Anga sashays into the shop with casual grace. Stopping once or twice to admire the various crystal works. She carefully works her way into conversational distance of the well appointed man. With a lilting tone and pleasant smile she addresses him.
"Lovely pieces, all."
"Well, does it tickle you?" Thaegrin mumbles.
He continues forward, passing the flickering torch. His thin, wrinkled digits idly brush the earthen wall. When he passes the iron gate, the fingertips thrum gently over the metal bars. Without a word he passes through the false doorway. His senses stretch out and find all creatures capable of emotion around him; invisible strings in search of a puppetmaster.
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Once through the illusion, Thaegrin sees a small, but immaculate library. Shelves of books and scrolls line the walls and short tables in the center are laid with small trinkets, rods, wands, and staves.
The small man chuckles. "I think I do not miss my guess at your desires?" His faces waxes more somber. "Though I must warn you not to touch before we settle on a price and everything is trapped against thieves." He smiles apologetically.
Professional. I can appreciate that.
Thaegrin nods to show his thanks at the warning, and intones the simplest of spells to see what magical auras lie in the scrolls, books, and other items. He slowly sweeps his scrutiny to inspect everything in the room from where he stands.
"Impressive. Do you practice the craft, or do you only trade on their behalf?"
Tension visibly lowers from Thaegrin's neck and shoulders, clearly relieved to be in the presence of a fellow mage.
"And yet," he smiles wryly to the merchant as he gestures to the magical items for sale. With playful a hint of incredulity, he adds, "You think that I am not simply an old man in the market for teapots?"
The court wizard turns his eyes back to the walls of books, and the tables covered in all manner of magical things. Wearing a thoughtful look he pauses long enough to try to make the merchant sweat a bit.
“I have a handful of scrolls that I wish to exchange first.” Reaching into his bag, the scholar selects eleven scrolls that he had not considered using once since he inscribed them. These are scrolls he has carried a long time, for he would be loathe to sell a scroll that might indicate the limit of his capabilities.
“I must confess, my needs are rather trivial. Is there a spellbook from which I might peruse and copy?”
The wizard angles his head with a far-off calculating stare. "Somewhat. I'll accept your price if I may copy these easier spells for free." He gestures to the books that already lay open ready to copy.
He shrugs as one who cannot help but haggle and with a good-natured smile holds out a hand to shake in bargain struck.
The old wizard pauses and offers a smile just before his quill touches the inkwell. "I have spent several years as an educator, and I am more than willing to offer lessons, but not that this moment. If you would please," he inclines his head to suggest that the merchant step back a bit, "I would like to focus without a distraction. Thank you."
Only the sound of scratching on the pages of Thaegrin's spellbook can be heard from the desk on which he writes. Occasionally the scholar pauses to study the written spell that he copies, and the scratches resume again.
Pausing to sharpen his quill in between copies, the Man of Long Lives asks conversationally, "Have you ever visited the country of Amerys? I have a brother there who recently relocated to Port Maverick and his letters glow with the praise of the Amerysi ships. Nothing like the skiffs and catamarans of Isteroth, he says..."
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The man looks a little hurt, but he nods his acquiescence and steps away.
At the question, the man perks up. "I have been to the mainland once, but I was just a stupid boy then." A shadow of memory skulks behind his eyes. "If your brother's in Port Maverick, I'd wager he'd know. Even those cannibal raiders from up north fear the Amerysi Navy. Personally, I think them Amerysi are getting a bit uppity. Who are they to police the whole world? You know the register and license folk such as us?"
This man knows almost nothing about ships, but doesn't want to let his ignorance show. He has heard something about the Navy related to the "cannibals of the north." He had a bad experience as a boy on the main land, he was disillusioned somehow, maybe shamed. His anger over it is still palpable despite his apparent 40+ years.
Does he speak of the Grok'Toh? No one can resist correcting misinformation...
"Cannibals? Fear? I thought the Thelkons were incapable of fear..." Thaegrin muses aloud.
"Uppity." He repeats, pausing for a few moments. "'Those who cannot control their own emotions seek to control the actions of others.' I am glad to hear that you do not sup on their lies about 'freedom'. We both prefer our autonomy, and anonymity, hm?" The manipulator chuckles good-naturedly to the merchant. He gestures to the desk covered in parchment. "I am not yet finished. But I think I will be finished by the time the tea will be done steeping."
He sets the teapot on the desk, the one he accidentally brought with him from the tent. Taking a few minutes to fill it with water and lower the dried tea leaves, he sets the ornate teapot aside.
At length, the wizard is quiet as he finishes copying the spells into his spellbook.
