In the hyper-capitalistic, magical, and oppressively heavy atmosphere, you do not fight or otherwise cause a scene in the market. You would be forgiven for not realizing this to be the case, as the best magic seems normal and benign. The market guides all to where the best deals and exchanges are bound to take place, and a brawl or stand-off between magicians is not conducive to a healthy economy.
You would be hard-pressed to know that the powers overseeing the whole affair are ancients wielding magic and powers few could fathom the depths of. They keep to themselves, power the gigantic reality-warping enchantments, and do not tax or otherwise interfere with the goings on. After all, what use does a man have with a honeybee other than to harvest a crop? So too, the Faeries care for, manage and grow their market while the patrons and businesses tend to their affairs.
Tyson is that same type of person who has never dared to question the market at more than its face value. Tyson was just happy to be there. The market just had so much going on at all times. The big guy walked on happily with his friend's bag on his shoulder, which he fiddled with a little too much with one hand while the other held a sort of compass of his original design.
Tyson carried onto his uncle's shop and popped the magic lock with the correct application of energy. The magically contorted space within the tent was exactly how it was left, to him the space resembled more of a storage shed of random junk, yellowed stacks of papers, and a few sporadic items of varying interests. With a sigh, he started combing through even more of the tent than he had before while attempting to locate that damn tea his uncle seemed to have the only supply of.
Countless years of scribbles, notes, newspaper clippings, spellforms with brief descriptions, even more dubious scraps, scrolls, cloth, knotted ropes, and of course the books that went directly into Milo’s bag. The more he went through his uncle's stuff, the more he questioned what he and Oz did. If the chance ever came up to ask what the “shop” was really about he’d jump on the opportunity.
After literal hours beginning to feel like an eternity, Tyson finally threw the last book into the void-filled bag. Having a look about the tent he was overcome by the feeling of guilt, having been rummaging around his things while he was off who knows where being tortured by an unknown adversary with unknown motivations. Guilt turned to anger and eventually resolved itself to a single-minded motivation. He was going to make whoever so blatantly disrespected his family pay twice over.
Reprioritizing his to-do list, he had a seemingly unlimited carrying capacity and he was going to use it to the best of his abilities. A wicked grin spread across his face as he formulated plans for projects yet drawn up, and how easily he would be able to implement them with Milo’s bag. He gathered himself along with his bags, retreating out into the market unaware of the dust he was stirring up. Unaware that the dust in the tent wouldn’t be disturbed again for years.
It was a few moments after fishing out his personal Beskers Crook, he noticed it. It was quiet where quiet rarely happened, the market was always shifting and pushing in subtle ways. This time, it was only Tyson. No crowds, no strangling pedestrians confused and lost in transit. There in the market, there was Tyson and It.
Initially, Tyson felt calm at the sight of another before his blood froze and his heart sped up. It was an otherly existence that by all accounts should not exist, and had he not known any better would not have thought twice about the young humanoid approaching with all the grace of a pile of sand snaking through the gap under your door. Pervasive, it oozed power in the same manner one thousand tons of steel pulled tight against the cable holding it aloft. Concentrated power ready to snap and unleash devastation.
Tyson's upbringing unfortunately let him assess what he saw, the young man was nothing but a mask. The contorted effort of something else squeezing itself into a shell attempting to blend in. As it got closer he got the impression of a volcanic island's caldera just waiting for the tension to break. If he was sure of anything, it was that he was extremely unfortunate to be him. Luck would have it that he was still breathing, which was a good sign.
“YOU.” Its voice was strictly a command, pure authority placed squarely onto Tyson's being. “YOU TAMPERED WITH OUR ENCHANTMENT.”
Fear. Tyson would have fallen to his knees had his body allowed it. They examined Tyson, feeling their imposing will poking, prodding, and caressing the fabric of his soul and peering into his mind. It was overwhelming just how little he could do.
“I AM MORAX” the air rippled at the thing's name, as if such an utterance put physical strain on reality. “I OFFER AN INVITATION TO MAKE A DEAL.”
He understood. He was in the presence of one of the remaining arch Fae, an existence wrought from countless millennia of deals and infighting. An endless god bent on the consumption of evermore power and greed all for the sake of acquiring more.
“PATIENCE,” Morax drifted out of his periphery, and he heard his whisper in his ear. “WHEN YOU NEED ME, I AM HERE.”
The tension lessened gradually as the archfae moved on, the shadow of the beast left the area steeped in its influence. The tendrils untangled from his mind and soul leaving unseen stains and bruising like some infernal brand of claim. His heart slowed and the adrenalin effect returned to a stable baseline. And then he dropped to the ground and retched.
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On his hands and knees dry heaving as the crowds returned like the ebb of evening's high tide. He waded out of the shallow crowds attempting to find the strength that left his legs and remaining sanity. The shaking eventually subsided and he found enough focus to activate the crook in his hand and slide out of the market unimpeded.
The jump through the void felt like a light summer breeze rolled over his face compared to his encounter earlier. Stepping from the deserted flowerbed he landed in, trudged up to the front porch of the cozy manufactured home he grew up in.
