Changing of the Guard

[Lanark]

Sergeant Cromwell wasn’t exactly what most people would call a welcoming sight, his features were blunt, with little subtlety to them; his eyes far too deep set and a jaw which gave the impression he ate beasts of the field whole. Nevertheless for Devlin he could have been a horned monstrosity and it wouldn’t have reduced his relief at seeing him behind the desk of the gatehouse’s guard station so happy was he to be back at the castle barracks and finished the Dawnrise duty-shift.

“Long day?” Cromwell asked, looking up from some parchment laid out on the counter in front of him.

“Word about the failures out at Homestead is getting around, people aren’t much taken with facing another winter of food shortages, in fact they’re getting a mite agitated.’ Devlin and Cromwell exchanged a look which only those who had been on the city guard a while were able to produce, it consisted of two parts concern for the citizens of the city and one part absolute detestation of those same panicky idiots.

“I heard that the carrots came out with faces.” Cromwell announced on the subject of the Homestead farm as Flint emerged from the heavyset door behind the desk, armoured to the neck and ready for a long night’s work.

“I heard the cabbages somehow make you hear jokes in your head, and if you eat one you become compelled to say the jokes out loud, non-stop." Flin contributed, correctly guessing the subject under discussion. “Worst part is apparently they aren’t even that funny.”

Devlin frowned slightly, “Either way, inedible and useless.”

“The wastes are no good, you’ll never be able to grow anything outside the valley, too much magic still in the soil.” Cromwell added shuffling the parchments in front of him and moving to make a note of Devlin’s arrival and Flin’s departure.

“Oh, Devlin the Captain says you’re to report to the Tower.” Flin announced nonchalantly apparently just remembering. This caught both other officer’s attention, Cromwell’s pen stopped above the parchment quietly dripping onto the surface.

“Which tower?” Asked the clearly confused Devlin. “In the castle or…”

“No, Knight’s Tower. Though I suppose you’ll have to go up to the northwest tower here. You’re getting a Gondola over.”

“But I was on Sunrise duty, this is my first night free in two weeks!” Protested Devlin.

Flin just shrugged “And I get the joy of the Sundown duty tonight even though I was up at six this morning when that screaming cloud passed overhead. Life is discomfort and pain Dev, have a nice trip.” With that he left the gatehouse and exited into the darkening streets.

A disgruntled silence fell in the room as Devlin tried to think of any possible reason for him being summoned to Knight’s Tower but he was drawing a blank. The silence was shattered by Cromwell, who noticing the ink dripping had returned his pen to the well, and then gone back to peering at Devlin with curiosity from beneath his prominent brow. “What they wanting with you then eh?” he asked.

“No idea. I wonder if I can talk the Captain into letting me take a horse across town instead of one of those infernal carriages?”

As it turned out, he couldn’t.

The gondola hung in the air above the city, gliding gently forward, suspended entirely from a thin beam of light stretching all the way from the top tower of the Count’s castle on Rosemont hill to the base of Knight’s Tower perched on Thornwill Crag. Devlin didn’t like it at all. They said you had more chance of getting garrotted on the street walking the distance from the Castle to the Tower but all that empty air just below the floor made him incredibly uncomfortable.

The gondola itself was a sort of repurposed carriage, like the kind you find pulled by horses, except without the wheels and with more ornamentation. He had only ever had both permission and the direct orders to use it a few times previously and each time he’d been impressed by the lavish interior and delicately carved exterior. The passengers who normally made the journey were clearly of a better class than him.

He mentally berated himself for feeling so uneasy and for being unable to stop thinking about the thin beam of light holding him aloft and as punishment forced himself to look out of the window. The sun had set and darkness spread out to the horizon, directly bellow the gondola though the city sprawled, lit up in whites, blues, greens and the occasional red. Though the red wasn’t the soft glow of a fireplace, wood was too expensive a commodity to burn now. Ignoring the dark fissure which marked the Lietsun river he could just about make out the locations of the mainline pipes. It was easy enough to judge just by the brightness of the lights: where a main pipeline lay, pumping magic into smaller domestic or district pipes, houses nearby would by lit brighter and so he could just about make out five lines, like skeletal fingers stretching back and joining at the base of Thornwill crag.