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"Not a man alive incapable of fear, but I don't mean the northmen. Its those...Croc folk I mean. They scar themselves and eat their enemies and kill for pleasure. Reavers and rapers all. Even they go scarce when the warships show in force."
The man nods emphatically at 'autonomy' and 'anonymity.' "Well said. Uppity is right. They talk about being 'free to pursue your purpose' and 'whatever you have it in you to be,' but they don't mean it. They only value the ones they see as being able to help them achieve their imperialist agenda."
The man smiles as Thaegrin brews the tea with magic: its a wistful grin full of fond sadness.
Iskandarr cocks his head and makes a face of observation, with slight nods at her knife work "Work, mostly. I'm new to town and need to find a reliable source of income. I have a variety of skill sets that can make me an asset to those who know how to utilize my full potential." he says the last with a slight grin.
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The woman does not stop chopping, her dices accurate and precise despite never looking down. "Well, we can always find a use for someone who wants to be of help. Are you as strong as you look? How would you slice a cake into eight pieces with just three cuts? Are you a red man or a milk man? Have you got the touch?"
"Can you fight and lift heavy things? Are you clever? Will you kill people for money? Do you possess magic?"
"I'm strong enough to get the job done and get it done well. I would use two cuts along the top to cut the cake into fourths, then with the last cut, I would cut horizontally through the side of the cake to make 8 parts. If the money is right, I can be any kind of man I need to be." he says with a smile. The touch? Could be anything, finesse, an eye for detail... "As for the touch, I have certain abilities that allow me to do things others can't and even if they could, I could do it better."
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"Good." The old woman says dismissively. A card appears in her hand as if from nowhere. She hands it to Iskandarr and assumes her original position at the cart paying the Manbeast no attention.
Hightower Pier. Dog's Watch. 6th bell. Tonight. Target: Red sash, officers gorget, white goatee, 4 guards. Mission: Eliminate. Brutal.
Iskandarr discreetly hides the note in a pocket and dissappears into the crowd. Finding an alley, he moves into the alley and reads the note when he is sure no one is watching. Hightower Pier, I will need to become more familiar with this town. Looking about once more, the beast man moves further into the shadows and transforms into a hawk and, after ruffling his feathers, takes flight high above the city.
Anga pretends to not notice the man's expression. Idly wandering through the stacks she lets a slim hand brush gently along the crystals.
"I've never seen their equal." She marvels quietly before turning to face the well dressed man. "Tell me, how does one come by such treasures?"
From the elongated spout, the last of the pot drips into the merchant’s cup, and the two pause in their talk of politics and injustices.
“Shall I brew another?” Thaegrin sets the empty teapot down and takes a sip from his own cup. The writings he finished long ago and his book is neatly stored away, but his fingers are unavoidably stained with the ink.
“You may have been to the mainland some decades ago, but that is more times than I have visited. If I planned to journey there, what should I expect, of the land and the people?”
Inwardly Anga grimaces, One more try then... she thinks to herself. Starting as if startled by the question Anga turns to face the man, a confused look on her face. "Oh, no I'm sorry." She says "They are lovely, but I don't deal in anything so crude." She smiles apologetically, pityingly. "I'm afraid my stock is of a more, ephemeral nature. Requiring finesse."
She slowly turns towards the exit, giving the shopkeeper time.
Iskandarr, noticing a large building, what could be a barracks, in the northwest corner of the island, glides closer to see if there's anything there of note.
The wizard dismisses the simple spell when steam begins to shriek from the teapot. He quietly pours his own cup first, then the merchant's. After a long pause, he breaks the silence with a knowing look at the middle-aged man.
"What is bothering you, friend?"
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The man snaps his mouth shut and eyes Thaegrin dubiously.
"You seem to be looking for a reason to trust me, so I will tell you. I traveled to Amerys as a boy seeking to gain apprenticeship with a mage. One, a sorcerer named Tiberius, told me I "did not have the blood and that it couldn't be helped." The other, a knightly wizard named Ser Vancets, took me into his service and for a moment, my dream had come true. I soon learned though that he had no intention of training me. He would take to locking himself in his study for days and I'd hear all manner of freakish sounds, but I never saw anything. I cleaned the place and fixed meals. Once I had to dispose of two bodies. There were all shrouded and wrapped so I couldn't see 'em, but they felt wrong: distorted somehow: They smelled so awful I lost my lunch, but I was forbidden to ask any questions. When I finally worked up the courage to ask about my eventual training, I was told to leave or to come to his study and "make myself useful." I can't say exactly why, but I knew if I went in, I'd never come out again." He shrugs. "I can back here, and now I do this."
The name of the merchant’s second master rings a bell, but Thaegrin holds onto the question for the moment. Timing is everything.
