"If you don't hold still, this will tear," the young man said as he waited for the thief to stop thrashing on the table. He wore a stiffly embroidered red tunic that ended just below his elbows, the starched white shirt sleeves beneath dappled with spots of blood. His black, loose trousers were covered by the deep red, floor-length kilt bordered with gold-colored thread. The trappings of a healer in this harbor town of Stolikar.
His face was smooth and gamine, his fine ginger-brown cut hair short. His expression was focused as he pulled the curved bone needle leading black thread through the mottled green flesh of the sobbing and horribly drunk orc on his wooden examination table. The patient was an underfed specimen, the discoloration of the eyes coming from years of abusing yellow sap, that mild narcotic known to cause rotting effects from prolonged use. The cut was a bad one, along the shoulder, ragged and infected. The young healer had cleaned the wound with an astringent and was almost finished with the sutures while he trying to ignore the stench of the orc.
The orc was ugly, even by his people's standards, with one of his under-tusks broken long ago; his thick eye-ridges masked by heavy brows and spiky, black hair. A twisting serpent mark of the Krakens adorned his neck. It matched the one on the neck of the third person in the small healer's room. The human who was leaning back against the counter of his workshop.
Margin was tall and well-muscled, dressed in only a leather vest and rough woolen pants, sheathed blades along his vest and around his hips. His arms were crossed, showcasing his thick chest. His trimmed beard fell into a braided goatee that almost met his chest, while his head was meticulously shaved. His unsettling focus rested on the young.
"There," the healer said, wrapping a poultice that had several ingredients none of the other healers in this violent city would even think of using, but he knew would almost halve the healing time of the wound and keep it clear of infection. At least it would if the orc could keep it clean, which from the smell of the...man, he supposed, was going to be a losing battle.
The young man glanced at Margin as he wiped his hands clean on a blood-stained towel. "Give Mother Lacoco my regards," he said softly, inwardly sighing at the leader of the Krakens' habit of sending 'accidents' like this his way, ever since he had unfortunately fallen into the Mother's debt. Or, rather, she had manipulated him into it.
Margin smirked and pushed the orc off the table with ease. The orc gabbled hoarsely in its language, wincing. <"Not hard, Big Man, hurt, hurt!">. The young healer was putting away his instruments in the wooden water bowl to clean with boiling water later. He responded in the same language, struggling slightly with the glottal sounds of the accents. <"Keep clean, drink water, rest,"> he said.
Margin moved the orc, looking back at the healer. "From him, orcish sounds normal; from you, it sounds like a piglet squealing. How's the wife, piglet?" His smirk grew, his voice a deep growl.
Reid's expression hardened. "She moved to stay with family in Kohar," he lied easily, another one in his long list of untruths.
"I heard she left town with that trader, what was his name? Kreiger, Krogan?.."
"Kerigan," Reid responded, color coming high on his cheeks. Anger, regret, shame, and a hint of self-loathing. "He's a close friend of the family. He kindly offered to escort her with his caravan while I remain to keep my practice open here. Now, if there is nothing more, I believe my services to the good Mother are complete for tonight."
The big man had pushed the smaller orc towards the door, where it stumbled and fumbled with the knob. "Yeah," Margin's smile broadened. "I hear he's a real close friend of the family," he emphasized. "Real close," he smirked.
Margin guided the orc toward the door, opening it with impatience. The orc tumbled down the short stone steps to the hard wooden, wet stones of the wide alleyway behind Reid's home and healing workshop. He landed in a splash of mud and piss. So much for keeping his wound clean, Reid thought.
Reid's pressed his lips tight together. He would not give the bully the satisfaction. "Good night, Margin." He said as coldly as he could, the bigger man holding the door open as he looked up and down the street while the orc was rolling to his back to try to sit up. Marigan seemed to loom over the slim healer in the small room as he looked back at him and smiled. "Well, if you ever get lonely, you just let me know. I know a few old cunny who'll keep you warm for a few pennies. Keep that in mind." He took one last look around the room, with its rigidly organized cabinets and shelves, all straight lines and clean surfaces, as if he was remembering it for something. And without another word, he closed the door behind him.
The young man breathed in deeply, standing there with his hands over his stomach beneath the stiff tunic. He took his time to reign in his emotions, his tight tunic and high, stiff collar feeling like a noose around him. He looked down to see the blood on his hands.
He poured water from a pitcher into a bowl and washed his hands several times with the special, harsh soap he had learned to make himself. In a few moments, his hands were raw and pink, and he washed more if only for the distraction. Eventually, he dried his hands as he turned to the door. He moved to it, and feeling exposed, he pulled on the side side of the wide, wooden frame.
Just next to where the door handle knob was situated, the frame opened, the side a hidden panel, exposing the fact it was hollow. Therein lay a complex series of iron bars and joints. He pulled up a lever, and the bars moved into hidden recesses across all four corners of the door and surrounding wall with a muted
He closed the recess and returned to his large, empty house. Though filled with the furnishing and detritus of a life spent in a lie, it felt empty without his...wife and the child she bore. Things were better off this way.
