It was getting too close to comfort.
The line was a half-hearted shambling assortment of dispirited people or simple weirdos. Afterall, who would be the sort to leave the great nation of Esmor for Zolgait? A backwards nation that enslaved over half its people and exploited the remaining, whose people regularly starved, and nobles that bowed to an autocratic power which only continued the tradition for eons. It is not as though Esmor was not without its own problems, but Zolgiat was regularly known for its inherent inferiority. People desperately tried to escape from Zolgiat, not enter it. Yet for all of this, the line was longest on Esmor’s side.
It was actually what had caused the line in the first place - since the goal was usually to control who tried to come in, not who was leaving. The barracks were there to guard the bridge to ensure no force from Zolgait attempted to stir up trouble, to collect the tariff from people crossing, and ensure that undesirables stayed out. Likewise there was a point on the other side of the bridge that conducted itself in a similar manner for those who were attempting to enter the opposing nation. This had been the typical procedure for years but the sudden influx of traffic had caused the local Baron to issue a decree to investigate why everyone was leaving. Now they were all crammed together, huddled up by the press of guards and funneled in a meandering shuffle.
Lysia shifted uncomfortably from the swell of people.
Very specifically the unwashed bodies that lacked the basic decorum to understand personal space.
Not that she was any better herself. It had been a while since she’d been able to find a stream to bathe in and mud caked much of her clothes and body to be an indeterminable shade of brown. Despite the general irritated clamor and constant shuffling, Lysia was less concerned with how many people were ahead of her and far more focused on the man seated at the checkpoint.
As nondescript as was possible for a human, the man was average in every meaning of the word. The guard would call the next person in line forward, ask a series of questions, inspect various papers in front of him, note something down and then wave them through. Various other guards were ambling about to ensure that the process, while slow, was orderly. Frankly, they weren't doing a great job. As nondescript as the guard was, the people in line were anything but.
A few people behind Lysia were a pair of female dwarves that clamored irritably to each other in what they clearly seemed to think was a whisper. Both had wild tangled hair - one in a sun-bleached brown, the other in a black that had started to gray - and an assortment of weapons on their person. It was actually the reason why even the guards had been rather leery to tell them to hush up as danger seemed to roll off the well armed dwarves. Even further back was half-elf traveling alone. This was a grave misfortune as some of the man’s neighbors had clearly taken a dislike to the ‘affront’ and were purposely tormenting the man. Hissed slurs, jabbed back elbows in the disguise of ‘stretching’ and other such actions assaulted the man. The man in question merely kept his gaze determinately forward without so much of an acknowledgement, used to the treatment upon his kind. Lysia was forced to bite her tongue to go to the man’s rescue as she knew it would take time and time wasn’t on her side. Forcing her eyes away from the unfortunate half-elf she instead looked ahead, again checking the guard. He hadn’t moved but he kept looking at a watch as the pace continued to be no more than a disinterested amble.
Gritting her teeth in frustration and having seen several hours ago what happened when people tried to move outside the line to get through faster, she continued to try and read the people around her. Directly in front of her was a human gentleman who was clearly the servant of someone with wealth. Unlike the condition of both herself and those around her he was clean - though after spending over six hours in line he too had become relatively drenched in sweat from the sweltering heat. Ahead of him was a young female who was likewise dressed in a similar manner, so she turned towards one of the oddest people in line. A man in his early twenties with an octopus on his shoulder.
Being that she could only see him from behind, there was a limit to what she could see - but what stood out the most besides the octopus was that he was soaking wet.
On exactly half of his body.
Every five minutes, the man would reach up to the octopus and the unmistakable pale blue of water magic would wash over the creature and slowly drip down him, soaking what otherwise might have been a fine set of travelers clothes. On his back, were various belts and sashes across his upper torso that seemed to hold a number of containers that the octopus would occasionally reach towards, grab and then hand to the man in question. What skin she could see, seemed gaunt and unhealthy, and he seemed far too slender for a normal person. Ahead of him also seemed to be two more servant type people so it seemed this was likely their ‘master’.
