scimitar and a shield. Both were wearing light armour and sandals, and one was clearly younger than the other. Both seemed slightly uncertain about fighting a man who had just socked a Clerk in the face. The wizard wasn't quite sure where the other guard was, but he could wait - first, he'd deal with these two.
Elazan was a wizard. A quite proficient one, actually. Nevertheless, he believed that if you carried around a heavy metal stick you might as well use it, especially when a thrown fireball would cause even more trouble. He raised his staff to block another blow from the older guard's scimitar, and took a quick step to the left to avoid the tip of the younger one's spear. Elazan moved sideways, parrying strike after strike, and advancing when responding with his own attacks. The stave was a flurry of movements in his hands, with Elazan slamming one end into a guard's sword-arm before bringing it upwards in a fast curve. A sickening noise was heard as the man's chin cracked and he crumpled to the floor, but the wizard didn't have time to check if he was dead or simply unconscious. Maintaining a quick footwork, the wanderer turned to the left and quickly sidestepped the spear that otherwise would have otherwise pierced his leg. Sensing an opportunity, Elazan surged forward and grappled the pole of the spear with one hand, pushing it away. With the other, he drove the bladed tip of his staff through the younger guard's hand. As he howled in pain, dropping the polearm, the wizard yanked back his staff with both his hands and delivered a final blow to with its bottom, sending the man sprawling over the sand.
After prodding the second guard with his staff to see if he really was incapacitated, the wizard raised his hunting-accustomed eyes back to the street. From his position, he could see the turmoil reigned supreme. Hired swords, Elazan presumed, were locked in conflict with several figures. Amongst the mess, he could make out a masked man or woman alongside a poor sod in a lioncloth fending off slavers next to their empty cart. Other freed slaves were pushing through Dei Iurians and foreigners alike in an attempt to escape their previously certain fate, with one passing by Elazan to pick up the older guard's sword and then running off. A breach in the crowd that surrounded the ongoing skirmishes allowed the wanderer to observe another combatant - this time, it was a dark skinned native that deflected blow upon blow from the mercenaries with his odd triangular blades. Elazan could also hear screams coming from the entrance to the street, where an agitated camel seemed to be kicking people.
Watching the anarchy unfolding around him, and after giving the recent events due consideration, the wanderer decided that he probably should have been slightly more considerate with the cylindrical-hatted bureaucrats. Where were they, anyway? The last time he had seen the lot, they were dragging their fallen colleague from the street with the assistance of another member of guard. After a moment of searching, he spotted them returning from the other side of the street - accompanied by a dozen more guards - while barking commands and orders of arrest and execution. "Blast!" The wizard muttered. (In a purely expletive manner, of course.) He sprung to action, securing his pointy hat with one hand as he ran in the direction of a dark alley he had seen earlier.
Sparks flew from the scimitar as metal struck metal and curved blade was parried by silvery grey staff. Of the three city guards that had been guarding the entrance, only two were confronting the wizard. Elazan took a step backwards, positioning himself against a wall to avoid surprises from the back and to get a better view of his opponents. One had a longspear in his hands; the other, a scimitar and a shield. Both were wearing light armour and sandals, and one was clearly younger than the other. Both seemed slightly uncertain about fighting a man who had just socked a Clerk in the face. The wizard wasn't quite sure where the other guard was, but he could wait - first, he'd deal with these two.
Elazan was a wizard. A quite proficient one, actually. Nevertheless, he believed that if you carried around a heavy metal stick you might as well use it, especially when a thrown fireball would cause even more trouble. He raised his staff to block another blow from the older guard's scimitar, and took a quick step to the left to avoid the tip of the younger one's spear. Elazan moved sideways, parrying strike after strike, and advancing when responding with his own attacks. The stave was a flurry of movements in his hands, with Elazan slamming one end into a guard's sword-arm before bringing it upwards in a fast curve. A sickening noise was heard as the man's chin cracked and he crumpled to the floor, but the wizard didn't have time to check if he was dead or simply unconscious. Maintaining a quick footwork, the wanderer turned to the left and quickly sidestepped the spear that otherwise would have otherwise pierced his leg. Sensing an opportunity, Elazan surged forward and grappled the pole of the spear with one hand, pushing it away. With the other, he drove the bladed tip of his staff through the younger guard's hand. As he howled in pain, dropping the polearm, the wizard yanked back his staff with both his hands and delivered a final blow to with its bottom, sending the man sprawling over the sand.
After prodding the second guard with his staff to see if he really was incapacitated, the wizard raised his hunting-accustomed eyes back to the street. From his position, he could see the turmoil reigned supreme. Hired swords, Elazan presumed, were locked in conflict with several figures. Amongst the mess, he could make out a masked man or woman alongside a poor sod in a lioncloth fending off slavers next to their empty cart. Other freed slaves were pushing through Dei Iurians and foreigners alike in an attempt to escape their previously certain fate, with one passing by Elazan to pick up the older guard's sword and then running off. A breach in the crowd that surrounded the ongoing skirmishes allowed the wanderer to observe another combatant - this time, it was a dark skinned native that deflected blow upon blow from the mercenaries with his odd triangular blades. Elazan could also hear screams coming from the entrance to the street, where an agitated camel seemed to be kicking people.
Watching the anarchy unfolding around him, and after giving the recent events due consideration, the wanderer decided that he probably should have been slightly more considerate with the cylindrical-hatted bureaucrats. Where were they, anyway? The last time he had seen the lot, they were dragging their fallen colleague from the street with the assistance of another member of guard. After a moment of searching, he spotted them returning from the other side of the street - accompanied by a dozen more guards - while barking commands and orders of arrest and execution. "Blast!" The wizard muttered. (In a purely expletive manner, of course.) He sprung to action, securing his pointy hat with one hand as he ran in the direction of a dark alley he had seen earlier.
Umran frowned. He shook his head, rubbing stray cloth between his fingers. "I'm sorry, but I can't get anything else but the ones on the list," he said, soft but quite firm. "I don't want my master's ritual to..." he flushed slightly, then cleared his throat. "Ah, that is to say, it would certainly end up terribly if everything was not according to the instructions..."
They did not need a repeat of the talking kettle incident.
"Spirits get really mad if the-" he paused, squinted, then leaned forward in sudden excitement. "H-hey... that book-" he stepped towards a worn volume, gently taking it and opening it to a random page.
"I remember this..." he murmered. "It was reported missing a few weeks ago... 'Every pentagon must be precise. No ingredient can be missed, lest great danger befall the summoner. Depending on what kind of pentagon is made, and the purpose of the summoning, certain rules and actions must be followed.' My master gave this to me for study."
He looked over his shoulder to the merchant, tapping on the book page he had just read from. "Where did you find this?" he asked, curiously neutral in tone.