He sat back in his seat, a wave of mild nausea overwhelming him and scrambled in his pack for his pipe, he felt that should calm him down. Luckily he had some tobacco leaf left, its cost had gotten so high of late he’d been putting off buying more, so he quickly stuffed it in and with a click of his fingers lit it. He sat back closed his eyes and puffed for a couple of seconds, taking a small joy in the idea of the Count having to ride in a carriage which had the lingering smell of low quality leaf. After a couple of puffs, he felt the tension relax and so he sat forward again opening his eyes. He gave his fingers a few more clicks just for the fun of it, and each time a small flame flared and disappeared. He was able to produce that small trick without having to concentrate too hard on it now, but that was just testament to how much he relied on his pipe. Day was though he wouldn’t have been able to produce the tiniest of sparks, back before the purge.

The leading Arcaneologists claimed that the Wizards were so powerful because their magic came from all the others regular people around them and so now that they are gone everyone is capable of using what power they have, little though it may be, as it isn’t being stolen anymore. He absent-mindedly clicked his fingers a few more times but the flame slowly began to become less pronounced each time as his mind wandered till only a tiny spark was produced, so he stopped. His gaze had fallen on the Tower visible on the window opposite his seat. It was an impressive sight. Thornwill crag reached to a height equal to the tallest tower of the Count’s castle and the Tower kept going higher than he dared to guess, a spear of light piercing the night.

It fascinated Devlin the way such basic physical things reflected the invisible social reality of the city. The difference in height between the Tower and the castle reflected the days before the purge, when though the Count represented the highest political power in the region the local Wizard was the real power. He chuckled to himself at the thought, as this arrangement wasn’t so different from how things had turned out following the Purge.

The current Count’s father had gifted the Tower to the Knights of the Court for their part in overthrowing the Magisters who had resided within. It was some arcane device in the tower which provided the city with its supply of magic, and had presumably provided it to the Wizard in his day, and so as the city became dependant on the supply of Magic the Knights, still officially the fiefs of the Count had become richer and far more powerful than he himself could ever dream.

His pipe was all but done now, however it mattered little as the gondola was finally approaching its destination, a sort of stone-stable with a large glowing orb within which formed one end of the tether of light. The carriage glided into the stable stopping next to a raised platform onto which Devlin stepped, heading in the direction of the Tower’s entrance.

[Lanark]

Devlin took a few moments to compose himself after what had been for him an unnerving journey so far before he moved through the bare anti-room in which he found himself and through the only door into a study. The walls groaned under the weight of countless books, apart from one section of shelving; which was splintered and blackened, books half burned years previously lay haphazard on the scorched shelf in testament to the battle the Knights had fought to take the tower. A large window opened up to one side, he could just about make out the city down bellow. Devlin found himself feeling slightly queasy at the thought of how far up they were, which seemed to amuse the man sitting behind a desk in the centre of the room.

The man, dressed in extreme finery, rose and greeted Devlin, beckoning him to sit, which he did and then a silence fell. Devlin had no clue as to why he had been whisked across the city and halfway up the Tower, of all places, to this office. The man for his part was happy to let him squirm for a minute. Devlin was loath to oblige and so he met the man’s stare and sat attempting to create the air that this is what he always did on his nights off. Eventually the man spoke.

“It has been brought to our attention that you are one of the Count’s least useless men.” Announced the man, skipping introductions.

“Thanks.” Murmured Devlin in response to the weak compliment.

“What I mean to say is that you are not the best fighter by any stretch of the imagination, not are you particularly adept at utilising the little bit of magical ability a normal person is granted with.”

Devlin continued staring at the man evenly, though despite himself he moved slightly in discomfort at being brought all this way just to be insulted.

