The wailing gusts of the cold autumn wind did little to muffle the echoing sounds of laughter and jeering in the empty street outside Red Maiden’s Trinkets and Baubles. The group of roughly a dozen dirty men and women joked and mocked the two young men who stood about ten paces away from the entrance to the eclectic store. The short, bald man grinned yet was unbothered by the interaction as he stood, hunched over on the highest of three steps, probing at the front door's lock.
“Oi, you bloody deaf or what?” the tall, oily man taunted. The beautiful black halberd’s surface was made grimy by his dirty hands. “How much you cunts got on you?”
Ben sighed and felt disappointed at their lacking presence. He turned to Kieran, who frowned and placed a hand on his chin.
“Scally, that one’s a demon, I tell ya. Them black eyes-” a disheveled woman called out to Scally, who Ben assumed to be the Leader of the rag-tag band. The woman was interrupted by a cuff on the back of her head from an equally dirty woman.
“Again with yer shite, Polly,” said the unknown ruffian. “Tha buggers were all wiped out five years ago during the Invas-”
“Shut it!” hollered Scally before turning to regard the pair once more.
Kieran cleared his throat. “Let me see,” he said as he lifted his index finger to his mouth and bit.
Ben noticed that it was the same finger he’d seen explode at the temple of Iorilai, yet no trace of the injury was evident on the Caster’s digit. He watched as a drop of dark blood trickled from the puncture of a sharp tooth before evaporating into a wisp of green smoke.
The red-haired man muttered under his breath. “Animate.”
The fat man, who had held the dead cat, shrilled an oddly feminine scream as he dropped the dangling corpse of the small feline. Miss Fiona’s cat contorted on the ground for a heartbeat before standing and sauntering over to the Caster as if it were going about its business, uncaring of the smelly men around her. The gang members stared on with wide eyes, and silence occupied the street, broken only by the sound of the wind and the clattering of slender steel implements in the keyhole of the large door.
Kieran held out a hand, and the little undead kitten leapt onto his palm. He inspected the feline with intense, scrutinizing eyes. “Hmm. Yes, this is undoubtedly Miss Fiona’s cat.” The kitten scampered up his arm to rest on his shoulder as he turned his gaze to Ben. “Robbing a widow of her only companion is not a very nice thing to do, wouldn’t you say, Master Ben?”
The young man suppressed the anger roiling in his stomach at the dirty, oily man who held his precious weapon. He met Kieran’s eyes and felt a similar emotion from him; it tasted like contained fury with a hint of sadness. He wouldn’t deny him the catharsis, he decided.
Ben cleared his throat. “Terrible. Terrible thing, Master Jaste,” he replied, mimicking the handsome man’s tone.
Kieran hummed and nodded, and Ben found himself involuntarily mirroring the Apprentice’s chin-stroking.
“How should we inform them of their transgression, good sir?”
“Firmly,” replied Ben.
The band, who seemed to regain some of their faculties, began to bicker amongst themselves. Ben heard exclamations of: ‘See! I told ya he’s a bloody demon!’, ‘My nephew can raise a dead cat, ain't nothin'-’ and ‘I got a bad feelin' about this, boss…’, amongst others.
Scally, the Leader, seemed to have had enough of the chorus of squabbles as he slammed the multifaceted polyhedron on the butt of the polearm hard into the cobbled street. Ben almost lunged at the man yet restrained himself for his companion's sake, if only for the knowledge that it’d take more than that to damage the elegant weapon.
“Shut ya fucking traps!” Scally bellowed in a nasal voice. “That’s a Scholars robe; the boy can’t do shit besides that little trick. Gut them!” he ordered.
Emboldened by their Leader’s inspiring words of courage and valor, the gang members charged at the young men; weapons of all shapes, sizes, and states of repair were bared and held menacingly.
“Bone ward,” Kieran whispered, and a translucent wall of interlocking bones erupted from the ground. The cobbled street was not disturbed, yet the ruffians in the front of the pack found themselves sitting after impacting against the ward.
Ben tilted his head to the Caster with a questioning, raised brow.
“After you. I’ll refrain from engaging unless necessary, as my magic is… more suited to punishment of the permanent variety.” Kieran replied.
The War Dancer cracked his neck by tilting his head from side to side. He hopped on the balls of his feet to get a feel for his new limbs, and while he didn’t expect the melody or current of conflict to rouse him into a trance, he hoped that the ruffians would at least last long enough to allow him to vent the frustrations that had been slowly roiling in his stomach.
He shook out the remnants of numbness from his arms, taking two steps forward before waiting.
So slow.
He mused. Ben watched a particularly large-bellied man sidestep the translucent wall of bones with a cudgel raised threateningly above his head. He swung the blunt weapon in a descending strike aimed at the young man’s head. Ben twisted his torso, and the momentum of the missed strike sent the fat man stumbling forward. He scanned the group approaching at a much more measured pace before returning his attention to the large man.
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The ruffian straightened and shouted in a disjointedly high-pitched voice as he swung the cudgel once more. Ben sighed and tilted his torso backward to evade the blow before stepping forward and delivering a light jab to the rolls of fat that were his neck. The fat gangster dropped his weapon to clutch at the injury, gurgling, while the young man twisted his hips to launch his new limb toward an obese inner thigh in a low kick.
Ben’s eyes widened as he watched the substantial form of the large man drop to the cobbled street in what could only be described as a beginner learning the splits.
Okay, so these new legs pack a bit of a punch. Gotta be careful of that.
He spun on his heel as he heard rapid footsteps approach him. He glanced toward Kieran, who seemed to be ignoring the ruffians, who battered against his ward; instead, he stroked the hair of the undead kitten on his shoulder. The bone wall had grown in width, encircling the handsome caster, and Ben chuckled at the scene.