They did not need a repeat of the talking kettle incident.
"Spirits get really mad if the-" he paused, squinted, then leaned forward in sudden excitement. "H-hey... that book-" he stepped towards a worn volume, gently taking it and opening it to a random page.
"I remember this..." he murmered. "It was reported missing a few weeks ago... 'Every pentagon must be precise. No ingredient can be missed, lest great danger befall the summoner. Depending on what kind of pentagon is made, and the purpose of the summoning, certain rules and actions must be followed.' My master gave this to me for study."
He looked over his shoulder to the merchant, tapping on the book page he had just read from. "Where did you find this?" he asked, curiously neutral in tone.
As the fair-skinned slave bull rushed through the cage and came to stand next to her, Ilyse largely ignored his words. With a swift movement she grabbed his arm and stepped back, urging him into the space between her and the guards as a human shield (albeit armed with a sword) as she scanned the faces of the slaves rapidly. The thief's perdicament was not lost on the former knight, but she knew the job needed to be done before any assistance could be done. Beneath the cloth her facial expression was disappointed, the mark was not in there. There were only so many carts that could be checked before the trail was lost, and the timer on all of them was quickly running down.
The shouting of more guards drew her attention. These were not the hired blades they were engaged with right now, but the trained guardsman of the city, and a lot more of them than what they could handle. It was time to leave. But first, she needed her thief. Ilyse darted around the other side of the cart and drew her sword as she dropped the knife back into the leather pocket in her boot and advanced into combat from behind Chameleon. First to enter was her blade, as it parried a a spear thrust as she drew the blood lust one of the mercenaries trying to flank the thief. As the mercenary recovered his stance with the spear, he raised the shaft up to deflect Ilyse's cut, but as she stepped back to dodge the swing of the spear's butt, she stepped back in to deliver a gut-piercing stab, putting her weight behind it as it cut through the tanned flesh.
She was too far from Chameleon to provide immediate help without closing the distance, but there was one less attacker, and no swords were behind him save for Ilyse's. But she made no move to rush to his aid, instead the swordswoman shot her left hand into the air and muttered a phrase, "Assile's leshm felh ithiel iithis." As soon as the last word was said, a blinding light exploded from her open hand, washing over the crowd, both onlookers and combatants. Those that did not avert their gaze would lose their sight for several minutes, or be dazed at the least. As she did every time she cast the spell, Ilyse had chosen those she wished to exempt from its affects, and to them it would only appear as a bright light, leaving little to no visual impairment even with a direct visual of her open hand in the air. Chameleon was an obvious choice, she still needed him if she wanted any decent chance of finding her mark. But she was not about to let the human shield that had jumped to her side rot in a prison, or be filleted by these mercenaries, and exempted him from the affects as well.
After several moments, Ilyse As the guards covered their eyes or relled back as they lost their vision, Ilyse rushed past Chameleon and put a hand on his shoulder to let him know she was departing, and to urge him to follow as she dashed through the dazed crowd and into the same alley the pointed-hat man had gone through before she had cast the spell.
The shouting of more guards drew her attention. These were not the hired blades they were engaged with right now, but the trained guardsman of the city, and a lot more of them than what they could handle. It was time to leave. But first, she needed her thief. Ilyse darted around the other side of the cart and drew her sword as she dropped the knife back into the leather pocket in her boot and advanced into combat from behind Chameleon. First to enter was her blade, as it parried a a spear thrust as she drew the blood lust one of the mercenaries trying to flank the thief. As the mercenary recovered his stance with the spear, he raised the shaft up to deflect Ilyse's cut, but as she stepped back to dodge the swing of the spear's butt, she stepped back in to deliver a gut-piercing stab, putting her weight behind it as it cut through the tanned flesh.
She was too far from Chameleon to provide immediate help without closing the distance, but there was one less attacker, and no swords were behind him save for Ilyse's. But she made no move to rush to his aid, instead the swordswoman shot her left hand into the air and muttered a phrase, "Assile's leshm felh ithiel iithis." As soon as the last word was said, a blinding light exploded from her open hand, washing over the crowd, both onlookers and combatants. Those that did not avert their gaze would lose their sight for several minutes, or be dazed at the least. As she did every time she cast the spell, Ilyse had chosen those she wished to exempt from its affects, and to them it would only appear as a bright light, leaving little to no visual impairment even with a direct visual of her open hand in the air. Chameleon was an obvious choice, she still needed him if she wanted any decent chance of finding her mark. But she was not about to let the human shield that had jumped to her side rot in a prison, or be filleted by these mercenaries, and exempted him from the affects as well.
After several moments, Ilyse As the guards covered their eyes or relled back as they lost their vision, Ilyse rushed past Chameleon and put a hand on his shoulder to let him know she was departing, and to urge him to follow as she dashed through the dazed crowd and into the same alley the pointed-hat man had gone through before she had cast the spell.
"H-hey!" He exclaimed as she put him in front of her in imitation of a shield. He wasn't entirely recalcitrant in her attempts as he smiled greatly and let the false edge of the scimitar rest on his shoulder with his left shoulder angled towards them. This was a stance and guard he had picked up from what little messer treatises and practices he rummaged through in his youth. Could really go for one right now, anyway...
The guardsmen closed in on him. His eyes seemed to lit up with a fiery passion... no, his eyes were definitely alight, a pure yellow glow. Without wasting any more of a second, he bolted towards the guards. He tried his best to avoid the ones with the spears, as he knew -even powered by the Marsalisian presence- he was little match for such lethal instruments. He shuffled around one of the swordsmen and delivered a powerful downward cut from his shoulder.
The guard didn't have time to parry and riposte accordingly; it was almost akin to a viper, darting towards a mouse. The cut powered through what little of a parry the guard could muster in response and cleaved through his collarbone. After having dispatched one of the guards, he delivered a mighty kick, sending the guard flying into the spearmen and temporarily dazing them. However, the scimitar was stuck in the guard's collarbone, so as he was flying back, the duelist grabbed hold of the guard's airborne sword. He then darted back to the figure's side.
He watched in awe as the figure seemingly dispatched the spearman with ease. Incredible! He had never seen such a remarkable display of swordplay in years! Truly, they'd make a powerful ally...
"Ah! What the-" He covered his eyes quickly in response to the figure's incantation. He peered through his fingers to find out it was nearly nothing but a blue light. He looked around to see the still downed guards shielding their eyes. Strange, it affected them but not him...
"Hey! Wait up!" He exclaimed as he followed after the figure into the alleys. As much as he'd love to stay and fight, he was nearly nothing against those spears.
