Black Hand. The stares and mistrust, the fear and resentment, the hate and suspicion. Suspected and now confirmed. They all know - all of them - they all know it's me, and they all know what's been done.
“Do you remember, Black Hand? About five years ago, when you and you group of thugs tried coming into here, tried pushing us around, tried extorting protection money?” That had been an ill-fated venture, the folly of youth. “We'd never been the largest guild, and you came in thinking that somehow mattered. Do you remember how it ended? I recall being extremely lenient.”
Remember now. His eyes, those dead calm eyes. Over in a flash. Coming in, talking real big, starting to, at least, and then seeing his face change, seeing that dead calm expression. Stopping my bluster mid sentence, realizing my mistake, and then being paralyzed. Carried out and left a statue on the street. Dead calm, that had been his expression the last time, but this time, despite his words and despite his tone, he doesn't have those same eyes.
“And then,” he says, “when I went to speak with your master about it, he didn't even apologize. But you never came back again, did you? I imagine you put it out of you mind. Just a one off in a series of threats and intimidations and robberies and murders and whatever else. But here I find you, again, darkening my door. By all rights I should put you out on the street and send you on your way. I should.”
The man closing his eyes.
“But here, also, I can see my student, a girl I never had the chance to teach. I see her in you and I see you in her. She's come begging pardon for her tardiness, begging pardon for how everything ended up, begging pardon for how everything is going to turn out.” Reopening his eyes. “I see her, but it isn't her - it's not her - it's you. You're the one who ended up coming. You're a rather poor substitute, wouldn't you say?”
“I won't deny that.”
The man looking at me for a long moment. “Let's see if we can come to some sort of an arrangement.”
Walking over to one of the round tables in the reading area, me on one side and him on the other. Putting the muffins in the center of the table, distributing the mugs and pouring the tea. Sharing an extended silence while sipping our tea.
“Doria, I assume,” he says, about halfway through the mug, “sent you here to see me?” Nodding at him. “She was always considerate, but I fear she's more a fan of tea and muffins than I am.”
“It's my understanding that she is your star pupil.”
“What makes you say- oh, I suppose, in a way, that's accurate. She did end up making the most progress out of any of my students, but we've never especially tended toward that sort of advancement. It's never really been in the nature of the people who pass through here to desire that sort of thing. We've always been more bookish and philosophical.”
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“My star pupil,” the man mulling over the phrase. “Doria has never advanced beyond the thirteenth rank. She didn't care to, it wasn't something she especially desired. You, on the other hand, certainly have that desire, and you've certainly demonstrated the ability to achieve it. It's part of the reason I'm so loathe to train you, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued to do so for that very same reason, as well. I still don't know if I can do it without regret.”
“I'm working to get the guilds reinstated.”
“Is that so?” The man offering a mild rebuff. “Is that going to solve things?”
“I'm going to find out what happened to this girl.”
Looking up at the ceiling, the man suddenly appearing very tired and old. Coming to a decision. “So what do you know,” his eyes now void of doubt, “about magic?”
***
“So you know nothing.” A frown punctuating his statement. The table had been loaded with a number of tomes and scrolls showing flowing scripts of arcane runes, the remainder of the muffins and tea long forgotten.
“I told you, I've been fighting spellcasters for the last seven years. I know quite a bit.”
“But you know nothing of the theory.” Bringing a hand up to his temple. “Where to start, and in a way you'll understand.”
“I understand plenty, Wizards can shoot lightning.”
“Wizards can shoot,” spitting the words, incredulous, “if that's your understanding, then- no, wait, that can work.” Pushing the documents aside, haphazardly clearing a large space and some of them falling onto the floor. Using his finger to draw on the table itself, marks appearing under his finger. “You're correct, in your crude way of putting it, Wizards can shoot lighting. Let's put them down here. They have domain over elemental magic and can conjure fire, water, bursts of wind, rock and, yes, lightning. They also have access to some, a bit, of the arcane. That's where we reside, here, just above them.
“Now, over here, to the right of Wizards, at this juncture, are Sorcerers. The are at the nexus between the elements, the arcane, and near the spiritual sphere of Clerics, Mystics, Augurs and Paladins. This gives them a rather unique position in conjuring.”