The octopus obviously seemed to be the man’s familiar, though to see such an odd one certainly left questions as to what type of person he was. Familiars were a reflection of the person who summoned them - often being a reference to a particular trait or part of their summoner’s nature. Once they have been summoned that form would be locked in and could not be changed, though supposedly a mage specialized in Earth could pour more magic into the summon to make the creature bigger/smaller/more powerful. It was actually the first time Lysia had seen a familiar that was aquatic based let alone to understand what the octopus might have represented.
The guard man moved and Lysia quickly turned her attention away from the nobleman to grimace as she saw the shift change. She’d been too late. Inwardly cursing at the line, everyone in front of her and the guards who would stop her from making a break for it, she watched the bland man get up, shake hands with a perfectly manicured dwarf, and then leave.
Immediately there was a shift in the pattern that had been the last several hours. The dwarf walked in front of his ‘desk’ and began to pour various ingredients onto the ground - looking at a little black book that he fastidiously checked against. From the chatter she couldn’t quite catch the words he was mumbling to himself but the currents of magic told her all she needed to know. A ritual against falsehoods and what seemed to be a confining charm? She hadn’t anticipated that last bit and cursed. If only the warning she’d received from Nyx had been more than a vague ‘ensure you are past the first border before shift change’ and ‘don’t cause trouble’. Like she knew how long the line would have taken! She’d even shown up at dawn but it was hardly her fault that it had taken so long.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The line began to move faster as people quickly would collect their personal belongings and walk to their fates. Rather than the meander of people crossing the first border check, more and more people were being directed off to the sides where a rotation of guards had appeared to ‘escort’ them for further questioning. One in six people were being let through and Lysia knew which side her fate would be. Even the squid man and his entourage weren’t impervious to the dwarf’s judgment, being led off to the right and disappearing around the corner of the military barracks.
Had this been a more peaceful border, there wouldn’t have been such a need for as many soldiers as there was. That alone would have given her a chance but these were soldiers used to seeing skirmishes and would act to someone suspiciously making a run for it. Chewing the bottom of her lip she waited until she was finally called forth.
“Name?” Even his tone of voice matched his appearance - evenly pitched without the sound of chugging gravel that she typically associated with dwarves.
“Lysia.”
The dwarf up close was even more manicured than she’d initially thought. His amber hair had been slicked back and beautifully braided in such a tight weave that not a single hair was out of place. His bulbous nose sported not a single hair and his wide features showed neither the telltale wrinkles of either approval or disapproval. His fingernails were clean and the upside down writing she caught a glimpse of was impeccable. “Is there a last name, Miss Lysia?”
For a hint of a moment, she glanced at the shimmering dome of blue light before she answered. “I’ve been known as Lysia Fox.” There was no ripple or indication that the barrier noted anything. While non-magical folk could see the barrier, they would simply see a dome. The slightest ripple would likely escape their notice but the shrewdness in the dwarf’s eyes told her she wouldn’t be so lucky.
Yet it wasn’t until he locked eyes with her that a perfectly neat eyebrow arched. “What magic are you channeling?” The man demanded.
When a mage channeled magic through an active cast, it showed its presence in a physical way that was visible even to those without the gift. The various flavors – as Lysia liked to refer to them – of magic showed itself in their eyes, coloring them by their particular magical makeup. Of the six elements – fire, earth, wind, water, light and darkness – a color was associated. Those colors would then act as a layer over their natural eye color allowing them to perceive the mana within the world and interact with it to cast their spells. For the ungifted, it caused them to be rather uneasy at the unnatural appearance. The original eye color would become dominated by the mages specialization while the sclera showed the lesser makeup.
Lysia’s eyes would normally have been a simple green – but while having a cast her sclera went black as did all mages. Flickers of green representing her ability with wind were more visible with the smallest amount of yellow for Earth and tiny wisps of grey for darkness along with a speck of white for light now and again. Over her typical green eyes though was a wreath of bright red making the world seem to burn. There was not even the smallest hint of blue for water – her strength of fire had caused her to be unable to even touch water magic in any form. A fact that was actually rather unheard of.