“What I mean to say is, you are the very definition of your title: Inspector. While the Count no doubt has you simply walking the streets and breaking up bar brawls, in situations where you’ve had to actually investigate you have shown yourself particularly efficient.”

Devlin knew this much already, so he simply nodded, an acknowledgment of thanks perhaps or maybe just indicating for the conversation to continue. The man seemed to relish the stoic ambiguity Devlin was attempting to exude.

“How many years has it been since the Great Purge Inspector Devlin?”

He paused before attempting to respond, it seemed like too simple a question and he feared it might have been a trick. “Going on ten now.”

“And do you know off hand the earliest age at which someone has been recorded demonstrating the advanced magical aptitude of the Magisters?” The man asked, Devlin shook his head in response and so the man answered himself. “The earliest anyone has ever demonstrated that level of aptitude is at age eight. The age at which a Mage would mature into their full capacity was age eighteen at the earliest, sometimes later but generally they would have access to their full powers at that age.”

The man watched Devlin expectantly, Devlin assumed he was supposed to have gleamed something from this unusual conversation and so after a moments thought he surmised: “So anyone with the natural ability to be a Mage like those killed in the purge but who were too young to be showing signs at the time will be approaching maturity now?”

The man nodded with a small smirk, “Correct. Over the years we have attempted to find as many potential Mages as possible. Thanks to informants out there in the city we’ve been quite successful, a great many potential threats have been found and dealt with.” He paused seeming for a moment to reflect on the implications of this, but mostly so that the implications would make themselves clear to Devlin.

“However we have no doubt missed some and since they will be coming into their full power soon it will become harder to track and capture them. Not least because enough time has passed for the people to begin forgetting the horrors we saved them from. Their rumbling bellies may just cloud their senses and redirect their anger towards us and the count, and cause them to place false hope in Mages.”

Devlin looked out the window; in the distance he could see the Count’s castle. He found himself wondering why this had never occurred to him before; Mages had always taken their apprentices from promising commoners. But within a few years of their departure everyone was beginning to rediscover their own modest personal powers and so a child showing particular talent would have gone unnoticed, till they disappeared. Even then his years on the guard had shown how easy it was for people to just disappear even in this isolated city.

“There is the potential for everything we have worked so hard to maintain here to just burn to the ground. You will have noticed of course that for every scouting party of Knights, which we have sent out into the Wastes, not a one has returned. For all we know this city is all that remains of our race, the rest of the world could be as scorched and dead as the lands surrounding ours. For this city to fall once more under the sway of those who would turn our own power against us could be the end of all.”

Devlin had continued looking out the window as the man spoke, he still didn’t know his name, but now at least he was getting an impression of why he was here. He turned back to face him and asked: “So why do you need me?”

The man smiled, it wasn’t a pleasant sight. “We are putting together a team of concerned citizens to track these Mages down before they become a threat. Your skill set and knowledge of the city could help our efforts. Of course we could have found them all by now, but if not the longer they remain at large the more dangerous they become to our very way of life.”

Devlin shuffled uncomfortably, he had been 19 at the time of the Purge which means he remembered the burning days and the year of night; he had watched the nearby village of Loz be crushed beneath a flying rock the size of a mountain and most haunting of all he had stood on the battlements of the city watched helplessly the people of Undermire. Those poor souls who had all died in the same second for no apparent reason and then they, or rather their reanimated but still rotting bodies, clawed at the walls and gates of the city: at first screaming, and then when their vocal chords wore out breathing and rasping a death rattle that lasted for weeks because no one was willing to leave the city to try and cut them down.

The man was evidently pleased with the reverie he could see Devlin had fallen into however he pushed to break it. “We have put what we learned during and after the purge into crafting a number of items which may help you, and of course you won’t be working alone. It will be a thankless task for the most part, as I said there might not even be any Mages left in the city this generation. However if you are diligent in your duty, faithful in your purpose and most importantly successful you will eventually be granted the title of Knight-Protector with all the benefits and privileges that entails.”