“Demons.”
“Yes, but they're not alone in that. Over here to the left are Magi. They're at the nexus of the elements, the arcane and the natural sphere of Bards, Rangers, Empaths and Druids.”
“And they use Blood Magic.”
“Yes. That.” The word coming out with distaste. “Blood Magic.” Taking a breath.
“Anyway, between the demons brought into being by Sorcerers and Magi, frankly, I couldn't tell you the difference. They both seem to look and act very similarly, but I've had several long, philosophical conversations with both groups and they swear it's as different as night and day. What, however, is the obvious commonality between the two? The fact that they have been shaped into being. The arcane, where we reside, is what is responsible for that. It provides the energy for doing so.
“Finally, over here, above us,” moving his hand to the fourth quadrant, “is the physical realm, which we are influenced by. Our counterpart on that side, the Warder, has an inverse sort of philosophy as us. Wizards use the arcane as the spark for their elemental magic, we use the physical as the medium for the arcane - hence the need for physical rune structures, with some exceptions. While physical rune structures may be, in some ways, constraining, the benefit is that we don't need to wave our arms about in an approximation of those structures, or mumble some words in order to cast spells.”
Pausing, lifting his finger from the table.
“Unlike the spiritual realm, which petitions deities for miracles, or the natural realm, which works with what already exists, we impose a new vision on the world through force of will. You are currently at the second rank. When you think about that spell, Runic Shield, or rather the thing that symbolizes Runic Shield in your mind, what do you see?”
“Its a circle inside a pentagon, or rather, its a sphere inside a twelve sided figure.”
“Really?” he says, in surprise, “draw it for me.” Handing me a pencil.
[https://i.imgur.com/xkJ0hGg.png]
“Now, that's interesting,” he says. “Usually when I first ask that question I get told a circle inside a square, or a sphere inside a cube.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No, you're actually closer to what the real figure may actually be. My assumption is that the true figure is, in fact, a circle inside of a circle, or a sphere inside of a sphere. I, myself, am not even there yet, but as your understanding increases, the shape of the runes that you envision will change. How are you at needlework?”
“Poison? Used it here and there, but its not my preferred style.”
“No.” Putting his hand over his face and muttering to himself. “Of course you'd think that. I meant sewing.”
“Never felt the need.”
“You should pick it up.”
“If you're talking about putting these things on clothing, wouldn't it be even better to have them tattooed on your skin, rather than sewn?”
“Well, yes and no. The runes that you use are based on your own vision, so its essential, required, in fact, that you create them yourself. If you put them on your own skin you'd also be responsible for tattooing yourself, and when your understanding changes, as it invariably will, you'll be forced to remove the old and redo them. Far easier to simply stitch a design on a new pair of gloves or inside your coat. Or simply do what I've been doing,” The man putting his finger back on the table and starting to draw a picture. Then wiping his hand over it and the drawing vanishing like it had never been. “But back to your figure,” he says, “is this really how it looks, twisted a bit like this?”
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
“Yes.”
“If that's the case, it could be somewhat unstable, but the only way to fix that is with practice. Draw the figure on your hand and try to get it to activate.”
***
“Hopeless.” The man shaking his head. Had already been at it for about an hour with no progress whatsoever. “Didn't they teach you anything aside from stabbing things and stealing?” Putting his chin in his hand. “None of the usual exercises seem to be working, so what could we be missing? When you were going about your previous work, how did you prepare yourself?”
“I tried to focus, calm myself down.”
“Really? I didn't think you seemed the type. Figured it was all smash and grab.”
“There's a time and a place for everything. Sneaking, and especially lockpicking, are very delicate, precise pieces of work.”
“Okay,” he says, waving his hand, “you've got no real aptitude for controlling your mana. So, for now, forget those other exercises and instead get yourself focused - pretend like you're going to be picking a lock - and then try send some mana to the rune. Infuse the rune and force it to activate.”