He prepared to accept the advance of Polly, the dirty woman who had called his companion a demon, glad to be able to test some of the unarmed techniques he’d learned from the bald Monk. He slapped her wrist, extended in a lunge with a rusty dagger, and delivered a low kick to her ankle, causing her to drop to the floor in an ungraceful cartwheel; head colliding in a bounce off the cobbled stones.
Speaking of demons-
Ben thought as he slipped past a slash of a short sword and threw a precise hook to a stubbly jaw.
-nobody ever commented on Kieran’s appearance before this, so I thought it was… normal? Different, sure. I mean, I thought it would be rude to ask…
He glanced over to the Caster once more, after crunching an errant nose with his elbow, to see the Apprentice shoot a bolt of green light, from a fingertip, at a man who had circled the bone ward and approached with a raised pick. The man fell dead to the floor.
I’ll ask him about his mother later. But I won’t press too hard. Seems like a sensitive topic…
The display of magic seemed to take the wind out of the gangsters' sails as Ben turned to find the three remaining ruffians retreating, walking backward with slow steps and wide eyes. Scally, the Leader, seemed to share the sentiment of his thugs, and he shivered with bared teeth, eyes darting to the bodies on the street. Ben noticed a shift in the demeanors of the ruffians, yet it wasn’t enough to break through the fear they felt. The dirty, ragged trio fled the street and the oily man grunted in frustration, before seeming to have found a measure of resolve within himself.
He charged at the War Dancer, and Ben tilted his head as the light of understanding bloomed in his mind. He faced Kieran, uncaring of the oily man’s charge.
“Hey,” he called out, and the Caster responded with a raised brow. “Can some people use Aura magic instinctively?”
Ben leaned back and grabbed the haft of his exquisite halberd before yanking it out of Scally’s hands. The oily man stumbled forward and fell to his hands and knees.
Kieran’s eyes seemed to brighten at the question as he began animatedly stroking the kitten with a sharp, toothy smile. “Why yes, it’s a horribly inefficient use of mana; however, it’s well-known that some are born with the innate talent to manipulate others’ emotions. I see why it may be mistaken for a variant of Aura magic. Well…”
Ben held up a hand with an apologetic dip of his head as he walked over to the silently retreating Scally, who crawled on his hands and knees to avoid drawing attention to himself. Ben stomped on each ankle, and when the man screamed and fell prone, he stomped on the back of his knees, shattering kneecaps against the stone.
“Sorry. You were saying,” he addressed the Apprentice Necromancer apologetically, between the wails of the writhing Gang Leader.
“Not at all,” he cleared his throat as he approached Ben and the squirming man. “Fundamentally, it is indeed Aura magic. Just… lacking the components to make it sustainable or as effective as possible.”
“I see. That‘s interesting. Yeah, Ann told me a little bit about Aura magic,” he said as he recalled his promise to try and spend more time with his Keeper. “I’d like to learn a little more if you’re willing to share? You know, so I can have something to talk about other than the impending doom of the world.”
Kieran grinned before he frowned and placed a finger to his lips, incanting a spell. “Silence,” he whispered, and Scally’s wailing screams went mute. “Ah, I see that you are indeed a gentleman. I’m sure Miss Blackwood would appreciate your efforts in expressing interest in her craft.”
“Hah!” a voice drew the pair of young men’s attention to the door of Red Maiden’s Trinkets and Baubles. The short bald man seemed to have cracked open the lock and subsequently danced a jig on the uppermost step leading into the store.
Ben frowned, and Kieran called out. “I wouldn’t open that door, good sir.”
The man ignored the warning and flung open the newly painted red door. A loud boom and a flash of yellow light caused Ben to cover his eyes. When he opened them, he saw a conical spray of blood, entrails, and other unidentifiable body parts, paint the street at an alarming distance in front of the eclectic store.
Kieran grimaced. “Kinetic ward.”
“I see,” was all Ben said.
“Well, I’m glad that you found your weapon.”
“Yeah,” he inspected the beautiful halberd to find it was in pristine condition, barring a nick in the crescent blade, which he recalled being caused by one of the Revenant’s parries. He clenched his jaw as he noticed the oily smudges and fingerprints on the sleek black haft. He looked down at the Gang Leader to see him grab at the hem of Kieran’s robe.
“Please, sir. Surely all can be forgiven? Iorilai’s mercy and all,” Scally pleaded.
Kieran’s nose scrunched up, and he looked at Ben. “Should we let him go?”
Ben regarded the moaning bodies in the street. As far as he knew, only two had died in the scuffle. One to Kieran’s spell and the other to the store’s defensive ward. He held up his halberd and inspected it closely once more.
“This was a gift given to me by two very special people. You could say that they’re the only family I have.” He addressed the Gang Leader, whose eyes began to widen. Ben faced Kieran, “No, this one is mine. The others can go for all I care.”
Kieran shrugged and turned to the store's entrance. “I’ll be inside when you’re done.”
Ben towered over the squirming man and lifted his halberd, grip inverted, spearhead facing downward. He paused as he considered something that had been stewing in his subconscious for a while.
He willed his thoughts to the entity inside of him. A warm breath against his ear was the response.
Show me the concept I earned in the domain of Vengeance.
The beast’s thoughts brushed his mind, conveying the idea of approval and amusement.
He stared at the crippled, oily man. “You seem to enjoy manipulating people into doing what you want. I think it’s time you learned what it’s like being on the other end.”
The man wailed and begged for mercy from the young man, who ignored his plea.
Black flames erupted from the back of his hands, billowing slowly, uninfluenced by the chill autumn breeze. He leaned down and grabbed the man by his neck. He spoke without words.
“Subjugate.”