The guardsmen closed in on him. His eyes seemed to lit up with a fiery passion... no, his eyes were definitely alight, a pure yellow glow. Without wasting any more of a second, he bolted towards the guards. He tried his best to avoid the ones with the spears, as he knew -even powered by the Marsalisian presence- he was little match for such lethal instruments. He shuffled around one of the swordsmen and delivered a powerful downward cut from his shoulder.
The guard didn't have time to parry and riposte accordingly; it was almost akin to a viper, darting towards a mouse. The cut powered through what little of a parry the guard could muster in response and cleaved through his collarbone. After having dispatched one of the guards, he delivered a mighty kick, sending the guard flying into the spearmen and temporarily dazing them. However, the scimitar was stuck in the guard's collarbone, so as he was flying back, the duelist grabbed hold of the guard's airborne sword. He then darted back to the figure's side.
He watched in awe as the figure seemingly dispatched the spearman with ease. Incredible! He had never seen such a remarkable display of swordplay in years! Truly, they'd make a powerful ally...
"Ah! What the-" He covered his eyes quickly in response to the figure's incantation. He peered through his fingers to find out it was nearly nothing but a blue light. He looked around to see the still downed guards shielding their eyes. Strange, it affected them but not him...
"Hey! Wait up!" He exclaimed as he followed after the figure into the alleys. As much as he'd love to stay and fight, he was nearly nothing against those spears.
The combined strength of the two scimitars locked with Ishmael's katars was just about to destroy his stance and end the skirmish when their wielders' heads whipped in pain from a foreign light. At the same time came a cacophony of surprised yelps as the crowd mimicked the downed combatants. Ishmael watched them all in confusion, then glanced back despite how idiotic that was. Luckily, and very strangely, the light surpassing a full moon's radiance was only mesmerizing before the flash vanished from the end of Ilyse's skyward palm. It made his usually focused state falter a bit, but the sight of the city guards shaking off the effects jogged him out of it very quickly.
Ishmael pushed passed the last of the slaves inking out of the now empty cage to follow the tails of his client and what hopefully was her own mark she'd been incessantly searching for. The incredibly tall escapee could easily be guessed to be some soldier in arms of the woman, but who really knew? Both Ilyse and Ishmael rarely spoke on their respective lives outside of the job. It was a measure of distance he gladly upheld. With how likely it was that the foreigner would get herself caught, he’d rather not have any ties to be used as bargaining chips with interrogators. It wouldn’t save anyone from harsh punishment, anyway. With this much heat on them, it would take a small blessing to get both of these lambs out alive.
Once or twice their backs disappeared behind corners many paces ahead. Ishmael wasn’t worried. The familiarity of this particular housing block was etched into a mental slab he could read with blind with just the tips of calloused fingers. He kicked off a wall into a less efficient route of alleys than the one told to Ilyse, but it’d allow his path to intersect with the others eventually. Weapons still armed for the chance a guard would cut his path, he leaped through the shaded routes with dust trailing his nimble footfalls. If she hadn’t become lost, he was nearing where they’d meet. This wasn’t before he caught the blur of a bearded miscreant hauling along with more or less the same urgency. He offered yet another glance of confusion (which surely wouldn’t be the last) before managing to spot the two foreigners he was actually obligated to see safe. He whispered vague words of haste and waved the tip of his retracted dagger to hurry. He led the way from there. Unfortunately, the fastest path to the papermaker’s home they’d be using to shed their pursuers was the same of that bearded fellow…
Ishmael pushed passed the last of the slaves inking out of the now empty cage to follow the tails of his client and what hopefully was her own mark she'd been incessantly searching for. The incredibly tall escapee could easily be guessed to be some soldier in arms of the woman, but who really knew? Both Ilyse and Ishmael rarely spoke on their respective lives outside of the job. It was a measure of distance he gladly upheld. With how likely it was that the foreigner would get herself caught, he’d rather not have any ties to be used as bargaining chips with interrogators. It wouldn’t save anyone from harsh punishment, anyway. With this much heat on them, it would take a small blessing to get both of these lambs out alive.
Once or twice their backs disappeared behind corners many paces ahead. Ishmael wasn’t worried. The familiarity of this particular housing block was etched into a mental slab he could read with blind with just the tips of calloused fingers. He kicked off a wall into a less efficient route of alleys than the one told to Ilyse, but it’d allow his path to intersect with the others eventually. Weapons still armed for the chance a guard would cut his path, he leaped through the shaded routes with dust trailing his nimble footfalls. If she hadn’t become lost, he was nearing where they’d meet. This wasn’t before he caught the blur of a bearded miscreant hauling along with more or less the same urgency. He offered yet another glance of confusion (which surely wouldn’t be the last) before managing to spot the two foreigners he was actually obligated to see safe. He whispered vague words of haste and waved the tip of his retracted dagger to hurry. He led the way from there. Unfortunately, the fastest path to the papermaker’s home they’d be using to shed their pursuers was the same of that bearded fellow…
The wizard didn't simply run. Well, alright, he did, but it was the portentous run of someone who was accostumed to jogging through dark, eldritch forests on the weekends with a crossbow in his hands. Elazan ran, but it if there were any birds in his vicinity they'd be thinking up of escape plans and recieving their last rites. The wizard ran in the way soldiers stormed into a keep, although perhaps with more speed and considerable less manslaughter. (Not that the manslaughter was unlikely to happen judging by recent events, of course.) Unlike the soldiers, he was also running in the other direction of danger - at least for the moment. Elazan advanced through the alley, keeping attentive to the sight of guards. So much for enlisting the aid of the locals. They probably didn't even have travel guides anyway.
And then he came to a hault, brown boots kicking sand away as they stopped. Magic! Elazan could detect the rippling influx of arcane emissions in his augural thaumaturgy-sense like the rippling surface of a pond. Where, however, had the pebble fallen? The soft pulsing of his staff, coupled with his own quick scan of the disturbance in the currents of magic, indicated that the event had occured in the direction of the place he had just removed himself from, past the dirtied rock walls of the alleyway and in the entrance. Was it one of those scarab enforcers the caravan leader had talked so much about? Elazan didn't think so: from what he heard, they were infused with darker types of sorcery and would not have been so easily sensed. This magic was different, anyway, and possibly not even entirely arcane in origin. Curiouser and curiouser.
He continued his path through the coursing alleyway and its many narrow passages, albeit at a slower pace. Now was a moment of choice, Elazan felt. The magically unattuned caster of the strangely clerical spell was just asking to be investigated, but returning to that street would inevitably lead to a confrontation with the flight of fireballs. No, he'd have to look into it later. Now was not the time. The wizard didn't stop, even when catching a glimpse of the native he had seen locked into battle with the guards running through the dust ridden courses that seemed to intersect the alleyway like the tributaries of a river. (A concept alien to many of the inhabitants of this city, he was sure.) The lad was heading in the same direction as him, which meant they'd run into each other eventually. Faced with this eventuality, Elazan did the natural thing and, for the time being, absolutely ignored him.