Amerline had finally found a man to love, and they were going to make a new life for themselves with their, not his, child. Reid accepted the role of stoic scapegoat, enduring the public shame as he always had. It was a painful part of the disguise.
He ascended his way up the steps to the second floor, where more than half of the space was dedicated to the Workshop. He stood before the metal-banded hardwood door, which oddly bore no noticeable handle or doorknob. Opening a small box affixed to the wall at waist height, he lifted the lid and placed his hand inside, fingers spread lightly. Dozens of thin, brass needles moved over the skin of his hand until he touched the bottom of the box. The door clicked open as very slight pressure from the needles passed over the unique contours of his hand, revealing his private haven.
He walked into the cluttered space, turning to close the door. On this side, there was a handle, but only he could enter this, his sanctum. Leaning his head back against the door against the door, he sighed heavily. He reached up to loosen a button near his shoulder, revealing the clothing opening with a series of hooks and latches that ran down the side of his chest and stomach. Each hook released with a soft click as the stiff tunic opened.
Reid turned to take the tunic off of his shoulders, folding it carefully, even if it was going to be washed later. He walked towards the standing wardrobe, opened the double doors, and pulled his white shirt over his head.
His skin was pale as if he hadn't seen the sun bare-chested in quite some time. His body was soft and slim, and from behind, beneath sharp shoulder blades, were the crisscrossed series of cloth wraps. They circled beneath his arms, and around and around his chest.
He began to unroll them, each length providing more and more relief as the tension eased, until finally, he dropped the rolled, thin cloth onto a small shelf in the cabinet, where its twins lay rolled in neat order.
He turned from the closet, a soft, cotton shirt that he began to lift and pull over his head. As the shirt settled, Reid rubbed at the sides of her small, high breasts, aching from the extended hours of keeping her form hidden from the world. She spent a few, luxurious moments kneading the muscles along her sides and chest, sighing deeply.
Finally, with a released breath, she settled the shirt that hung loose around her frame as she rolled up her sleeves. Reid looked about the room and stood there for a long time, a thoughtful, and slightly sad expression upon her face. The same expression she had worn most of her life...
Amidst the hundred pieces of parchment adorning the walls with their intricate designs and cluttered notes, Reid made her way to her desk. However, her sizable desk presented a stark contrast. Here, her neatly stacked journals aligned at their edges, creating an expanse of uncluttered space. Resting in the center of the desk was a stack of letters, each on different styles and sizes of vellum and parchment.
Night after night, for hours on end, Reid sought solace in her sanctum to contemplate her day. It was here that she could escape the facade she wore—the bound chest, the subtle lowering of her voice, and the occasional purposeful 'shaving' nicks on her chin.
She lied to everyone who laid eyes on Reid the healer—the youngest person in Stolikar to have earned the coveted red kilt and cap in quite some time. Yet, when night fell, she shed this identity and embraced the mantle of Reid the Scholar, revealing her true self. In a city teeming with pirates, gangs, and far more sinister elements, being a woman of intellect was a perilous proposition. But within the confines of her sanctuary, authenticity thrived.
She carried the weight of a family she had deliberately sent away—a family of convenience, a mutual arrangement. Amerline sought refuge from her kin, while Reid required a tool to solidify the illusion of a young man rising through the ranks of the city. The partnership proved beneficial to both; Amerline continued her clandestine relationship with the man who truly held her heart, and Reid acquired a shield against the prying eyes of suspicion.
Strangely enough, the well-guarded secret surrounding Reid's 'spouse' manifested itself in a twist of irony. Public sightings of Reid's wife being involved with a merchant, culminating in the birth of a child from their clandestine encounters, served as a glaring stain on his reputation. Paradoxically, this very public scandal lent solidity to the foundation of the elaborate facade.
When the opportunity arose to facilitate Amerline's departure alongside her lover and their child to the safer haven of Kora, Reid seized it with a mix of relief and accomplishment. The act of orchestrating Amerline's escape brought a sense of purpose, a glimmer of virtuous redemption to the maze of falsehoods Reid had woven. In part, this endeavor allowed Reid to turn the gossipy tide away from herself, granting her a brief respite from the probing eyes and wagging tongues of the city's denizens.
Behind the shelter of closed doors, within the echoing expanse of her solitary abode—with only Agnes, her maid, a constant presence—Reid found herself settled at her desk, her thoughts unfurling like tendrils of smoke. Even in her earliest days, the awareness stirred within her: her mind held a distinct quality, setting her apart from the norm. This odd skill, which she often thought of as a wolf tending to a bone in hushed patience, allowed her to wrestle with problems or queries until solutions were extracted, often arriving unbidden while she directed her focus elsewhere. Curiously, these moments of revelation frequently emerged during the completion of mundane tasks—needlework, cooking, the monotonous ritual of cleaning. These were the 'wifely' obligations that had been destined for, roles she had worked hard to escape.