Taking a deep breath and trying to focus. Looking at the rune scrawled on my hand like a particularly intricate lock. The mana still sitting there in a pool. Not moving. Trying to coax it into the rune, like a pick. Feeling around the rune for a bit, probing, and then finding something that feels a little different, a slightly softer spot that hadn't seemed to exist before. Focusing on that spot and a slow trickle of mana beginning to creep over. Focusing all my attention on it, and then a dam bursting, the rune suddenly filling and a translucent barrier springing into existence around me, then fading to transparency. Still there. Feeling both exultant and a little bit drained.
“Excellent.” The man standing up, turning around and then suddenly whipping a book at me. On reflex bringing out my hand to try and block it, and a crackling barrier, a flickering shower of sparks and energy, materializing into the area near my hand, blocking the projectile. My concentration breaking from shock and the barrier disappearing.
“Very nice.” The man nodding in approval. “You've finally managed to activate it. And, I must say, I'm relieved using it comes more naturally to you than casting it in the first place. Now release the spell.”
“How?”
“You should be able to feel the mana in the rune. Let it out. It'll escape, you won't get it back, but the spell will be released.”
Focusing on the rune. Feeling it again from all sides. It feels full, engorged. Putting some pressure on one side, in one spot, and pressing in. The pressure seeming to indent, and then puncture. The mana bleeding out.
“Okay,” he says, “create it again.”
Repeating the earlier steps: breathing steady, focus, a slow trickle - slightly quicker this time - and then all at once. The shield winking back into existence. Feeling a bit more drained.
“Great, you've got the feel for it.” My master grinning widely and handing me a small piece of charcoal. “We're done for the day and you've exceeded my expectations. You need to go out now and practice using it. Come back in a couple days when you've gotten a bit further, but when you do come back, could you bring something a little more substantial to eat?”
***
Runic Shield had been incredible. A magical barrier with no fixed shape that could be directed with my hand and that served as a real shield. It's range could be anywhere from right next to my skin to all the way out to my armspan, in any direction. It could even be used to hold the rats in place while lining up a killing strike with the knife.
The rats, themselves? The usual squeaky, not too bright, not very difficult, about the size of a terrier, chunks of experience. Eighty a pop, but every level they'd give ten less, until finally nothing at level 10. So exterminating as many possible, as soon as possible, in order to get as far ahead as possible in my gradually absorbing pool, had been essential. And they'd been everywhere. After the festival their numbers had swelled as they'd gorged themselves on all of the trash. With their numbers bursting beyond control finding them had proven no issue. A good number had even decided to bring themselves to me. Slightly before seven now and slightly under two hundred Giant Rats in about seven hours. Slower at the start, and then slower at the end when they started getting skinned, stem to sternum, their matted pelts filling my pack to overfull.
Level: 2
Experience: 5,834 (15,466)
Until Next: 466
Mental TP's: 12
Physical TP's: 6
Finally exiting the sewers, exhausted, starving, covered in grime and rat guts, but thoroughly invigorated by a job well done. A great feeling. Counting out the payment at the furrier, about forty silver. Great experience, but not great pay. Walking out of his shop, still covered in filth, and being waylaid by an older woman wearing a bright multicolored shawl. Appearing from a side street, moving in a direct line, and getting herself in my way. Trying to walk around her, but being blocked.
“Oh that's something, now.” Her eyes dancing and lively. “Very interesting, certainly very peculiar, I'd say.”
“Excuse me.”
“Hold on.” The woman managing to block my way again, with a surprising agility. “You look like you have quite a lot on your mind. Would you care for a reading?”
“No.”
“Don't be like that.” The woman pulling out a deck of oversized cards and starting to shuffle. “I'll do a reading. Sit. Do you really have anywhere else you need to be right now?”
“Yeah, I need to take a shower and get some dinner.”
“That might be what you think you need, but it may not be what's best. Don't you want to know if you can still escape your fate, Ms. Macarthy? Sit.”
The last word insistent, her eyes boring into mine. Finding myself sinking down onto the sidewalk and taking a seat.