After sensing him out for the emission of any thaumaturgical traces, of course.
All wizards (at least the ones with a P.hD) were trained in the analysis of the currents of magic - it was an essential skill which even without its applications in theoretical wizardry would allow them to realize if an experiment had gone awry and, say, was about to blast a hole in the fabric of reality. (Not as rare an occurence as one might think.) It could also allow them to detect spells and spellcasters, but it had an incredible amount of limitations- any sorcerer worth their salt knew how to easily shroud most of their magic, and the actual area of it was minimal. So this magic, with all its pecularities and ease detection, should also leave traces, soft witnesses of the changing of the world imprinted upon those who had taken part in it. And it did. On this sod. But that, of course, didn't mean anything besides confirming that the thaumaturgical event had happened in the entrance to the city.
The dark alley began to narrow even more, with offshoots and passageways occurring more and more often as Elazan continued his brisk march, with his staff doing one of its more evident functions . He heard noises behind him, the running footsteps of feet upon the sand. It wasn't the sound of sandals - so it wasn't the guards. The miscreant's companions, perhaps?
And then he came to a hault, brown boots kicking sand away as they stopped. Magic! Elazan could detect the rippling influx of arcane emissions in his augural thaumaturgy-sense like the rippling surface of a pond. Where, however, had the pebble fallen? The soft pulsing of his staff, coupled with his own quick scan of the disturbance in the currents of magic, indicated that the event had occured in the direction of the place he had just removed himself from, past the dirtied rock walls of the alleyway and in the entrance. Was it one of those scarab enforcers the caravan leader had talked so much about? Elazan didn't think so: from what he heard, they were infused with darker types of sorcery and would not have been so easily sensed. This magic was different, anyway, and possibly not even entirely arcane in origin. Curiouser and curiouser.
He continued his path through the coursing alleyway and its many narrow passages, albeit at a slower pace. Now was a moment of choice, Elazan felt. The magically unattuned caster of the strangely clerical spell was just asking to be investigated, but returning to that street would inevitably lead to a confrontation with the flight of fireballs. No, he'd have to look into it later. Now was not the time. The wizard didn't stop, even when catching a glimpse of the native he had seen locked into battle with the guards running through the dust ridden courses that seemed to intersect the alleyway like the tributaries of a river. (A concept alien to many of the inhabitants of this city, he was sure.) The lad was heading in the same direction as him, which meant they'd run into each other eventually. Faced with this eventuality, Elazan did the natural thing and, for the time being, absolutely ignored him.
After sensing him out for the emission of any thaumaturgical traces, of course.
All wizards (at least the ones with a P.hD) were trained in the analysis of the currents of magic - it was an essential skill which even without its applications in theoretical wizardry would allow them to realize if an experiment had gone awry and, say, was about to blast a hole in the fabric of reality. (Not as rare an occurence as one might think.) It could also allow them to detect spells and spellcasters, but it had an incredible amount of limitations- any sorcerer worth their salt knew how to easily shroud most of their magic, and the actual area of it was minimal. So this magic, with all its pecularities and ease detection, should also leave traces, soft witnesses of the changing of the world imprinted upon those who had taken part in it. And it did. On this sod. But that, of course, didn't mean anything besides confirming that the thaumaturgical event had happened in the entrance to the city.
The dark alley began to narrow even more, with offshoots and passageways occurring more and more often as Elazan continued his brisk march, with his staff doing one of its more evident functions . He heard noises behind him, the running footsteps of feet upon the sand. It wasn't the sound of sandals - so it wasn't the guards. The miscreant's companions, perhaps?
"Ah, what a shame," Ramez commented, eyeing the vial of dirt for a moment before setting it among the rest of his wares. The other was going on about his master and magic, and that at least drew the merchant's attention now that the sale of dirt was out of the question. The kid must've been a slave, but to who? The merchant was rather distrustful of magic, it being mostly unavailable to his peers and a mysterious power to the government above. He opened his mouth to ask something when the other caught sight of something among his product.
Reported missing? Ramez's gaze narrowed and he crossed his arms. If he had stolen goods among his stash, that couldn't be good. "Oh so you can read!" he realized, smiling returning as he uncrossed his arms. It was best to change the subject of and get the book off his blanket for as much as he could. "Wonderful, I can sell you this book, then. Too many people waltz around here looking for picture books, but you--you can read? That's impressive, kid." Ramez may have continued, but he was asked a simple question.
Where did the book come from? It was said coolly enough but Ramez did not like the unspoken accusation that hung in the air. The kid wasn't a slave--instead he seemed to be a student of some sort. "I bought if off another. Books sell well among the higher class," he said before clearing his throat. "Anyway, how much would you like to offer for it?"
Reported missing? Ramez's gaze narrowed and he crossed his arms. If he had stolen goods among his stash, that couldn't be good. "Oh so you can read!" he realized, smiling returning as he uncrossed his arms. It was best to change the subject of and get the book off his blanket for as much as he could. "Wonderful, I can sell you this book, then. Too many people waltz around here looking for picture books, but you--you can read? That's impressive, kid." Ramez may have continued, but he was asked a simple question.
Where did the book come from? It was said coolly enough but Ramez did not like the unspoken accusation that hung in the air. The kid wasn't a slave--instead he seemed to be a student of some sort. "I bought if off another. Books sell well among the higher class," he said before clearing his throat. "Anyway, how much would you like to offer for it?"
With the winding back alley routes Ilyse was following, she nearly lost her way twice in the mess of grimy walls. But the attention she had paid to Chameleon when he had told her the route back paid off, and she managed to make it there in once piece. Or two, if you were to count the freed slave that seemed to be running with her. Now with the paper maker's house in sight, Ilyse slowed her run to a jog and proceeded forward. But before she could reach the road that the house rested on and the alley way she was in now dumped out into, a scarab-masked guard stepped into view, as did several of his colleagues. Gods damn it, she mentally cursed them out.
Ilyse grabbed the slave's arm and burst through one of the doors beside them, pulling him along inside before the Justicars could see them. She did not know if the man would have followed her on his own, and having him seen with her so close to him is not something she was willing to risk. Ilyse closed the door behind them and looked about. A small child and her older brother, who only looked to be just past ten himself, were sitting at a low table eating their bread. Ilyse raised a finger up to her mouth, hushing them just as she had done when she was prying the nails out of the slave cart.
That was their meeting point they were blocked from. And Ilyse had a sinking feeling they weren't just walking past the paper maker's house. Her hired thief seemed to have abandoned them as they ran, leaving her alone with whoever this slave was. So much for enlisting the aid of the locals. They didn't have a decent travel guide anyway. As the small child watched with her mouth agape, and the young boy sat protectively beside his sister, Ilyse quietly listened through a window on the other side of the house, where another street lay. Nothing. The swordwoman quietly pushed open the door opposite of the wall she had come in on, and peered out. Still nothing, or at least nothing she could spot.
