Soul Card

Chapter Four

Those performing in the city markets during the Festival of the Soul all claimed to be Soul Card Wielders, but few actually were. Their extravagant “Flame Spells” along with their ridiculous attempts at “Wind Manipulation” were nothing but well-practiced illusory tricks. The crowd of on-lookers seemed to delight in the theatrics none-the-less — blissfully unaware that they were all being worked like marionette puppets. Olin rather enjoyed watching-on from a distance while a small group of children rushed their way through the growing crowd to get a better view of the performers — at least that's what it would have looked like to anyone who wasn't looking at them too closely. Olin, however, was all too familiar with the market's fertile ecosystem of opportunistic money-grabbers — thieves that worked together in order to navigate their way into the deepest parts of a passer-by's pockets. It was a rather clever ploy, really. The performers provided the distraction needed while earning some honest coin in the process, while the children took advantage of that 'distraction' by rushing through the crowd like a wildfire, ready to pluck any coin purse in sight. The performers would later get their portion of the cut and pay a small tariff to yet another person who would make certain that the local guards were otherwise too preoccupied.

The Festival of the Soul, or any festival for that matter, always had a way of bringing out the worst in people — and Olin wasn't thinking about those thieving street urchins, either. No, they were only doing whatever they could to survive. For them, stealing was a necessity. The real thief here was this slimy bastard selling his barely edible fruit for nearly a silver per pound.

'I say, my friend,' said Olin, attempting to do his best to appear jovial. 'These are excellent prices.'

The merchant's grin widened at the unexpected compliment. It was one of those teethy smiles that resembled a goblin who had just discovered a new, shiny object. The way the man regarded Olin's silver coin, it would have not surprised Olin to hear of the merchant being the result of the man's mother bedding a hoard of goblins. Silly as the thought was, one could never discount such a possibility — especially taking one look at the man.

'Ah, you have a keen eye for quality, sir.' The merchant made a false attempt at lowering his gravelly voice, as if not to be overheard. 'I'll tell you what, for six— No, seven copper coins, you can double everything to two pounds. What do you say?'

'Oh, as tempting as your offer sounds, I'm afraid I'll have to decline. I'm already being weighed down by this heavy coin pouch, you see,' said Olin, making a show of tapping his bulging coin pouch by his waist. The merchant's look of bewilderment when Olin left — his overpriced fruit now in-hand — was very much worth the silver coin.

Olin then spent the next several minutes pretending that he was taken-in by the sight of the Righteous Believers worshipping at the feet of the Candaminium Statues — silly bastards who probably thought that if they preyed hard enough the gods might just bestow them with Soul Cards. This, hopefully, would provide her with enough time and the perfect opportunity; Olin had spotted the drably-looking girl a short while ago, tailing him ever since he repositioned his coin pouch. Everyone with half a brain would know that it was unwise to not have your coin pouch hidden deep within your cloak. Instead, Olin made sure his coin pouch was positioned in a state of such vulnerability that most would have considered him an utter fool.

The girl, who couldn't have been much older than ten, slowly weaved her stench through several passer-by, clearly doing her best not to make herself stand out. It was like watching someone who was still learning to walk, let alone dance to the rhythm of thievery; her attempts at being discreet were… quite terrible.

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She had snatched Olin's coin pouch in a way that few would describe as subtle. It was actually rather embarrassing to pretend he hadn't noticed. He could only hope that she was a legitimate part of the performer's thieves and not some lone stray.

As the girl rushed away towards the same corner the other street urchins had been disappearing down, Olin caught sight of Charles, who finally seemed to walk upright instead of hovelling over and whining about the weight of that little bit of luggage he'd been tasked with carrying.

Charles gave Olin a wave before shouting what sounded like, 'How did it go, my lord?'

Olin didn't bother to reply until Charles got much closer — shouting over the noise of these surrounding imbeciles would have exerted far too much unnecessary energy for today. 'As good as it could have, I suppose. My coin pouch was snatched not one minute ago.'

Charles instinctively pressed a panicked hand to the other coin pouch, making sure it was still there. 'And you think this will work?'

Olin shrugged. 'We'll have to wait and see. It has been a long time. Anyway, How about the Bloody Stool?'

'Full, my lord. But I did manage to get us a room at the Stumble Inn? I know it's not your favourite, but—'

'It's fine,' said Olin, waiving-off any of Charles' apprehension. 'I'd much rather a room there than having to step a single toe inside the family estate. We will have to go back to the Bloody Stool, though. I wrote that we would be meeting there.'

'Allow me to carry that fruit for you, my lord.'

'Are you sure? You're not going to start whining to me about it being too heavy, are you? Otherwise, I'd much rather carry them myself.'

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The Bloody Stool was one of the oldest in all of Hanwig. An inn that's barely changed since the days when local adventurer’s first explored the now desolate, surrounding dungeons. Of course, the ownership has changed hands many times since, but the inn still serves as an affordable alterative for the healing of the bruised and battered. Although, these days the inn saw more tourists rather than patients — Those who simply wanted to brag to their friends and family that they had stayed the night at the Bloody Stool.

The tables wobbled, the chairs were uncomfortable, the floorboards creaked far too much, and there was a rather annoying musty smell that either belonged to the man seated behind Olin or it was a new permanent fixture of the inn itself — Olin was quite sure it was the former. But their red-bean stew, although not particularly famous, is what drew Olin back once more; that and the long wait for a man who may or may not show up.

By the time the afternoon-sun peaked its way in through the Bloody Stool's red-glazed windows, both Olin and Charles were finished with their second bowl of stew and were now on their fifth ale, steadily losing hope that the man would show up at all.

'Perhaps— Perhaps he never received the letter, my lord?'

'Perhaps you're right. He may have been held up. We can try again—'

The door to the inn swung open — although, not in any dramatic kind of way. In fact, Olin and Charles were probably the only one's who noticed, considering that they were the only one's paying close attention to who entered the Inn. A large, domineering figure silhouetted against the sun made his way inside — it wasn't him. But then another man directly behind him stepped inside.

The eccentric old man was known by most as a walking library of Soul Card knowledge, although he rarely gave more information than he felt was entirely necessary. Olin regarded him as more of a… collector of knowledge rather than a provider. But, that was not what Olin was after. Well, not entirely. Few knew of the man's past. And even fewer knew that he once bore the insignia of the Inquisition – Soul Card Wielders with the ability to extract the Soul Card of others.

The crackpot old fool leaned his entire weight against his cane with every step. The floorboards creaked in a rhythmic pattern, steadily growing more and more noticeable the closer he got to Olin's table. The empty seat directly opposite Olin and Charles took a sudden brunt weight, as the old man slumped himself down atop the antique chair with a heavy groan. The man said nothing. Instead, he seemed to pay them little attention while he ruffled around inside his cloak pockets before pulling out a pouch and throwing it atop the table. The pouch slid across the table towards them with a heavy clink. It was a coin pouch — Olin's coin pouch. Well, not Olin's real coin pouch to be precise, that was in Charles' possession. This one was the decoy.

'It's been a while, Von Shtrapen.'