Now, with the privilege of enlisting others to perform the domestic arts of cleaning, cooking, and sewing, her 'thought plays', as she thought of them, took on a novel guise. They evolved into a tonic, a tranquil pool wherein she could immerse herself. Amerline, perceptive in her own right, once explained that is looked like Reid turned to an intrigued eavesdropper, strained to catch elusive fragments of a distant conversation. Like now. Each thread of inquiry, each theory, was meticulously woven into the tapestry of her contemplation. The process was ceaseless, unrelenting—much akin to the tireless dwarven forges situated upstream, where stout blacksmiths labored in unending shifts through the cycle of day and night. So too, her thinking never seemed to end.
Abruptly, solutions would unveil themselves, as though a separate facet of her mind had tirelessly unraveled the problem and offered up its resolution. A realm of unending questions and solutions existed within her thoughts, brought to paper only when it was imperative to share her designs with the blacksmiths, silversmiths, and other artisans of the city. The act of transcribing seemed almost superfluous—why etch designs onto parchment when her mind was an infinite repository of knowledge, ceaselessly craving more?
Sighing, Reid settled at her desk, ruminating on the enigma she had debated with Old Jacob and Try'Mak, her comrades—or rivals—among Stolikar's healers. A source of infection had eluded her; an elusive origin of maladies that spanned from infections to plagues. Reid was resolute that there was a way to unveil it, to detect it. These afflictions, though seemingly distinct, shared an underlying root, and she believed there was a hidden agent, a seed of sorts, that transmitted this malevolence from person to person. An infected link that brought about identical afflictions in its wake.
The notion of bees had triggered a spark of revelation within her from her past. A childhood summer spent in their company, frequently stung, had compelled her to study these diligent insects. The sight of a broken hive within a trunk had captivated her curiosity. The impeccable architecture of each hexagonal cell underscored the genius of its design—each six-sided form showcased both strength and efficiency. The pollen—yellow dusting on their legs—resonated as a vital clue. In her epiphany, she grasped that these bees served as agents of dispersion, mirroring the way disease operated.
In the intricate choreography of nature, bees carried the essence of life from flower to flower, a delicate dance that interwove the existence of plants. Much like disease, they propagated, moving from one host to another, seeding affliction in their wake.
Reid was aware that there existed a wealth of alchemical texts and wizardly manuscripts in the world, and she combed through the scarce resources available to her. The great library of Arcanum, distant and revered, held many of these precious tomes, but its treasures remained elusive. Nonetheless, she had invested handsomely in what parchments and scrolls she could find, seeking out fragments that touched upon the sciences and the manipulation of the world's very essence—a talent so finely honed by the mages. The pursuit of knowledge was a sacred endeavor, a coveted gem fiercely safeguarded within the recesses of time. And in this pursuit, she recognized the breadth of uncharted realms, a tapestry woven by predecessors whose secrets were locked behind veils of silence.
The weight of rediscovery and reinvention burdened her. With each step she took along these roads, she sensed shadows of those who had come before, their whispered insights resonating like an echo through the ages. Her journey often felt as much about reclaiming forgotten wisdom as forging new trails of understanding. And yet, in this web of rediscovery, one question beckoned—a question of vision, of peering into the infinitesimal and the minuscule beyond. Pondering this, she directed her gaze downward, her thoughts as concentrated as the stack of letters and correspondences before her.
These were letters of inquiry, a web woven by her interactions with fellow scholars, their knowledge spanning from Freeport to Aridorn. In their collective perception, she was a fellow scholar—a masquerade she carefully maintained. The irony was not lost on her; their willingness to answer her queries and even seek her counsel hinged on the falsehoods veiling her true identity.
A spread of letters adorned her desk like a mosaic of intellect. In her unconventional approach, she unearthed a technique had not witnessed in anyone else she had encountered. Her perceptive mind had refined the art of not merely reading, but rather capturing the essence of the text with a single glance. With every letter, she absorbed the words in a single look—a dance of visual cognition that rendered the task of sequential reading obsolete. Minutes blurred as twenty missives succumbed to her gaze, their contents etched into her consciousness.
In a rush of insight, she grasped the solution. Her gaze lingered on a distant, concealed shore, and she found herself absorbed by the epiphany. Within the confines of her mind, the answer materialized – a convergence of fleeting images: the play of forms seen through water's distortion, the enhanced clarity of wood's grain when observed through the glass. This amalgamation culminated in a vision of suspended raindrops, not touching but proximate. A vessel, a circular enclosure, took shape in her thoughts, akin to a parchment tube yet endowed with the rigidity of leather. Thinking of a darkened tube, she pondered the entry of light. Her deliberation turned to apertures – not just any apertures, but those for observation and augmented perception. Finally, a notion crystallized: mirrors.