“By what you say, it does not sound like you were given a proper opportunity to study the higher mysteries at all. That would embitter me as well.” Thaegrin pauses. “Of the Amerysi I have met abroad, many of them share that dismissive trait…” The manipulator wears a mask of concern, “I hope I did not offend you, by asking you to stop reading over my shoulder. My reason for doing so was the same that you cited when I first entered this room: I prefer not to disclose my abilities. ‘The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.’ And I would rather be the unknown devil, wouldn’t you?” Thaegrin says with a conspiratorial grin.
After another pause, the wizard begins again. “Still, curiosity is not a skill to be taught or learned...” Without another word, he removes a smaller scroll from the many at his side. Unrolling it, he shows the arcane writing to the merchant. He is quiet a moment longer as the trader takes it in. “Looks like a mess of gibberish, don’t it?” The old Feraweni smiles knowingly. “Spellscript is as much an art as a science. Easy to learn, difficult to master.” He lays the scroll down onto the table for both of them to examine lines together. The instructor points at sigils, squiggles, and signs. “You will find that magical inscriptions such as this are truly a form of communication. Like language, mathematics, or even music -it borrows from all of these concepts to create ...a river, formed with water that flowed before mortals. Or a window, opening to an empty space that was always there.” Thaegrin stops and grins to himself, realizing that he was waxing poetic. He shows a sheepish face that is not difficult to fake, for he truly enjoys the role of teacher.
“Anyway, this scroll contains a spell. The same one I used to heat the teapot. There are innumerable applications of this minor spell. Temporarily change the color of something,” with a wave of his hand, Thaegrin’s grey pointed hat turns night blue, “or cleanse an object of dirt or grime,” the wizard’s leather boots are suddenly free of the dust of the road, “and I have even seen this spell produce crude conjurations.” With a final gesture, a poor-quality clay piece designed like an open rose without a stem, appears in his hand. He lays the shoddy paper-weight down near the opened scroll. “Endlessly versatile, and in time, effortlessly simple,” he concludes reassuringly.
“I could be convinced to take you as a pupil,” he states airily. “And rather than dismissed due to a mundane heritage or used as a tolerated housekeeper, you will advance in your learning by the merit of your own study. I will simply facilitate and guide your progress. What say you?”
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The man nods as Thaegrin shows signs of understanding. "Yes, I certainly understand, and I agree most definitely.
His grin widens and his nod grows more vigorous as the subject shifts toward concrete learning and the possibility of an apprenticeship. [b]"I say what can I do to convince you? I will as hard as anyone. I want this."
The wizard raises an eyebrow at the wealth of magical items in the room. "I tend to travel. Would you be able to leave this behind? I would understand, if you would prefer not to abandon such a successful and lucrative business..."
Thaegrin chuckles at the merchant's eagerness. "Impressive. We will not be leaving today, though I highly suggest you be ready to depart at sunrise tomorrow. I have some other business to attend tonight, else I would keep your company. In the meantime, here, keep this..." the wizard slides the small scroll toward the merchant.
"Read it over a few times. Sit down with new vellum and ink, and try to copy it exactly. When you are finished, copy it again. I want you to pay attention to how the characters in the script relate to one another. I do not expect you to become proficient overnight, so do not stress yourself too much. Repetition is the first method we will use to familiarize your mind to the study of magic. If any magical mishaps take place (they shouldn't) make note of them and decide if you wish to continue copying before speaking to me. Mishaps can happen, and tend to have more dire consequences from experimental incantations of advanced theory." A memory springs unbeckoned to Thaegrin's mind: when he was a slave, training to be a scribe under his long gone master, Cervantes. The old Feraweni blinks.
"But as I said, that is not an advanced spell on the parchment. Nary a risk. If you do not have any questions, I must be going..." the court wizard turns to hobble back to the tunnel in the dirt.
He pauses. "Hah! How rude of me! Ghastly manners in my old age!" The manipulator looks to the merchant. "What is your name?"
"You may call me Tanager," Thaegrin's eye twinkles, "Tanager Hiliver."
He is about to turn again to leave, but hesitates and adds, "You might be relieved to hear that I dabble very little in necromancy -the communication and manipulation of the dead- unlike your previous master. The raw materials disgust me, and I haven't the stomach for it." A visible shudder runs through Thaegrin's shoulders and arms.
The wizard wears a thoughtful look. Cormac looks to be in his forties, dating his apprenticeship to be thirty years ago...
"Though what you spoke of Ser Vancets intrigues me. How did you hear of him? Where in Amerys did he reside? Did you meet any of his living associates?" he asks with a wry grin.
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"It is my greatest pleasure to have met you, Master Hiliver." He adds a stiff, awkward bow.