Devlin could not believe what he was hearing, in the society of the city one could dream of working in the Tower or in one of the Order’s various companies. However to be named a Knight moved you beyond the regular hierarchy, granting you privilege and wealth beyond imagination, or so most people assumed; you rarely ever even saw one.

[Raius Vaiethaen]

"Y'shore it's awright fer 'im? Like this, I mean?" The thickly built sentry asked his colleague, taking a quick prod at his prisoner with his long blunt baton. The shackled man didn't even flinch as its tip struck rough against his naked ribs even though they were already so bruised as to be black.

"Eh? He's fine. If you're so concerned, stop screwing around with him, Jensen." The short but gaunt sentry glanced over from where he leaned against the wall, idly tapping his toes. Patience was not one of his virtues, and this new hire was starting to annoy him.

"I weren't talkin' about fer 'is well-being," Jensen snorted, giving the man another short jab with the baton, this time in the gut. "I 'eard tell them Wizard-likes can suck yer essence t' work their magics."

"The only magic you got is blatant stupidity, and that ain't much to be missed," the short one snapped back. "Stop poking at him. The Count wants to see him, so he's got to be awake."

Jensen muttered something under his breath that he didn't hear, but finally stopped talking or abusing the prisoner after that. Tern, the short guard, went back to tapping his toes and cracking his neck - he hated his job most days, but when he got stuck with guys like Jensen for a shift, he downright despised it. He was in his late thirties now and had no patience for nonsense - not to mention he'd never wanted to be part of any of this to begin with. Back during the War, he'd joined the Home Militia out of necessity; after the Purge ended, he'd been kept on the Count's payroll and moved from the Militia to the Watch then to the Guard.

The prisoner stirred and Jensen's eyes snapped up to the man. If you could call him a man - he was one of the prized prisoners of the Count, having been imprisoned here for over ten years now. Skinny - no, emaciated - his legs were clasped in place against the wall at the ankles and knees; his arms spread wide over his head and chained from the back and front so that he was left leaning forward, coming away from the wall, the pressure of his body resting on his wrists.

He stirred. The chains rattled as he moved his sore, bruised wrists. The man's strangled neck tried to push up against the collar pulling his head downward to no avail. A barely audible, gurgled noise hissed from his throat: "Wa...ter."

Tern brought him a wetted cloth and put it in his mouth for the pathetic man to suck on. To think that this... creature, no longer even truly a man, was supposedly one of the most powerful of all mages was beyond him. He looked worse off than most of the mendicants on the street. But nobody looked as bad as the one they called the Wizard that they kept at the very top of the Tower. That one didn't even look human anymore.

The mage tried to open his puffy and dry eyes, head rolling senselessly about the tight collar. Pain and darkness, that's all he'd had. Surely, death couldn't be worse than a life like this. He had been chained all day every day for the past ten years. Water was given to him in a soaked towel, food was a tasteless mash that made him gag whenever he tried to eat it. And for hours each day, they drained away his essence and magic to power their city.

"The Count wants you. We're taking you there now. Any funny business and I let the new club-ape break all your bones." Tern nodded tersely to Jensen, giving him the go-ahead to unshackle him. First one arm, then the other; they were then bound with manacles. His legs released and chained together. The collar unhooked from the ceiling. Once he was ready, they started leading him out of the Tower.

Sunlight. The outside world. Blinded but refusing the look away, the mage panted from the sheer force power of just being outside. The air. The sounds. The colors. It touched something in that broken mind and awakened him just a little bit. Just a little bit was enough to make him come to his senses and realize that where he stood - just outside the main gate to the Tower - was right on top of a major magic pipeline. He mustered his mental strength to pull at the source, drinking it up like a flower soaking up the rain.

"'Tain' break-time," Jensen bellowed, using his baton to prod the mage forward, causing him to stumble. "Bes' keep walkin', ol' man, or you'll be arrivin' at the Count's on a litter, see?" The gruff guard moved forward to give the mage another jab with his stick, and that was the last time the man was seen alive.