Within the space of her imagination, glass droplets coalesced, a silent alchemy guiding her imagination to shape a rolled vessel wrapped in leather and brass, a rigid form reminiscent of ship's ribs. Amidst this reverie, a small, silvered mirror materialized, akin to a whisper of light, destined to capture and echo the luminance that was allowed within the tube's confines.
A gentle revelation tiptoed upon her consciousness – not a solitary creation, but a harmonious pairing. Two tubes, both with different but united purposes. The riddle of purpose seemed to taunt her for a moment before the answer became clear. The answer lay in the orchestration of perception – this dual nature, one tube a conductor of focus, the second, for of clarity as the glass droplets...no, glass lenses, shifted vision as they approached or separated from each other.
Pieces of brass, wood, and small clockmaker's gears and screws came together to make a stand for the tube, from which it can be used to gaze upon what was there. She knew it would work. Now she simply needed to find the craftsmen who could do the work. It wasn't that she could not do the work herself, but some of the craftings would eventually require expanding her workshop. She felt a pang. With no one living here but herself, she supposed she had all the room she needed now.
She looked down. She had read all the letters, some multiple pages, and had stacked them on the opposite side of her desk. Reid also knew the hour, and if she were to look out a window, of which none existed in this room, she knew she would see the graying sky as the coming dawn began to overwhelm the night. Her stomach growled and her mouth was dry. She had spent several hours on her idea, and now, she needed to implement it.
Reid stood and stretched. This was another night of no sleep. Reid could function for sometimes days at a time with little to no sleep, another oddity about her that she kept a secret. She poured herself a cup of water, tinged with herbs and fruit before she moved to the door. Opening it, she peered outside. Agnes had left a basket of clean clothes and a covered platter. The older woman understood her master was very strange.
But she was paid well, she often had her days to herself, and her master had never raised his voice nor hand to her. Working at night to clean clothes, bring up fresh bandages for him to inspect, and providing a covered meal that might, or might not be touched were small things to ask for.
She entered the small adjoining room, taking time to wash and brushing the film off of her teeth with a small bit of bitter powder she had made that left her mouth feeling fresh and removed any taste of food from it. While she washed and began to bind herself once again, she thought again to expand her workshop. Her house was empty, and there were spaces where she could set up more specialized rooms. She understood that the time for relying on other smiths or artisans in the city was inefficient. Far better to rely only on her own skills, save for larger, forged items. With her family gone-
She stopped that track of thought firmly. And locked that door in her mind. She focused instead on finishing dressing, and once more, Reid the healer looked at himself in the mirror. He had a list of tasks to complete this new device, and the day was wasting away.
The morning was spent discussing the most efficient means to create the tiny glass he would need until he described to the glassblower the idea of letting molten droplets fall into cold water. This sometimes happened in the blowing process, and it was always considered leavings. But to be done on purpose seemed to be a waste of time to the blower, but he had done work for Reid before, so he knew of the eccentricities of the slim, clean-shaven healer.
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The tannery for the leather was a matter of moments, but the silversmith, who prided himself on the finely crafted rings and intricate jewelry he made, turned his nose up at the designs made from brass fittings and delicate gears that Reid wanted. It wasn't until Reid stated he would pay for the brass as if it was silver the man relent, and even then, Reid had to wonder just whether or not it was worth it. But that hunger, that need to know, already gave him his answer. He left, feeling exhausted from the haggling and the shouting match the silversmith seemed to relish any time Reid came into his shop.
He paused outside of the smith's shop, putting on his soft, red velvet cap, breathing in to settle himself when he saw a young boy swinging a rock he had tied to some twine. He swung it hard it pulled the twine taught, and other boys around him were jumping over it as he swung it around him low to the ground. While Reid watched, he breathed in, relaxing his nerves, but something about the rock and the string entranced him.
His mind, never seeming to cease its work, was calculating...something. The swinging of the rock on the twine. The large boy holding the twine, the momentum, the pull of the twine to hold the rock seemingly in place in an orbit around the boy. Curious. Something caused him to look up to the Twin Sisters, the dual moons that were now dim in the day sky. Then back down to the rock spinning on place around the boy, held in place by the twine...moving...falling around him, but the momentum, the force outward keeping the line taught...
Reid looked up again at the moons. He had memorized their movements in the sky since childhood. Before he first left home he had tried to explain to Da about the world being round. The horizon held the truth, the stories the sailors told. But like so many others, it was a concept that his father simply didn't want to listen to. So, if the world they lived upon was the boy...and the Twin Sisters...a rock...two rocks...did they spin around the world? Was the night sky the same on the far side as it was here? There was a Truth there. One of the greater revealings that would sometimes hit him like a thunderbolt and opened up greater vistas.
He shook himself slightly, storing away that small addition to that play as he began to weave his way home. Builders, forgers, carpenters, and stone smiths all received a visit from him.