Without checking on the man that had been with her, Ilyse quickly strode out onto the street and began walking in the opposite direction of the paper maker's house. She kept walking until the houses began to fade away and were replaced by an open grounds filled with makeshift market stalls and merchants sitting on the sandy ground or blankets hawking their wares. Ilyse ignored the calls of the merchants, they were too close to the buildings that the Justicars patrolled in the market, and instead made her way down the new path. There, at the end, a small make-shift stall sat across from a woman selling wooden objects.
Ilyse made sure her pace was casual. Running could raise suspicion enough for a merchant to tell them which direction they saw a hooded figure go. Keep it slow, keep it calm, and she'd likely pass by without standing out. She reached the stall and glanced over it for a moment. One merchant, and what she assumed was a customer, occupied the stall. With what looked like a variety of goods, mostly looking like junk to her, Ilyse knelt down by the rug to scan for cloth to replace the shemagh and loose clothing she was wearing to conceal her skin. Now that she had guards on her scent, she needed a new look. Only now did she check to see if the slave she had been ignoring this whole time was still with her.
Ilyse grabbed the slave's arm and burst through one of the doors beside them, pulling him along inside before the Justicars could see them. She did not know if the man would have followed her on his own, and having him seen with her so close to him is not something she was willing to risk. Ilyse closed the door behind them and looked about. A small child and her older brother, who only looked to be just past ten himself, were sitting at a low table eating their bread. Ilyse raised a finger up to her mouth, hushing them just as she had done when she was prying the nails out of the slave cart.
That was their meeting point they were blocked from. And Ilyse had a sinking feeling they weren't just walking past the paper maker's house. Her hired thief seemed to have abandoned them as they ran, leaving her alone with whoever this slave was. So much for enlisting the aid of the locals. They didn't have a decent travel guide anyway. As the small child watched with her mouth agape, and the young boy sat protectively beside his sister, Ilyse quietly listened through a window on the other side of the house, where another street lay. Nothing. The swordwoman quietly pushed open the door opposite of the wall she had come in on, and peered out. Still nothing, or at least nothing she could spot.
Without checking on the man that had been with her, Ilyse quickly strode out onto the street and began walking in the opposite direction of the paper maker's house. She kept walking until the houses began to fade away and were replaced by an open grounds filled with makeshift market stalls and merchants sitting on the sandy ground or blankets hawking their wares. Ilyse ignored the calls of the merchants, they were too close to the buildings that the Justicars patrolled in the market, and instead made her way down the new path. There, at the end, a small make-shift stall sat across from a woman selling wooden objects.
Ilyse made sure her pace was casual. Running could raise suspicion enough for a merchant to tell them which direction they saw a hooded figure go. Keep it slow, keep it calm, and she'd likely pass by without standing out. She reached the stall and glanced over it for a moment. One merchant, and what she assumed was a customer, occupied the stall. With what looked like a variety of goods, mostly looking like junk to her, Ilyse knelt down by the rug to scan for cloth to replace the shemagh and loose clothing she was wearing to conceal her skin. Now that she had guards on her scent, she needed a new look. Only now did she check to see if the slave she had been ignoring this whole time was still with her.
The duelist (although with difficulty) tried his hardest to keep up with the figure. Without a scabbard to sheath his scimitar along with the difficulty of not trying to get the sword to clang against the walls of the alley, he had to ditch it. Damn... it was a shame since that was one of his only means of defence at that point. Well, he could always trust in his abilities in sticky situations... Where the hell is Torazel when you need him?
"Ah!" He exclaimed suddenly as the figure seized his arm and concealed them both. He didn't have time to register who or what they were hiding from, but his best bet would be another guardsman (or hell forbid, an entire squad). He looked to see the siblings and blushed, due to the fact he was wearing nearly nothing.
He looked back to see the figure leaving, to which he followed. He was defenceless, so having someone by your side in this mad country would help with staying alive. He looked around frantically, hoping none would pay attention to his presence; of course, they did. It's not every day you see a milk-skinned, gold haired, near-naked, scar ridden sod nervously scanning the area and covering himself as best he could with his arms. Had he been in any more of an embarrassing situation than this? Probably not... A shame for the figure as well, since even they wouldn't look very subtle with the duelist about.
Upon trekking through the marketplace, he began recognising some of the wares; a book with the alphasyllabic writing of the Wilkan Commonwealth, which he couldn't for the life of him read the title of, let alone the entire tome. He looked around further to see many other things. Unfortunately, nothing else he could recognise. It'd help if he had some money; at least some kind of article of clothing would be beneficial in this instance.
Then the figure finally looked back to pay attention to him. "Uh... some clothes would help, ja?" He giggled nervously.
"Ah!" He exclaimed suddenly as the figure seized his arm and concealed them both. He didn't have time to register who or what they were hiding from, but his best bet would be another guardsman (or hell forbid, an entire squad). He looked to see the siblings and blushed, due to the fact he was wearing nearly nothing.
He looked back to see the figure leaving, to which he followed. He was defenceless, so having someone by your side in this mad country would help with staying alive. He looked around frantically, hoping none would pay attention to his presence; of course, they did. It's not every day you see a milk-skinned, gold haired, near-naked, scar ridden sod nervously scanning the area and covering himself as best he could with his arms. Had he been in any more of an embarrassing situation than this? Probably not... A shame for the figure as well, since even they wouldn't look very subtle with the duelist about.
Upon trekking through the marketplace, he began recognising some of the wares; a book with the alphasyllabic writing of the Wilkan Commonwealth, which he couldn't for the life of him read the title of, let alone the entire tome. He looked around further to see many other things. Unfortunately, nothing else he could recognise. It'd help if he had some money; at least some kind of article of clothing would be beneficial in this instance.
Then the figure finally looked back to pay attention to him. "Uh... some clothes would help, ja?" He giggled nervously.
Umran looked down at the book and rubbed his cheek, expression blank. He turned a few pages, critical eyes scanning the valued tome for any damage.
There didn't seem to be any. It was, as always, in surprisingly good shape- well taken care of- as befitted a book of dangerous and sought-after magic.
Satisfied with his brief inspection, he looked up, brows slightly furrowed in thought. He bit back a resigned sigh. "50 gold," he said, wiping off some dust from a corner with his thumb. "Since it seems to still be in good condition."
He tapped the cover once, twice. "You said the book was sold to you. Who was it, and how much did you have to pay?"
It was crucial that he find out who stole the tome. Stealing from a powerful necromancer was... a pretty big no-no. An unspoken exception to the rule.