“Just mage sight as my active cast.” She smiled, taking note of the blue in the dwarfs’ eyes as he too was casting mage sight. Water magic was typically well suited for ritual magic and was common amongst the few dwarves who could actually use magic.
It was uncommon for a mage to be constantly casting mage sight, as it was a continuous tick against their personal mana pool, but Lysia’s was an ocean so she never stopped casting. The world was more alive with magic, so why turn off her ability to see? “Why are you casting it, what level of mage are you?”
“Why wouldn’t I want to see the world through the lens of magic? It is a beautiful explosion of color,” she rebuked.
“Level?” He insisted again, resisting the urge to scowl, Lysia sighed. “Magus level.” The other eyebrow raised.
“Reason for leaving Esmor.” At this point he’d stopped writing and was observing her cautiously. Magus was of the strongest ability of magic users and her claim was not uncontested. Of course, the magic was hardly perfect and could only tell what a person believed. Had she truly thought herself a Magus without the capabilities to match it, the dome would have still offered nothing.
“Job offer.” The man scowled ever so slightly, offsetting his tailored look. It didn’t take an expert to piece together that this was being taken as a grave indignation. Whether it was from suspicion, patriotism or prejudice wasn’t entirely clear but the notion of a Magus leaving Esmor for Zolgait? An atrocity.
The man muttered something far too quiet for her to hear and she immediately felt the clamp of magic attempting to suppress her. Attempting being the key word. With the practiced skill of having played whatever role she needed, Lysia faked the typical gloss eyed shudder of someone who had their will suppressed, letting her mage sight simmer out. “You will be escorted to the right for further questioning. You may take your belongings but they may be confiscated until your case has been processed and cleared.” His eyes still roamed over her body, finally catching sight of her hands which she’d been keenly keeping out of his sight without making it obvious.
“What is wrong with your hands?” He asked. Unlike the dirty beige of the rest of her skin, Lysia’s hands were taut and appeared raised in ugly shades of sickly white, pale reds and pinks. It clashed against the rest of her rather healthy complexion - even if she was covered in mud - though she’d taken great pains to ensure they were at least clean.
“I had a childhood accident that left my hands crippled,” she admitted honestly. “They have little to no strength and I cannot use them very well.” The dwarf noted this down with fervor and keen interest - his opinion of her potential danger diminishing. Which, of course, had been her exact intention. With the way she’d been trained - needing somatics for magic was crude by her standards. The vast majority needed the somatics to guide their magic and help give it purpose that only rare prodigies didn’t require it. Honestly, it wasn’t even that difficult. It was just after being taught to use them as a teaching method it became far more difficult not to use them as a crutch for the shortsighted.
“The guards will escort you now,” the dwarf waved forward a pair of helmed soldiers who took position on either side. “Claimed magus but lame hands. Take her to the inspection point and then to await judgment.” The guards nodded. Lysia squatted, hooping the shoulder straps of her luggage onto her forearms, before bodily shifting them to her shoulder, careful as not to allow anything to brush her hands. This too was noted by the dwarf before he dismissed her from mind, calling the next individual.
At least this part was going according to her original plan. It was all too easy for people to dismiss her. Even once her skill in magic was learned - why would they assume a threat from someone with a disability? So she played it up. A young woman, dirty from the road, chasing after employment - talent that was wasted that she likely couldn’t use. A tragedy, people would mumble. Some might offer help though guilt and she’d even had a few coins tossed her way as a pittance for this grave misfortune that had played against her.
Learning to swallow her pride had been a skill she learned young because otherwise she’d have roasted them all where they stood. She still hated it with every fiber of her being though. As though they were the ones to tell her what her worth was, that her life should be guided by their expectations. Sure there were times when her disability truly made her feel just that. Disabled. Inferior. Frustrated. Despairing. But she worked harder to overcome it. The simple ability to be able to dress herself, to feed herself, to turn the pages of a goddamn book! These struggles that they couldn’t possibly understand, she had won against. And nothing would stop her - not even once they threw her in jail. Because once they looked inside her bag, that was where she was headed.
Now the only question would be, how to break out.