Reid did not notice the men who fell in behind him as he approached the gate to his home. It wasn't until the rhythmic instinct of vigilance kicked in that Reid perceived their presence, a heartbeat too late. He pivoted, his back pressing against the gate, eyes locked onto the enigmatic duo that had ventured too close. A palpable tension hung in the air, his iron key gripped tightly. His voice, though restrained, held a shiver of vulnerability. The unasked question hung between them – their intent, their purpose. "What can I do for you gentlemen? Is someone injured?"
He didn't recognize the men, but they were dressed in leather and mail, and the hilts of their swords were well-worn. One had the wide chest and ruddy complexion of a Westerner, the broad category ofp lains and steppe folk of any lands to the west of Ormek. His hair was in hick, black plaits covered with reddish clay, and his shaven chin sported three vertical lines of blue-tinted tattoos.
His counterpart, a wiry figure swathed in earthy hues of browns and reds, bore an aura of Aeth-touched lineage. High cheekbones framed by the slight sweep of his ears gave a certain ethereal quality to his visage, his eyes a haunting shade of violet, his hair like spun silver. A pair of short swords rested at either hip, an elegant but ominous reminder of his dual nature. He was just an inch or two taller than Reid, and almost half the weight of the other man, but something told Reid that he was the more dangerous of the two.
The Aeth-touched looked to Reid, then up and down the street. "You've been requested to meet with the Black Council." Reid's lips pressed together upon hearing those words.
The pervasive presence of the Black Council, colloquially known as the Black, cast its lingering shadow over every cobblestone of Stolikar. This clandestine governance, an intricate tapestry woven from the ambitions of guild lords, merchant dynasties, and vestiges of an aristocracy long extinguished, orchestrated their symphony of power. A network of puppeteers, they were whispered to be the architects of every ill fortune that dared to befall the city's hapless populace. Yet, amidst this web of intrigue, a damning truth stood – the Black's dominion was irrefutably efficient. Within the rich tapestry of trade that flowed through Stolikar, they exerted their unseen hand, a force that governed both the light and the shadows.
The current generation of this enigmatic council was whispered to comprise twelve figures – a tapestry of men and women who manipulated fate's threads. The semblance of a leader, a nominal head chosen through the shrouded mechanisms of vote or the far more sinister art of assassination, belied the intricate dance that dictated the council's fate. Reid had meticulously navigated the currents of his city, cautiously circumventing any entanglements that bore even a hint of the Black's elusive touch. Now it seemed, this was all for naught.
He was about to protest, when he saw the look in the eyes of the men. They were not bullies like Mardigan. These were professionals, competent and calculating. He was not going to be able to plead or cajole his way out of this. With a resolute nod, his voice projected a steadiness that masked the maelstrom within. "Very well then, please lead the way."
As they traversed the streets, their trajectory guided them toward the heart of the port– the coveted Inner City. An enclave of opulence and privilege concealed behind fortified ramparts, a sanctuary where entry was strictly regulated, and the criteria of purpose ruthlessly assessed. Within this citadel, the city's wealthiest, most potent, and unapologetically cutthroat inhabitants found solace and refuge, casting a formidable barrier between themselves and the teeming masses of Stolikar.
In an endeavor to breach the silence, Reid tentatively initiated small talk. However, his words were met with reticence, the rhythmic cadence of their footsteps the only sound as they continued deeper into the Inner City. The larger of the two men led the way, the streets parting before him, while the second, quiet as a shadow, walked alongside Reid. The notion of evasion or escape was not even considered. Exhausting his efforts, even venturing to inquire about their names, Reid eventually surrendered, matching their pace, his satchel clutched close.
Progressing through one of the city's five gates that allowed entrance into the Inner City, they encountered a squad of armored guards. Reid's guides strode forward, their demeanor unwavering in the face of inspection. Reid's guides walked confidently towards the gates as the men looked at them, the other pedestrians moving in wide arcs around the portals to evade the guards . The streets beyond the gates, though no cleaner in appearance, yielded to grander vistas. Structures stood taller and more distanced from one another, offering the precious gift of breathing room. Amid these thoroughfares, tantalizing glimpses of gardens beyond guarded gates breathed life into this domain, a stark contrast to the congested alleys of the Outer City.
At last, they turned down a wider boulevard and walked towards a square, where, on the far side squatted a blocky structure. A keep that was once the ancestral home of the long-dead royalty of Stolikar, around which the town, and eventually, the city was built. It was crude and ancient and was used primarily by the Black for their nefarious business. The Black's Gullet, it was sometimes called on the streets of Stolikar; for once you go in, it was said, you rarely came back out.