How... troubling. To be honest, the whole social system around here wasn't great, but... the least he could do was start off small. In the little things.
Like catching the thief of his master's book.
There didn't seem to be any. It was, as always, in surprisingly good shape- well taken care of- as befitted a book of dangerous and sought-after magic.
Satisfied with his brief inspection, he looked up, brows slightly furrowed in thought. He bit back a resigned sigh. "50 gold," he said, wiping off some dust from a corner with his thumb. "Since it seems to still be in good condition."
He tapped the cover once, twice. "You said the book was sold to you. Who was it, and how much did you have to pay?"
It was crucial that he find out who stole the tome. Stealing from a powerful necromancer was... a pretty big no-no. An unspoken exception to the rule.
How... troubling. To be honest, the whole social system around here wasn't great, but... the least he could do was start off small. In the little things.
Like catching the thief of his master's book.
“Out of the way, vulture’s food!” The sprinting Iurisian hissed passed the sky-robed figure. There was a little nugget of familiarity as he gave a quick glance while passing. It was completely disregarded at its birth. Nothing mattered more than the job at hand. So steadfast in his pursuit was Ishmael that he rounded the corner of his confidant Bahdja’s home like an greenhorn pickpocket stumbling straight into the maw of the Justiciars. He saw three of them, and that’s all Ishmael knew before he scrambled to cling to the previous alley’s shade for whatever it was worth. Perhaps he hadn’t been seen? There were no yelps or footfalls enclosing…
A boy had the scarab masked enforcers entranced with big, wide motions of the arms to indicate something much larger than his tiny self had barged into an open doorway much too close to where the thief was ease-dropping. Ishmael retreated with a curse as the three quickly marched their way over. Luckily, they listened to the boy and proceeded to pursue whatever had accosted him. Ishmael was just keen enough to parse it.
“Pig’s shit…”
Ishmael paid no attention to the unknown comrade in flight as he sheathed his daggers onto his uncloaked back and scaled the wall. It was a fluid motion, with a kick up to gain enough height to grab the stubby roof’s edge. He was up and over with whispered grumbles of exertion, and then was soaring across the emptiness to roll onto the next home’s roof.
A sandy yellow turban poked above the scrambling ants with bladed pincers shimmering in the sun’s glare. They were likely to spot him, were they not racing to through the crowds and alleys. A pointer or two from frustratingly curious onlookers were the few spotting him before he retracted. There hadn’t been anything gathered as to hint to Ilyse’s whereabouts. That was for the best. Ishmael reminded himself of this as he leapt to the next roof, and then the next. The same turban popped up above a flat roof’s edge a few abodes away, then retracted.
A few scant repetitions later, an increasingly anxious Ishmael was deep within the market with little in the way of ideas. It was a writhing river of busy bodies the thief had to sift through for that naked cargo or the particular shade of the more appropriately dressed shemagh-bearer who was towing said valuable along. He followed the eye lines, the flow of attention. What were these sheep of the Kritarchy focused on as they went about their mundane business? Most didn’t raise a brow at yet another scuffle, surely the top of a dozen this week, rippling from the city entrance. Some peddlers were tossing yells at careless pursuers. A couple of women were covering their blushing giggles. A quick point shot his focus toward the depths of the market.
That was it.
There’d only been a glimpse, but that speck of fair color amidst the vibrant market place had ducked into one of the deeper “stands” at the far end. Ishmael had found them before any of the Custodian’s hound dogs could ever hope to! Probably. He knew so, at the very least, and that’s all that mattered.
That peeking turban once more dipped away as a guard punched his comrade and pointed for a second opinion at whatever was prone on the rooftops. Whatever it was, it was gone.
A boy had the scarab masked enforcers entranced with big, wide motions of the arms to indicate something much larger than his tiny self had barged into an open doorway much too close to where the thief was ease-dropping. Ishmael retreated with a curse as the three quickly marched their way over. Luckily, they listened to the boy and proceeded to pursue whatever had accosted him. Ishmael was just keen enough to parse it.
“Pig’s shit…”
Ishmael paid no attention to the unknown comrade in flight as he sheathed his daggers onto his uncloaked back and scaled the wall. It was a fluid motion, with a kick up to gain enough height to grab the stubby roof’s edge. He was up and over with whispered grumbles of exertion, and then was soaring across the emptiness to roll onto the next home’s roof.
A sandy yellow turban poked above the scrambling ants with bladed pincers shimmering in the sun’s glare. They were likely to spot him, were they not racing to through the crowds and alleys. A pointer or two from frustratingly curious onlookers were the few spotting him before he retracted. There hadn’t been anything gathered as to hint to Ilyse’s whereabouts. That was for the best. Ishmael reminded himself of this as he leapt to the next roof, and then the next. The same turban popped up above a flat roof’s edge a few abodes away, then retracted.
A few scant repetitions later, an increasingly anxious Ishmael was deep within the market with little in the way of ideas. It was a writhing river of busy bodies the thief had to sift through for that naked cargo or the particular shade of the more appropriately dressed shemagh-bearer who was towing said valuable along. He followed the eye lines, the flow of attention. What were these sheep of the Kritarchy focused on as they went about their mundane business? Most didn’t raise a brow at yet another scuffle, surely the top of a dozen this week, rippling from the city entrance. Some peddlers were tossing yells at careless pursuers. A couple of women were covering their blushing giggles. A quick point shot his focus toward the depths of the market.
That was it.
There’d only been a glimpse, but that speck of fair color amidst the vibrant market place had ducked into one of the deeper “stands” at the far end. Ishmael had found them before any of the Custodian’s hound dogs could ever hope to! Probably. He knew so, at the very least, and that’s all that mattered.
That peeking turban once more dipped away as a guard punched his comrade and pointed for a second opinion at whatever was prone on the rooftops. Whatever it was, it was gone.
“Out of the way, vulture’s food!” The sprinting native hissed as he ran by. Elazan's eye twitched but he made no effort to stop him, following instead in pursuit. Wherever the scoundrel was going, he was also not eager to be caught by the guards and knew the city better than the wizard. Besides, the now dissipating remnants of the arcane emissions that the latter had previously detected seemed to have moved further north, to where the native - and him- were heading. The wizard went round the corner shortly after the man and quickly skidded to a halt, using his staff to balance himself as he saw the crowds that filled the market.
Ah, yes, the market. Keeping to the shade, wide brimmed hat hiding part of his face, Elazan scoured through the place with his eyes in search for guards. There they were, dotting the rim of the market, individuals that only stood out from the indistinct, brimming mass of civilians going about their mercantile business due to their longspears and their posture. Further away, the wizard could also see the Clerks' stupid hats bob in and out of the crowd, usually near stalls, indicating the bureaucrat beneath. The wizard memorized the positions of the guards he could see clearly for further use. Ha! Not being eager to be caught by the guards, was it? Where was the little git, anyway? Elazan had tried to sense his position by detecting the vanishing traces of magic that had been imprinted on him by the spell, but they were too vague to be actually useful.