Cormac does indeed seem relieved that you do not practice necromancy then furrows his brow in thought at the wizard's question.
"I didn't ever meet any associates of Ser Vancets, he insisted on secrecy and was convinced "THEY" were going to find him. I found him by chance. I was an urchin on the streets of Alisar after my village was sacked in the civil war. I tried picking Ser Vancet's pocket and he threatened to kill me, but I begged to serve him instead. He dragged me to some rundown watchtower near the mountains in the north. He's still there for all I know. I hope he's dead."
One hundred gears spin inside Thaegrin’s mind, some at a panicking whir and others methodically clinking. He does his best to silence the noise and focus on Cormac’s eyes. This scryer could be anyone; friends or enemies, of Cervantes. Not just Cervantes himself, impossible as that might be... The wizard’s thorough knowledge turns over arcane theories to find an explanation for the rather coincidental spying. He has a hunch, but hunches are not always reliable. Logic and reason, these were the tools of the trade.
His reasoning, however thorough, will not blind the scrying eye. The agent of Rudianos is uncomfortably aware that every moment he spends near the invisible optic, the more that can be learned of him, by a watcher unknown.
He forces a small smirk to Cormac and casually shrugs. “He very well could be dead. I suppose it does not matter, for that part of your life was a long time ago. He is just a memory to you.” Even under pressure, Thaegrin must nip the urge to wax philosophical and press on, “My affairs keep me overdue. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Cormac. I will let myself out.”
A quick turn and a brisk, hobbled and bent pace takes Thaegrin to the tunnel leading from the storeroom of magical equipment. Passing through the illusion, he reaches the ladder. His thin arms pull himself up to the door, and he holds the hatch up. He pauses a moment, and pushes the hatch up beyond his reach and lets go of the ladder rungs, hoping to drop to the ground at the same time the door slams shut.
Thaegrin feet touch the ground, and immediately he presses himself into the shadows on the dirt wall. He breathes slowly, and he doesn’t move. If the watcher wanted to silence or manipulate my new pupil, this would be the time to do it… His old Feraweni ears strain to hear the goings on in the storeroom, his vision obscured by the illusion.
The scholar waits, and listens.
Thaegrin Variel shuffles to the end of the tunnel until the merchant can see him.
"Cormac. Do not speak your former master's name again. Someone was watching us with a magical eye after we uttered his name. Paranoid indeed, I should say!"
The teacher waits an appropriate amount of time before politely dismissing himself from Cormac's preparations.
Back above the ground, the wizard unobtrusively makes his way through the market streets. The evening was getting on, and he had to find the Thelkonlanders. With his sharp Feraweni senses, he listens for the loudest, most raucous tavern in the downtown area.
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Cormac's mouth snaps shut even as his eyes grow wide as wagon wheels. He nods apologetically, but doesn't seem willing to speak further.
The evening air is no less hot that the afternoon blaze, but a cool breeze off the sea offers some respite.
Not 50 yards down the street, Thaegrin spots the massive silhouettes of the Thelkonese brothers through a tavern window. Just then a patron happense to swing the door open and stumble into the night. Thaegrin catches the smell of sour wine and the sound off men boasting in their cups.
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Inside the Tavern:
"All 'em Thelkons 're sheep f!@+ers and bloody reavers! We 'nt need their kind 'round 'ere!" The man's square, scruffy jaw juts out defiantly as he condemns the Thelkonlanders.
By the man's apparent age and the officer's waistcoat he wears over his civilian garb, you can tell he has likely just completed his first round of compulsory service in the Amerysi army. This also likely indicates he would have spent time on the Thelkonese front fighting against Thelkonlanders.
Anga's face pinches up, obviously regretting her offensive words to the shops proprietor. Quickly she steps up to the man and pats him reassuringly on the arm.
"No no, I'm sorry. I only meant to say that you apparently don't carry that which I seek.' She brushes closely to well-dressed shop keeper as she makes her way to the door. Pausing for a moment on the threshold she turns and gives a little wave that is almost entirely dancing fingers before passing through and back out into the street.
Quick, nimble fingers examine the key with curiosity even as the man from Veir secrets the currency in the many hidden pockets and storage pouches kept on his person.
Ducking quickly into the nearest alley, Anga regards the key with a keener interest before glancing back at the shop just exited. She appraises the building from her vantage point and decides on the best way to enter unseen. Approaching as circumspectly as possible, the Archard woman quickly and quietly attempts to enter unseen by anyone outside, or inside the structure.
Moving softly the assassin come thief moves through the building searching in likely places for valuables. Behind counters, under desks, even checking behind any paintings she may come across.