Through the door and passed the old CRT television set facing the living room which was part of the original build. Floor-to-ceiling screamed a deadpan 1965 sensibility regarding decor. The large faux Persian rug dominated the floor space as a testament to the once incredibly lively space. Each stain of food, wine, and blood that never came up was a love letter to the past.
The rest of the home was much the same way, although the modification was done here and there. The kitchen itself was an aggressive conglomeration of fixes of either planned or hasty nature, the hasty fixes usually forewarned by “No playing in the kitchen”! The play happened anyway, someone's nose was broken and a new hole in a cabinet appeared. Good times.
He reached his preliminary destination, the ever-present bottle of Jack Daniels. Courtesy of one of his rowdier cousins a decade ago, who somehow stole a semi-full of bottles. As far as he knew, they had sent each bottle forward in time. It was both to hide the truckload of liquor and make sure a bottle was there every time one ran out.
An empty house, and a brand new bottle of Jack to keep his company and loosen up the floodgates. He had something to work through.
He took a shot glass to the adjacent dining room and took two sitting down. Who targeted Greg? What is the goal? When, if ever, will they be seen again? But most of all, why?
Easily the worst case he did come up with was the magic community's boogeyman. And if it was to be believed Greg had a hand in his repulsion in the 40s.
Another shot moved him into what the goal could have been, greg was no slouch and was equally cautious most of the time. It could have been a message, maybe to announce a return to the stage. If that was the case he’d be seen again relatively soon.
For now, he’d cap this bottle and come up with a game plan. Firstly, to gather all his tools and spare parts, scraps, and whatnot. Second, he had to go meet up with Milo and Oz in the library, if he could find his key.
And finally, uncapped the bottle for the additional looming catastrophe. Morax could have just killed him, it would have meant nothing to him. It. The follow-up shot of Jack was nearly rejected.
His dejected reverie was interrupted by the sound of gravel's disagreement with a vehicle's passage. As always when this rare occurrence came along, he grabbed his personal knuckle duster from his jeans pocket and activated his enchanted belt buckle. Neither were remarkably powerful but rather complementary to his skill set.
He took a moment at the door to assess the blacked-out Ford in front of his home. He wasn’t disappointed to feel the energy rolling off its occupant. Unfamiliar and hostile come looking for a fight. A slender man, taller than most and clad in a black trench coat stepped out.
Likewise, the stranger assessed the house, and Tyson set out to greet the man.
“How are ya now?” Tyson could smell the cheap liquor on his breath.
“Lookin for someone”
“Are ya now?” He tried to seem thoughtful and let his cheeks go rosy. “Who you lookin' for bud?”
“Anyone from the McCalister name”
A standoff. Neither of them knew who the other was, or their capabilities. But as certain as the sun setting in the sky, one of them would never see it rise.
Tyson didn’t hesitate a moment longer than he needed. He let the jack seep into his movement as he snapped a straight jab with his right. The knuckle duster Tyson enchanted himself, functioning by transferring speed and momentum to another piece of matter. As he threw his punch and launched a section of banister railing from the porch the stranger made his move.
The stranger moved quickly, rolling away from the piece of wood hurtling towards his chest. Just as quickly producing a six-shooter from inside his coat. The man's aim was accompanied by a concentration of energy and was all the warning Tyson needed to move as fast as he could out of his line of sight.
Tyson could move very fast, only thanks to his enchanted belt though. It was enough to double his strength and speed, which still put him into superhuman territory. He dived over the rail to his right, turning to launch another chunk at his opponent who twirled away again. Tyson never stuck the landing and ended his flight with a roll through the poorly kept flowers.
With a shout, he exerted his will and energy into forming a short compact dirt wall. No sooner than the wall was up did it meet the stranger's attack. A quaking BOOOOM shattered the air, accompanying a searing heat wave that incinerated his late aunt's petunias and bowled over his cover.
Ignoring the tinnitus and burning wall he leapt into motion. He suspected the stranger had more moves to play so he’d make it difficult on them at least. He made it around the side of the house as his impromptu adversary gathered more energy for another assault.
He ignored the pain and focused on creating a hasty enchantment. Just as swiftly as he was able to detail the function of the enchantment on the house, he had to move as the stranger stalked towards him.
Tyson was already climbing up the rear side of the house when half of the double wide suddenly and violently exploded onto the stranger. He dug into the tarred roof with clawed fingers pulling himself up. A split-second later he jumped, throwing himself to drive his knuckle duster into the dirt beneath his target's head.
Unfortunately, Tyson's target had enough time during his flight to roll away from his impact. Tyson grasped at the stranger's coat. As they raised the gun at Tyson he made for a connection to the side of their head.
His knuckle duster only grazed the stranger's cheek, enough to realize the devastating nature of the attack. The momentum carried away with the man's cranium in a wet crack, removing any need for a body and dying instantly.
Tyson took in the gruesome sight at his hand for a moment before rolling away to vomit. He fetched Milo’s bag from the half of the double-wide that was still standing, stopping by the cabinet to grab a new bottle of Jack on the way out and feeding a few more into the bag for good measure.
With a swig from the jack and a flick of his wrist, he slipped into the library.