The spell. Elazan doubted if it was really worth it to investigate the incident when the city was crawling with guards on the lookout, and he might as well make preparations for his journey while he was at it. A travel guide might be unobtainable, at least at a moment, but a proper map would hopefully be more accessible. It was just a matter of entering the market undetected by the authorities. A quick perception cloak could work, but it had an annoying habit of not working up close. And of occasionally charring people's feet when he wasn't careful. Elazan paused, heard soft breathing, turned to the left and saw a child staring at him. Bushy, bristly black eyebrows furrowed together as Elazan bent down to look into his eyes, striking him with a particularly penetrating look . His brimmed hat as black as coal spread shadows over his hardened face, and his magnificent pointed beard only likened him further to warlocks out of legend. The wizard Elazan said three words, and he said them thusly: "Kid, get lost."
Gruham Elazan watched the child run back inside his house with a vague feeling of satisfaction. Right, then. The mage eyed the marketplace, noticing the areas where there were less guards. He had decided to avoid using magic for the time being to preserve it for later use. (Besides, perception spells were so ... cheap. Ward wizards were always going at it, of course, but they were a bunch of amateurs anyway.) To walk through the masses incognito, however, Elazan knew that he had to take drastic measures. He took a few steps back into the alley. The wizard leaned his staff against the wall. He took off his pointy hat, held it in his hands and then, carefully, meticulously folded it several times before smoothing it over and cramming it inside a possibly enchanted leather pouch that was strapped on his belt. Then he straightened himself up, waited until the guards distracted themselves with something on the rooftops, covered his head with his cloak's dark hood and made a run for it, dashing into the crowd within the market.
The smell of sweat and spices and beer hung in the air. Elazan nudged past crowds of people, trying his best to look as unnoticeable and unwizardly as possible. (The staff decidedly didn't help.) A bearded man was bartering with an artisan over the price of a linen shirt. A trio of young women were prattling with each other about a jeweler's stall. A crowd of people jostled with each other to buy the freshest figs and citrus fruit. A Sand Clerk, the wizard noticed, conversed with a papyrus seller, leaning over his stall to inspect his wares. Further away across the street, past the common merchants and their shops, lay the plaza. The wizard had seen the fountain when he was examining the market for the first time, and in his current position it was within his sight once more. Posh place, that one. A place like that had to be well guarded. The wizard's assumptions were proven correct shortly afterwards. If the Clerks were recognizeable from a distance because of their hats and the guards managed to distinguish themselves from the crowd because of their uniform, the Justiciar in the entrance to the plaza mainly stood apart from the people because of the wide girth of space they gave him. Tall, rigid, unmistakeably dangerous, the man stood alone, dual scimitars at his side. Even from a distance, Elazan knew the Justiciar would reek of dark magic once he -it- got closer. Fascinating creature. Fortunately, it was with his back turned against him, and Elazan headed towards the other direction.
Past the merchants the wizard went, making an effort to avoid patrolling guards or Clerks. A peddler tried to sell him scorpions-onna-stick. He cuffed a young pickpocket in the head when the latter tried to slip his fingers into his coat's pockets. A plump lady offered to shave his beard, another presented a variety of sand sandals to him. He was nearing the end of the street, where the guards were scarce - but so were the shoppers. Elazan pulled his hood lower over his eyes, and strolled into the corner of the street, observing the more degraded part of the market. So far, no maps. Still, the market might not be completely devoid of interest. A young woman watched him with sparkling green eyes, sitting cross-legged before her wares. No, I shouldn't. It's not like it's appropriate for - oh, sod it. The wanderer approached her, wading through the smoke that left her pipe. He examined her goods, scratching his beard. Carefully crafted ornaments of all sorts - rings, trinkets, what seemed to be arm bracelets resembling a snake, formed the bulk of her merchandise, but Elazan was suffering from deprivation from a very specific necessity and it was not trinkets he was after.
"Madam," he said in the common tongue that most merchants, especially the poorer ones, knew, "would you have any pipe similar to yours in this impeccable collection?"
Ah, yes, the market. Keeping to the shade, wide brimmed hat hiding part of his face, Elazan scoured through the place with his eyes in search for guards. There they were, dotting the rim of the market, individuals that only stood out from the indistinct, brimming mass of civilians going about their mercantile business due to their longspears and their posture. Further away, the wizard could also see the Clerks' stupid hats bob in and out of the crowd, usually near stalls, indicating the bureaucrat beneath. The wizard memorized the positions of the guards he could see clearly for further use. Ha! Not being eager to be caught by the guards, was it? Where was the little git, anyway? Elazan had tried to sense his position by detecting the vanishing traces of magic that had been imprinted on him by the spell, but they were too vague to be actually useful.
The spell. Elazan doubted if it was really worth it to investigate the incident when the city was crawling with guards on the lookout, and he might as well make preparations for his journey while he was at it. A travel guide might be unobtainable, at least at a moment, but a proper map would hopefully be more accessible. It was just a matter of entering the market undetected by the authorities. A quick perception cloak could work, but it had an annoying habit of not working up close. And of occasionally charring people's feet when he wasn't careful. Elazan paused, heard soft breathing, turned to the left and saw a child staring at him. Bushy, bristly black eyebrows furrowed together as Elazan bent down to look into his eyes, striking him with a particularly penetrating look . His brimmed hat as black as coal spread shadows over his hardened face, and his magnificent pointed beard only likened him further to warlocks out of legend. The wizard Elazan said three words, and he said them thusly: "Kid, get lost."
Gruham Elazan watched the child run back inside his house with a vague feeling of satisfaction. Right, then. The mage eyed the marketplace, noticing the areas where there were less guards. He had decided to avoid using magic for the time being to preserve it for later use. (Besides, perception spells were so ... cheap. Ward wizards were always going at it, of course, but they were a bunch of amateurs anyway.) To walk through the masses incognito, however, Elazan knew that he had to take drastic measures. He took a few steps back into the alley. The wizard leaned his staff against the wall. He took off his pointy hat, held it in his hands and then, carefully, meticulously folded it several times before smoothing it over and cramming it inside a possibly enchanted leather pouch that was strapped on his belt. Then he straightened himself up, waited until the guards distracted themselves with something on the rooftops, covered his head with his cloak's dark hood and made a run for it, dashing into the crowd within the market.