A wide, time-worn, and shallow staircase ascended towards iron doors marked with the scars of eras past – tracks of rust resembling ruddy tears cascading down their face. It was the burlier of Reid's guardians, bearing the earth-tinted plaits, who pounded upon the metal visage with a force that reverberated through the air. This close, Reid could see a small view plate slide open, revealing a scrutinizing gaze from within. "He's here," the larger man announced, moving for the healer's figure to be revealed. Beady eyes took the measure of Reid before the plate clanged shut with a muffled
A rasp of metal against metal ensued, as rust-laden hinges protested in a cacophonous symphony. The monumental door groaned open, affording Reid a glimpse of its substantial width. An attendant, clad in the shadows of black leathers, stood revealed – his stout, wrestler's frame straining in effort to usher the door into motion and quell its swing. Within a heartbeat, Reid's mind deciphered the intricacies of hidden mechanisms, the weight of the monstrous iron doors appearing as inconsequential as a child's plaything. The gears, undoubtedly, operated through a concealed labyrinth of weights and pulleys, their orchestration mere thoughts away – and in this very moment, they ignited the sparks of Reid's analytical mind.
Reid didn't realize he'd stopped to examine the entrance until the second guide pointed down in the direction of the hallway. "This way." the Aeth-touched said with a small inclination of his head. Reid breathed in to steady himself, before moving forward. The door behind them shut with an ominous slam, and Reid could see the guard slide home a massive bolt that was as thick as his thigh. He then noticed the two other guards standing in the shadows of the mage lights on the stone walls, each looking as deadly as the other.
The larger of his two guides watched Reid until he turned back around, then pivoted to lead the way down the stone hallway, really, more of a tunnel. It was dark and the blue-black light from the too few magelight torches gathered at the top of the curved ceiling, making this indeed seem like some great beasts throat. This was clearly a building built with a warrior's mentality, with everything geared towards defending the pirate lords of old, or distant memories of the raids of the savages from the now far Western frontier.
The tunnel led inward, turning into a dogleg in either direction. No storming straight to the heart in this entryway. It was a simple, but effective design. They turned and at the end of this tunnel was a wide opened area that was well light, with several people, voices, and laughter coming from that direction. Reid was slightly relieved that it looked like perhaps there was some lightness to the meeting when his guide pulled him strongly by the arm into an almost unseen set of steps that lead up in a tight spiral. They walked up several turns to another floor, now the hallway they came upon was better lit, with a long, ornate floor covering that ran down the length of the hall. Here, the walls were oaken panels and tapestries, and the light here came from high, narrow slits that faced the fading afternoon light and the torches that drove away the remaining shadows.
The Aeth-touched guide gestured Reid to one side of the hallway, and he opened a stout wooden door, and bid him to enter.
"Of course," Reid acknowledged the unspoken cue. Adrift in a sea of uncertainty, he recognized the need for a modicum of civility in this strange encounter, particularly considering the demeanor of his escorts.
The guide with the facial tattoos emitted a derisive snort, his form poised in the hallway, propped against the stone wall. In stark contrast, the slighter Aeth-touched, gave a small smile, punctuating the moment with a modest bow as Reid crossed the threshold.
The room sprawled expansively, yet an air of confinement lingered within its walls, an absence of windows intensifying the sensation. Stone surfaces were adorned with an eclectic array of tapestries, each depicting landscapes and realms both distant and near. Immediate attention was drawn to the room's occupants – two individuals engaged in conversation, their stance and dialogue suggesting an ongoing discourse. Seated before them was a third figure behind a massive oaken desk.
The final figure was the unequivocal focal point of Reid's attention. Mother Lacoco, sovereign of the Kraken's – her name alone commanded reverence. She loomed behind the desk, a rotund and formidable orc, her hue a tapestry of gray and green. A vestige of rare intellect and cunning had enabled her ascent to a pinnacle of influence, a feat unparalleled among her kind. A distant recollection flickered – his father once coined orcs, goblins, and their ilk, the perpetual denizens of the fringes, as "under-men." An appellation that seemed now to shrink beneath the imposing visage of this woman who, in the currency of power, could effortlessly wipe out men like Reid's own father with a simple word.
She had that peculiar physiological state where notonly did she grow more rotund from obesity, but also larger until she might bemistaken for an ogre if one did not know otherwise. A direct result ofher wealth, where she could consume whatever she desired whenever she desired,something that orcs in the wilds of their villages and mountain lairs rarelycould do.
Draped in an expanse of flowing fabric resembling a gown, she wore a cascade of blue silk; her feet, possessing horn-like protrusions, protruded beneath the sea of material. Her face bore two vivid circles of rouge, the lush coloration framing a visage where thick lips, resembling squirming greenish slugs, parted to reveal meticulously filed teeth. While she had opted to retain her undertusks, a common feature among other orcs, they remained diligently filed down. The rest of her teeth were honed into pointed forms, a vision that caused an internal shudder within Reid as he pondered the agony inherent in such an undertaking. Her eyes, small yet ablaze with a keen cunning, emanated a reddish hue, while her nose, often upturned and pig-like in other orcs, displayed a breadth and flatness more befitting her character. Wisps of coarse hair sprouted from her upper lip, entwining with the tufts upon her nose.
Oddly, she had a full head of beautifullyluxurious black hair, oiled and curled. It lay about her rounded and muscled shoulders, which were wider thanmost men Reid had encountered. Her fat, clawed fingers were encrusted withrings, and bangles and bracelets covered her wrists where they peeked out ofthe fabric. She had a wide, metal goblet in her hand, and she smiled hershark tooth smile as Reid entered.