When Tern came to his senses later, all he saw was a bloody mess where Jensen had been standing - his head was split completely open like a fruit thrown against a wall. The stench of it was overpowering. Their prisoner was nowhere to be seen, the only evidence that he'd been there being the chains that had been on his legs lying on the floor, broken.

"I think I'm fired..." he muttered, laying his head back against the cold ground and staring up into the sky.

[Lanark]

In truth Devlin had wanted to avoid returning to the barracks this soon, precisely because it was actually what he wanted to do the most. Though he would never have admitted it, he had always considered himself above being on the Guard, not out of any badness more boredom and sense of being somehow better than the lot he had been given in life.

Navigating the perilous expanding bureaucracy and insane floor plan of the Tower, had left him officially on the books and even resulted in him being requisitioned some new equipment. So now his greatest desire, besides proving himself in his new role, was to show off his shiny new armour to his old colleagues. To indulge it would have been vulgar, but duty called.

In his hand he held a parchment on which a writ authorising the release of a Mage identified only by a numeral into the care of two Guardsmen was signed in the unmistakable hand of the Count. During his time attempting to find his way from clerk’s office to clerk’s office in the tower he had overheard a fair amount of commotion about a supposedly escaped Mage of the old order. It might take him weeks to track down a burgeoning mage if at all but here was an opportunity dropped right into his lap. If he could capture this Mage his position would be well and truly cemented. No doubt the Knights were already making arrangements for their own attempt to recapture him; Devlin would just have to be quicker. He stepped through the heavy oak door and into the front room of the gatehouse.

“Can I help you…” Cromwell choked on what was presumably going to form itself into the word ‘Sir.’ “Devlin?”

“The same.” Devlin nodded, trying his best to play it cool. The armour and the new sword hanging at his hip spoke volumes, so he didn't have to labour the point; much as he wanted to. In truth he had hoped for a full set of metal armour, like the Knights themselves. But as the quartermaster had pointed out, a few select pieces of enchanted cloth and chain link provided more protection and freedom of movement, a tin-can suit would just ensure you cooked more evenly when a fireball blasted you.

“Where in th’hells you been?” said Cromwell his face screwing up as he failed to comprehend.

“I’m working for the Knights now.” Devlin pushed on quickly, blocking Cromwell from getting into a rut of questions. “Look I need your help with some information.”

“Uh… yeah, sure.” Cromwell’s brow wrinkled as the backlog of confusion built up.

“Do you know Tern?” Devlin had never really spoken to him often, they’d mostly been on opposite shifts or patrolling on different sides of the city.

Cromwell nodded, “Course.”

Devlin smiled. Of the only two people who had seen Mage Five’s face in sunlight in the last ten years, Tern was the only one still alive. Devlin needed to find him and before anyone else and to do that he needed to work out where he'd gone.

[Raius Vaiethaen]

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him - which in all honesty wasn't very fast at all. A hobbled child could have easily caught him - he lurched from side to side like some hideous creature, using his hips and not his knees to run. It had been to long since he'd exerted himself in any real way, and he collapsed not even a kilometer away from where he killed Jensen, tumbling into a ragged mess in the shadow of a modest hut.

Shaking from the effort of trying to run on legs that hadn't even supported his entire weight most of the past ten years, he miserably dragged himself deeper into darkness with his elbows. His shackles shouted dampened curses against the earth. Try as he might, there was no conjuring one last burst of magic to try and free his wrists - it had taken all he had to get Jensen and release his legs from that iron prison.

Once, this broken man had proudly walked these streets in his magister's regalia. Even at the young age of twenty-five, he was considered one of the most powerful mages alive, and, if whispers amongst his peers and superiors were any indication, possibly in line to be the next Wizard. Now - now he was filthy, ragged, and powerless. Stripped of power, shackled and malnourished, hated and feared - not even a beggar would spare him pity.

Have to keep moving... they'll be looking for me. On and on he crawled until his elbows were peeled and bloody. Still not far from the Tower, but now getting into denser areas. It was a double-edged sword: he would be harder to find the more people that were around; at the same time, the more people that were around, the more they would notice him and figure out that there was something amiss about him. So he searched for a hiding place, somewhere he could conceal himself for the time being.