The smell of sweat and spices and beer hung in the air. Elazan nudged past crowds of people, trying his best to look as unnoticeable and unwizardly as possible. (The staff decidedly didn't help.) A bearded man was bartering with an artisan over the price of a linen shirt. A trio of young women were prattling with each other about a jeweler's stall. A crowd of people jostled with each other to buy the freshest figs and citrus fruit. A Sand Clerk, the wizard noticed, conversed with a papyrus seller, leaning over his stall to inspect his wares. Further away across the street, past the common merchants and their shops, lay the plaza. The wizard had seen the fountain when he was examining the market for the first time, and in his current position it was within his sight once more. Posh place, that one. A place like that had to be well guarded. The wizard's assumptions were proven correct shortly afterwards. If the Clerks were recognizeable from a distance because of their hats and the guards managed to distinguish themselves from the crowd because of their uniform, the Justiciar in the entrance to the plaza mainly stood apart from the people because of the wide girth of space they gave him. Tall, rigid, unmistakeably dangerous, the man stood alone, dual scimitars at his side. Even from a distance, Elazan knew the Justiciar would reek of dark magic once he -it- got closer. Fascinating creature. Fortunately, it was with his back turned against him, and Elazan headed towards the other direction.
Past the merchants the wizard went, making an effort to avoid patrolling guards or Clerks. A peddler tried to sell him scorpions-onna-stick. He cuffed a young pickpocket in the head when the latter tried to slip his fingers into his coat's pockets. A plump lady offered to shave his beard, another presented a variety of sand sandals to him. He was nearing the end of the street, where the guards were scarce - but so were the shoppers. Elazan pulled his hood lower over his eyes, and strolled into the corner of the street, observing the more degraded part of the market. So far, no maps. Still, the market might not be completely devoid of interest. A young woman watched him with sparkling green eyes, sitting cross-legged before her wares. No, I shouldn't. It's not like it's appropriate for - oh, sod it. The wanderer approached her, wading through the smoke that left her pipe. He examined her goods, scratching his beard. Carefully crafted ornaments of all sorts - rings, trinkets, what seemed to be arm bracelets resembling a snake, formed the bulk of her merchandise, but Elazan was suffering from deprivation from a very specific necessity and it was not trinkets he was after.
"Madam," he said in the common tongue that most merchants, especially the poorer ones, knew, "would you have any pipe similar to yours in this impeccable collection?"
The only hint of surprise on Ramez's face was a small twitch of his eyebrow, but inside he was quite pleased with the offer. He looked the other up and down yet again, truly wondering if the ragged teenager could afford it. Then again, witches and warlocks could have anything up their sleeves, and he decided it was best not to haggle against such a generous offer. So he smiled coolly, clasping his hands together. "Fifty gold and it's all yours," he said. "Thank you for the business." It wasn't often very that he meant those words, but he considered this a small victory after a long day--assuming the kid managed to follow up.
To the next question, the merchant stopped to think and scratched at the hair on his chin. Quite clearly in his mind, he recalled the trader but none of that recognition even flashed across his features. Instead, he seemed to be struggling as he pictured the boy's patchy facial hair and clear brown eyes and simple clothes. He had been younger than Ramez, illiterate, and quite hungry, so they had traded Ramez's lunch for the book. "I can't quite remember..." he lied, suddenly melodramatic in the facade, an unspoken "If only something could jog my memory," following in his expression. There was little the merchant wouldn't take advantage of, and the book was clearly important to the other.
Beyond Umran, however, Ramez was slowly coming to realize an untimely rise in activity. His coy smile remained for Umran's sake, but the merchant's brown eyes swept over the road. His gaze paused on the dark robes before Farah's product but quickly continued to the robed figure in front of his stall. Beside them knelt a pale foreigner, likely a slave... But that sort of duo so far away from the plaza had Ramez's smile twitch away in suspicion. His "stall" was growing poorer by the day and he rarely attracted customers accompanied by slaves--much less the slaves themselves. "Excuse me, Sir, while I try to recall the, uh, 'barterer'," he said, hoping that Umran would be desperate enough about the thief to squeeze a couple more silver out of him.
"Foreign slaves will fry under our hot sun," he greeted the kneeling figure, sparing the quickest and most dismissive glance in the slave's direction. "I don't have anything suitable lying out as you can see, but maybe even a sheet will provide some protection from the sun." He would gesture and direct their gazes to any of his "walls" of plain sheets, but his eyes would remain on them, a cold and curious contrast to his smile.
On the other side of the road, Farah greeted her polite customer with a tired smile. He was a curious sight among the usual crowd. Unlike Ramez across the road, her wares spoke for themselves and she took a quiet pride in them. "I have what you see," she said simply, pulling her own pipe away from her lips as her other hand gestured slowly over her collection. Another pipe seemed to be absent among the product. "I take commissions, however, if you will be in the city for another day." With that, she puffed from her pipe again, regarding the wizard curiously.
To the next question, the merchant stopped to think and scratched at the hair on his chin. Quite clearly in his mind, he recalled the trader but none of that recognition even flashed across his features. Instead, he seemed to be struggling as he pictured the boy's patchy facial hair and clear brown eyes and simple clothes. He had been younger than Ramez, illiterate, and quite hungry, so they had traded Ramez's lunch for the book. "I can't quite remember..." he lied, suddenly melodramatic in the facade, an unspoken "If only something could jog my memory," following in his expression. There was little the merchant wouldn't take advantage of, and the book was clearly important to the other.
Beyond Umran, however, Ramez was slowly coming to realize an untimely rise in activity. His coy smile remained for Umran's sake, but the merchant's brown eyes swept over the road. His gaze paused on the dark robes before Farah's product but quickly continued to the robed figure in front of his stall. Beside them knelt a pale foreigner, likely a slave... But that sort of duo so far away from the plaza had Ramez's smile twitch away in suspicion. His "stall" was growing poorer by the day and he rarely attracted customers accompanied by slaves--much less the slaves themselves. "Excuse me, Sir, while I try to recall the, uh, 'barterer'," he said, hoping that Umran would be desperate enough about the thief to squeeze a couple more silver out of him.
"Foreign slaves will fry under our hot sun," he greeted the kneeling figure, sparing the quickest and most dismissive glance in the slave's direction. "I don't have anything suitable lying out as you can see, but maybe even a sheet will provide some protection from the sun." He would gesture and direct their gazes to any of his "walls" of plain sheets, but his eyes would remain on them, a cold and curious contrast to his smile.
----
On the other side of the road, Farah greeted her polite customer with a tired smile. He was a curious sight among the usual crowd. Unlike Ramez across the road, her wares spoke for themselves and she took a quiet pride in them. "I have what you see," she said simply, pulling her own pipe away from her lips as her other hand gestured slowly over her collection. Another pipe seemed to be absent among the product. "I take commissions, however, if you will be in the city for another day." With that, she puffed from her pipe again, regarding the wizard curiously.
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