“First, your past, what led you here.” Drawing the top three and laying them out. The Devil. The World, reversed. The Hermit, reversed. “Its clear what led you here, I'm sure you know just as well. All your deeds and misdeeds. Surely you didn't think they'd never manage to catch up? Next, your situation right now and your immediate path.” The Wheel of Fortune. Judgment. The Chariot. “It seems that you're caught in the hands of fate and there's nothing you can do to break free. But that's not necessarily a bad thing: reflect on that, understand that, and you'll be able to save yourself a great deal of misfortune and sorrow. Now, your future.” The Star, reversed. The Moon, reversed. The Tower. “There appears to be hardship in your future. Beware false paths and false promises.” Looking at me intently. “Go to the bathhouse. Seek the guidance and wisdom of the Council. They'll surely help you weather what's coming and avoid some of the pitfalls that are awaiting you.” With that her intensity fading, and taking a breath. “That will be five silver for the reading.”
Resisting the urge to yell at the woman and slowly climbing to my feet. Placing five silver into her outstretched hand. The bathhouse. Really? All that hokum to charge me five silver because of being in the sewers all day, because of the dirt and smell. Ripped off by a crazy old woman. Not sure who's crazier. Her, for spinning all that, or me, for paying. Starting to head back to the newbie dorm but then turning instead to head in the direction of the bathhouse. Actually following her advice, no question who's crazier now.
Walking through the dark streets and passing couples and groups enjoying their meals and drinks at the end of the day outside the lighted inns and restaurants dotting the streets of the guild district, their laughing and banter washing over me like a garbled mass. Heading east in the direction of the bathhouse, on the northern end of the merchant district near the inner wall, and wondering what, if anything, could possibly be there.
The exterior a cream colored stone featuring columns and arches, the building a story and a half high. Humidity from the baths evident in the lobby but, without a doubt, more pleasant than the sewers. Two attendants at the desk, one giving me a pinched look, the other a lingering stare.
“Excuse me, I'm here for-”
“Five silver for a bath,” says the one with the pinched look, “and another five we'll clean your gear. Lockers are down that way but you can't go in wearing that mess.”
“Fine.”
Loosening the buckles, sliding my feet out of the boots, removing my pants, outer shirt and gloves. Counting out ten silver and getting a locker key on a lanyard and a ticket in return.
“I'll be back with this pack for you to wash, too, I've got a change of underwear in here but I need to throw some stuff in the locker, first.”
Going down the short hallway to the right of the desk, the entrance to the men's lockers on the left and the women's on the right. Going right. The locker room with a few women in various states of undress, but not overly busy. Three rows of lockers, one on each side, and a row two deep, facing both ways, in the middle. Finding the same locker as the number on the key and putting everything that wasn't contaminated with rat guts inside. Disrobing and wrapping a towel around me. About to leave, but then remembering the piece of charcoal. Redrawing the rune on my hand and refreshing the spell.
Bringing the dirty pack to the front desk and then returning to the lockers and undoing my braid. Exiting toward the baths and discovering a large chain operated shower head that produced cold water on the way. Putting the hand with the rune under the running water and then rubbing the design off. The spell still active, could still feel the mana from the rune even though it had been removed. Testing it, and the shield activating for a brief moment, producing that wonderful, cracking flash of light.
My quick, relieved laugh bouncing off the tiles. Stepping under the spray of cold water in order to remove the grime and filth coving my head. Need to get a cloak with a hood. That's the top priority. Walking out into the bathing area proper, shivering. Oh, now look at this.
The women's bath is a large rectangle with three different pools and no ceiling, the stars and moon visible in the night sky above, and the perimeter decorated with stylized arches and columns with spots here and there giving off soft yellow light. Seems busy. Women relaxing alone, chatting one on one and in small groups, walking from pool to pool, or drying themselves off with towels while heading back toward the area with the lockers. Naked as the day they were born.
Taking it all in, composing myself - feeling like something of an interloper - and then heading to the nearest pool. Dipping my toe in. Lukewarm. Heading to the next. Warmer. And then the third. Hottest. Finding a spot, getting in and sitting on the step, my head resting on the edge and my hair trailing off into the water. Just sitting and soaking, letting the heat soothe my long overworked muscles and enjoying the view. A beautiful night and a beautiful view.
This has really been something. Had thought it'd be a vacation, something different from the ordinary. Wouldn't have signed up for it, but so far it definitely has managed to live up to that.