The other two figures were men, and one was Old Jacob himself. Old Jacob the healer, so-called because his younger son was also named Jacob, and so was commonly referred to as Jacob the Younger. Regardless of the fact that Jacob the Younger had nothing to do with healing.
Old Jacob was still fit, but he was leaning on his engraved staff, his own ocre-colored tunic as well-tailored as his own floor-length kilt. His silver hair was long and braided down his back, and his equally impressive beard was plaited into three long braids, golden thread woven among the plaits. His nose was a hooked beak, large for his face, and he had the habit of tilting his head back, like now, so it appeared as if a great bird of prey were eyeing you before he decided to eat his prey.
The other healer stopped speaking at the same time as the other man. No. Not a man, not truly. But a full-blooded Aeth, not the diluted Aeth-touched like Reid's guide. He was almost seven feet tall, and leaner than Reid himself. His hair was the color of golden sunlight and seemed almost to glow in the light of the candles about the room as it cascaded almost to the floor, both down his back and over his shoulders. His face was long and thin, his eyes having a slight tilt to them, gold, and flat, while his ears were swept up and thin. His mouth was a slash of thin lips in his pale face, and his nose was a ruler-straight edge down his face. His skull was symmetrically perfect, whereas most humans were an amalgam of slightly mismatched features, so looking at his face was slightly off-putting and entrancing at the same time
He was attired in an intricately embroidered tunic, an elegant expanse that enveloped his throat, descending to just beneath his chin. The seamless, gold-threaded fabric swept down in fluid waves of green silk, concealing his feet as it unfurled across the stone floor. Surveying Reid's presence, this Aeth performed a deliberate, unhurried appraisal, his demeanor as unyielding as stone. Hidden hands lingered within his voluminous, billowing sleeves, arms gently folded against his waist, their containment hinting at the enigma concealed beneath.
Reid was aware of who this was. He made it a point to attempt to find out just who were the influential and powerful in Stolikar. This was the rarely seen Lora Mora, one of the handful of true Aeth who pulled so many strings in this pirate harbor.
Old Jacob, when he saw who entered, straightened himself, his chest puffed out. "This is who you called for? I expected someone of the Red Tower, or perhaps of the Sisters of the Arbiter, but him?" He seemed about to say more, but between Mother Lacoco's cackle that broke out, and this, Lord Mora raising a finger, his stopped, looking between the two of them, then to Reid.
The Aeth turned fully to look down at Reid. To Reid's knowledge, there were perhaps a hand handful of Aeth in the city, as nowhere did it seem that orc and Aeth could live in peace. But here, in the same room, were two apparently powerful representatives of their race coming together for...something. Something that clearly involved Reid in some way.
Lord Mora tilted his head slightly, resembling a hound dog hearing something interesting. "Master Reid," he stated simply by way of introduction. "Thank you for coming to visit our small conclave." His voice was high and effeminate, and had an odd vibrato to it, as if he were almost singing at the same time. The accent was lilting and singsong, and Reid had an errant thought that this Aeth could make a fortune as a bard telling stories.
Mother Lacoco took a slurping sip of her goblet. "He haf a bery cleber mind, he haf," she said through her thick, moist lips in her guttural approximation of the common tongue spoken here in Stolikar. "He haf make-a me a bery cleber toy," she said, mentioning the clockwork spider that Reid had made for her last summer. "He can-a do dis ting."
Reid felt his throat dry, but kept his expression neutral. The Aeth-blooded guide had retreated to one side of the room, next to the door they entered, while there was a second door behind Lord Mora and Old Jacob.
Hecleared his throat slightly. "I was informed that mypresence was requested. It is a pleasure to see you all, Lord Mora, MistressLacoco, Master Jacob. If I may ask, howmay I be of assistance?"
The fact that Old Jacob was here led Reid to think that the issue was something medical. But he could be wrong.
TheAeth nodded slightly at Reid's civility. "We would like one toexamine a person, then we wish to have an opinion stated, then an offer will bemade, which will be accepted," he said in that almost singing voice ofhis. He nodded towards the other door, and with a look to Old Jacob, theother healer opened it. Lord Mora's handcame out from his wide sleeve, the fingers unnaturally long as he gracefully gesturedReid forward. Reid walked to the door, a room light beyond. Old Jacobmade a move to follow, but just the slightest glance from the Aeth stopped himin his tracks.
As Reid moved forward, he was hit with the smell ofdeath and meat just about to go bad. This room had a window, thediminishing sun competing with three mage light torches for illumination, whilethe air barely moved out of the open window. It was a bare, stone room,and in its center was a table, and what was clearly a human body lying under adingy sheet. Lord Mora closed the door, and standing away from thewindow, one hand behind his back, gestured with the other for Reid toproceed. "Please examine, then one will state anopinion." The Aeth's other hand came to in a loose fist against the his chest, standing tall and rigid.