Underground.

-----

Tern wiped away at the cooled blood and chunks of Jensen-meat that were on his face using his shirt-sleeve. He'd already puked twice, managing to turn his head to the side both times, and at least the rancid smell of vomit was temporarily overpowering the smell of recently-cooked Jensen. He knew he should get up. He knew he should get to his feet and go after the mage like a good Guardsman would do - and the thing that really pissed him off was that he was a good Guardsman. He hadn't abused the prisoners or proudly worn his uniform into bars the way some of the young bucks did.

But darkness be damned, he couldn't make himself get up off the ground. Everything felt so heavy and everything was moving so slowly. Jensen was dead - poor bastard had it coming to him, but still - and not just dead, but killed just a few feet from where Tern lay now. That kind of thing tended to turn a man's knees to mushy gruel, especially on a man who had no deathwish. He was a sensible man, he was. And he knew that going after that mage all by himself would be suicide.

"Let the Knights deal with it..." he murmured to nobody at all. Finally mustering the strength to move, he took a deep breath and brought himself up into a sitting position just in time to see someone approaching him - he couldn't make out the face in the glaring sunlight, but he knew this would not end well.

[Lanark]

Devlin found himself in a full out run towards Tern. He had started with quite a brisk and confident stride however as the scene around him made itself apparent this had devolved into a frantic sprint.

When he reached the bloody tableau, he slowed: his eyes darting back and forth, hand resting on his sword’s hilt. Once while a Guard he’d been sent to break into a house because the smell from inside was bothering people living on the same street. The owner had died, a good long time previously by the look and the smell. The sight of the swarming bluebottles would haunt him till his own death, so seeing what remained of Jensen did affect him, just not as visibly as it might have done years previously. Even then it was still mighty grim. He gave a dog, which was sniffing at edges of the debris that had been the guard, a small nudging kick to send it on its way and crouched before Tern.

“You hurt?” Devlin asked looking him over. Tern shook his head eyeing him cautiously.

Devlin looked around the area, hoping for something which could hint at where the Mage had gone. Devlin had a trick up his sleeve which he could use if there was nothing else but he would rather keep that till it was absolutely necessarily. He was about to turn back to Tern in despair when he spotted them.

A trail of footprints, or rather partial footprint. Someone leaving the area had trodden in something that used to belong to Jensen and it had left a stain on the stone with every step. It would have dried fairly fast but it gave an indication of direction. He wouldn’t be able to count on such dumb luck all the time but he’d take this for now, and be sure to change the details into some act of investigatory excellence later. When he turned back to Tern, Devlin was smiling, which must have been somewhat disconcerting for the man.

“Right Tern, you have about ten seconds to describe in as much detail: what you remember happening, right before Mage Five escaped” he pushed on blocking any attempts at questions from him. “You will then give me as much detail about the Mage as possible.” Devlin didn’t want to have to go stabbing every vagrant he encountered. “And then you are going to run, and you are going to hide. I don’t know much, but from what I’ve seen I’d say you have a whole universe of hurt coming your way.”

There was a beat as Tern hesitated unsure if Devlin was finished, and Devlin took a breath.

“Go” he ordered, quite pleased with how authoritative he was sounding.

[Nuklear Disaster]

The cart wheeled in squeakily through the gatehouse. The guards passed a suspicious eye over everyone that was entering. Unluckily, Aeron was the only one who was coming through, so they got a rather good look at him.

Aeron cracked a smile. The guards shifted, their hands reaching for their weaponry. Aeron kept walking, knowing that they wouldn't find anything if they did stop him. However, it was rapidly approaching the best time to sell stuff, particularly what he had been shipping. Wood.

He creaked into the half-full merchant district. Setting up a thin, wooden stand with a sign that read "ðe wood shop." He set out a few pieces of wood, each of differing sizes before preparing for the afternoon rush.