Hesitantly, curious as to what the fuss was about, Reid moved forward, and reaching into his satchel, pulled out a pair of thin leather gloves he often used. He was still after the elusive 'why' of disease and infection but he had long since figured out that not only will keeping himself clean help diminish the spread of illness, but it also worked to ensure he stayed healthy. "Why does one do that," Lord Mora interrupted Reid from lifting the sheet, his voice a surprise in the quiet of the small room, "while Jacob the Elder does not?"
In addition to the gloves, he pulled out a small, stoppered vial. He opened it, dabbing a few drops beneath his nostrils and spread it on his hands as he replied. "I have found that wearing this type of protection lowers the chance of both myself and my patients passing illnesses between us. I am striving to determine the exact reason behind this phenomenon.
"Asto why Master Jacob does not follow my own practices, I cannot speak for him,but I would assume he does not agree with my own findings." With that, helisted the sheets, looking to see what lay beneath.
Lord Mora watched Reid impassively, not responding as Reid lifted the sheet off of the face of the body, and down the chest to fold it at the waist. It was a man, naked from what Reid could see, and he was clearly just about three days dead. He was of middle age, his coloring showing him of this region, hair beginning to bald, and a plain haggard face under his dark brown hair. He looked like any one of the thousands of faces that Reid had seen in passing or treating.
The dead man's skin was grey, and the smell was rancid. He looked up to Lord Mora, a questioning look on his face. "May I ask how this man died?" he asked when he saw no obvious wounds on his head, neck, arms, or exposed chest and torso. Lord Mora simply stayed silent, watching him, one hand still behind him, the other resting against his heart...or where Reid supposed a human heart might reside.
He mentally shrugged and turned back to the body, and pulled the sheet the rest of the way down to let it fall to the floor. The man was naked, but as a healer, the body was a machine, not really a thing to be ashamed or wary of, so his nakedness did not bother him. The dead man was lean, but not underfed, and the difference between his browned face and neck and much paler body spoke of long days in the sun. He looked up and down at the man. The right leg broken some time ago and not set properly. A scar along one forearm, possibly five to six years old. He lifted the hand to look at the fingers, swollen from the collected fluid, and his body had passed the rigor-like stage that bodies achieved shortly after death. Thick, dirty, cracked nails, hands armored with callouses in a very particular pattern. He started talking to himself, not only to say out loud what he was thinking but to fill this nervous silence, the unblinking stare of Lord Mora and this oh so strange circumstance making Reid uneasy.
"He's a drover, perhaps forty to forty-five summers, possibly more. Walked with a limp, most likely," he walked around the body, ignoring the short mushroom cap of a penis that lay hiding in the man's thick thatch of hair. The bottom of his body was discolored and bruised-looking, the fluid having collected there. "He's been on this table at least a day," he stopped his initial outward examination of the man completely. "No outward signs of blade or club," he felt along the man's scalp. Various scabs and small bumps, but no caving in of the skull or soft spots he could feel.
He stopped next to the man's head, and glanced up at Lord Mora, expecting him to say something, but still he stared, so he bent down to examine the throat. "No strangulation markings I can see," he looked at the lips. Bluish, but that was normal. No odd discoloration about the mouth, but it was hard to tell this far along if it was poison. Then he lifted the eyelid with one thumb to check for broken vessels, a sure sign of drowning or dying from lack of air-
Reid suppressed a startled yelp as he snatched his hand away from the man's face, breathing hard, catching himself before he could wipe his hand on his tunic. He felt a sharp, bright stab of fear, then reached forward to verify what he saw. He lifted both eyelids.
What he supposed were eyes were simply a blood-red blister. No pupils or iris remained. They were not swollen, but slightly sunken as he would expect, but what were once his eyes were not a solid, blood color. He dropped the lids, wondering, and opened the dead man's mouth. All along the mouth, and turning the corpse's head toward the light, down into the man's throat, were hideously red pods of flesh. He stepped back from the body, and carefully took off his gloves, his skin not touching them, and dropped them onto the sheet, stepping back until he could feel the weight of the stone wall behind him. Lord Mora was still standing by the only exit, watching Reid.
"One will give an opinion." He stated flatly.
Reid wished for water to drink, as his throat was suddenly parched. "That..." his voice was a soft soprano, but he coughed, and his voice was slightly deeper again. "That looks like a type of...perhaps berry pox. But his eyes, those markings on his throat...it...it appears as if he began to bleed without wounds."
Lord Mora inclined his head slightly. "Yes, this one was a drover for the Mother Lacoco. This one was arriving from Raven Hill. This one died in a pool of his blood before he reached our wondrous city. This unfortunate stated that more were dying in Raven Hill. The beautiful Mother Lacoco kept the men who cleaned the body in a small shack near our paradise. They died of the same this morning."
Reid's breath caught. This was bad. And this was bigger than any shadowy council of villains and thieves or their petty machinations and intrigues. This was life and death.
This was Plague.