It came an hour after he had been standing there. Aeron suddenly became engrossed in people buying wood, trying to sell him wood, and all sorts of wood-related items. Wood went almost as fast as coin could be traded, for only coin was accepted.

Clunk. Aeron spun, knife appearing, just in time to see a girl dropping her whole load of wood. She ran into the crowd, immediately losing all hope of catching her.

"Aeron! Long time, no see!" The blade disappeared as Aeron spun back to see his old friend, Faril. He was missing an eye, but still had his outrageous mustache.

"Faril! Where've ya been?" Aeron smiled, while an impatient customer blinked expectantly at Aeron. Business continued, with Faril and Aeron catching back up, from when Faril left the little hamlet of Pottersville to "find a bigger and better life."

It had been years since they had seen eachother, Faril leaving when he was 12 years of age. Aeron had continued, helping his parents on the farm, until...

"Hey, well, I gotta go back to my job. I work as a blacksmith's apprentice. If you ever want to drop by, maybe I can make a little something for you..." The last word fell upon Aeron's waving hand softly, him quickly making his way away.

Aeron sighed, feeling a bit happier. He finished the last customer, clearing out his stock, before noticing the small package on the stand. Aeron picked it up, and began looking around, for anyone who might've dropped the package.

No one near him. Not a person. Aeron looked at the package, and read the label, "To: Aeron, From: " No name. Aeron dismantled his stand, putting it back into the cart. He leaned against the cart, resting from an entire afternoon spent selling wood.

Aeron closed his eyes, focusing not on sight, but on sense, sound, and smell. Unwashed people, footsteps sounding like water, the dull roar of the bartering. Then, a few steps, quiet breathing. Aeron focused, listening to the step-stop-step-stop approach. By the sounds the person was light.

Aeron opened his eyes, and flipped around the cart, to where a girl was crouched. The same girl that had tried to steal from him. She looked up at him, eyes wide with fear. Forest-green eyes.

"Take what's left. I don't need it, and no one will buy it." Aeron crouched down, next to the girl, and helped pick up a few pieces of wood. "Say, where are your parents?" Her eyes filled up with tears, and she fled, leaving behind a half-gathered pile of twigs.

Aeron sighed, turning just in time to see two guards standing right above him. Their chainmail seemed bright, their faces grizzled with slight frowns.

"Is there a problem?" Aeron smiled, but the guards merely stared all the harder. They seemed intent on boring a hole straight into Aeron's heart. "If this is about the girl, she hasn't done anything. Merely...just....talking..."

The guards stood there, just staring. The package. Of course.

Too bad it had to start lighting on fire.

Aeron started a hop-skip-run-dodge, for the guards had finally moved and his coat and shirt had lit on fire....

[Raius Vaiethaen]

Tern nodded, numb, not quite sure what else to do. "Well, uh, sir - " he frowned a bit at that, since he was pretty sure that when he last spoke with Devlin - and it was some time ago, but still - he was a Guard, not a Knight. "We were bringing him out to the Count as per our orders. He was shackled at the legs with chains, and his hands were manacled in front." He nodded his shaven head toward the iron laying on the ground. "He's shed his shackles, at least."

The Guard tried to recount all the things that had just happened in as great detail as he could, but he found that his head was swimming - he was in mild shock. "There was a - like a blinding flash, but not in my eyes. In my mind, if that makes sense. I came to, and Jensen, well - Jensen." He knew he didn't have to elaborate any further. "He's tall, maybe just a hair under six feet. Skinny, no meat on him at all. I think he's around thirty now, but he looks more like forty-five - barefoot, long beard, greasy brown hair. Oh! He's got a tattoo of some sort, it's, uh..."

Tern traced a strange character in the dirt, trying to remember it. He wiped it away a few times before finally pointing to it, satisfied. "Like that. He's got that right between his shoulderblades, he does." It was no word in any language that was common knowledge - perhaps some kind of mage's symbol, or an ancient Runic script. "Can't be hard to make him out from others, even in a crowd, sir - he's been locked up in a room for the better part of ten years, no exercise and little food."