Derid’s stomach churned with both hunger and worry as he tugged on the scarf again. Once more he regretted his rash act of betrayal, breaking free of his Witch Hunter captor and running just as fast as his magic-assisted legs could carry him.
His life in the Miskatonik hadn’t been bad at all; it had just been unbelievably boring.
“Our job is to excel at mediocrity; if we do our jobs correctly, properly, then nothing will have changed and we will have pride knowing that we have done our job and done it well.”
His instructor was fond of saying that. Magical advancement was a difficult, arduous process, and ideas like “doing your best” had no place in it. Magic was chaos, magic was unpredictable, to use it was both a curse and a gift. “Change” was considered disastrous. Experimentation was only allowed under specific circumstances, with constant supervision and deadlines.
He knew that. He should have accepted it. Certainly his life had been boring, but at least it had been a life free of mortal peril. He shouldn’t have run. Now the only salvation he could expect was a bullet in the head for his troubles from a Witch Hunter. There was no way he could return, apologize, and beg for his old life back.
So here he sat, in perhaps the dirtiest, ugliest pub that existed in all of Aston, all of Hesperia, a scarf wrapped around his neck and tugged up just enough to hide the mark of Sanctioning on his cheek, desperately trying to figure out how to turn his stupid, foolish choice into something that he could live with.
Live. What a joke. Sooner or later someone would see the mark on his face, word would spread, and one of those terrifying monstrosities would come riding for him, level their gun in his face, deliver a pronouncement of damnation and finality, and send his soul screaming into the Void.
His Goddess was known for healing, for defense of the weak, for fertility. She was not known for Her forgiveness. There were only seven Prayers to the Goddess, none of which involved begging for forgiveness.
“‘Scuse us.” a pair of burly men sat at his table. The tavern had filled up faster than he’d expected, and now he was forced to share his tiny table.
“Sorry about this. Need to share your table. Want some of our stew?” One of the men asked in heavily accented Anglish.
“It’s fine.” He muttered, withdrawing into his cloak and resisting the urge to fiddle with his scarf.
“So anyway, I was down at the dock and you know the boss, he was “Move this, ya lout, not over here, over there.” The man complained to his compatriot. “Man’s got rocks in his head. I dunno what wind had to blow for him to think he knows what he’s doing.”
“Bah. I know what you mean. This morning he comes and tells me he’s got some ‘special cargo’ he wants handled carefully, but look at me: Do I look like the kind of man who knows how to handle ‘special cargo’?” He asked and nudged Derid in the ribs.
“I- I’m afraid I can’t say.” Derid let out in a whisper.
“By the Void, don’t bother the man.” The first chastened his compatriot. He leaned towards Derid. “Sorry about that.” He turned his attention back to his coworker and they continued to prattle on and on about their job, which apparently involved moving cargo in a warehouse. Derid let the conversation wash over him. He wasn’t expected to take part, so he picked at his food and wished with all his might that they’d leave.
One of the men reached across the table and took the other’s ale. The man’s arm was thick and brawny, a slab of muscle. Fastened across his wrist was a bracelet set with several murky-looking stones.
Derid’s eyes widened. Those were spell-stealing stones. He glanced at the other man and could see that the other man also wore a spell-stealing bracelet, as well as a ring.
“Ahhh, we’ve been found out.” The first man to speak had been watching Derid carefully.
“What do you want from me?” Derid asked, any hope of surviving another day crumbling like dust.
“There’s a cart out back. You’re going to leave the inn and circle around to the back and get in. We’re gonna take you to our boss. He’s been looking for someone like you. Don’t try to run, or we’ll have to break your legs.”
“What does your boss want?” Derid asked, his heart a pile of ash in his chest.
“I dunno. We sling cargo. We don’t care where it comes from or where it ends up.”
Whatever they had in mind, it didn’t seem like they were Witch Hunters. Perhaps there was a scrap of hope to be found? He gave that up immediately. Hope was for people that weren’t idiots and ran from the Church and invoked the wrath of the Witch Hunters.
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He would do as he was told.
*****
He’d been stuffed into a box, and the cart rattled towards whatever destination it was intended. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the wooden wheels clattering on cobblestone. His heart and will had crumbled to dust; he had no idea what was in store for him, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. There was no future for him. His mind ran in a rat’s maze where every end was a dead end, an end where he died a miserable, pointless death.
He’d been an idiot, a fool to have left the pointless mediocrity of the Miskatonik. He’d been an even worse idiot by running from the Witch Hunter that had caught him, a flinty-eyed woman with a bone-white braid and an enormous gun on her hip.
When the crate opened up, and he was hauled out, he was in some dank stone room that smelled vaguely of the sea. An older man, in the livery of a servant, stared at Derid with indifferent, glittering eyes. He was thin to the point of emaciation and carried himself with gravid dignity.
“He can’t be presented to the master like that. Bathe him.” He eyed Derid’s tattered robe and cloak. “And fetch him something more... presentable to wear.” He ordered crisply, and left.
The two toughs eyed each other and shrugged.
“Alrighty, upsie-doodle outta the box. The man says you need a bath, you need a bath. We’ll find you some clothes or something.” he added.
“I-” He began, but shook his head. There was no future for him that didn’t end with a shovelful of dirt in his face. “Okay.”
They led him up some stairs and down a hallway and down some stairs and around a corner and up some stairs and through a narrow servant’s passage and then down some stairs again, his head whirled with trying to remember anything about the way back. He was brought to a small room that looked to be a deserted servant’s quarters.
“There’s a tub there. Strip and bathe. There should be something in the closet that’ll fit you.” The first man commanded, and the second man cut in with a snide remark.
“You sure? There sure as shit anything in that closet that’d fit you.”
The first man barked a laugh. “I’m not nearly as skinny as this kid here.” He replied.
Derid was brought before a chubby man with a bald head and chocolate skin. He had a warm and broad, cheerful smile that contrasted sharply with his hard, calculating eyes. He was dressed in rich-looking robes, and his hands dripped with rings.
“So my associates say you’re a mage.” He opened with a gesture at a chair. Derid took his seat.
“I, uh...” He trailed off. “That’s right.”
“Good, good. Where were you trained? I see the Mark of Sanction on you, so... the Miskatonik?” the man began, and Derid nodded wordlessly.
“Good, good. And your aptitudes?”
“I can sense metals. Beneath the ground, that is. I’ve also spent some time in the forge, refining them.”
The brown-skinned man pushed a stack of papers at him. “Can you make this?”
Derid gave him a baffled look, and then looked at the documents. As he paged through them, he could see lists of materials and magical formulae.
“This looks like... designs for a magical light.”
The man nodded. “That’s exactly what it is. I need a mage to build them for me. I want to fill my mansion with them.”
Derid blinked. What a mundane request. He carefully went over the list and schematics again; there didn’t seem to be anything particularly special about them. Lantern sized, they would collect ambient magical power and convert it into a light similar to a flame.
“If.... if i had the materials, I think i could build these.” He offered. “The formulae are all here.”
“Fantastic news.” The man replied. “I haven’t been able to get my hand on any of the Light Crystals that Darnell selfishly hoards to themselves, so I asked a... friend for a favor. I just need a mage to put it together.”
The man tapped his fingers together. “I have connections, you know. I can get you out from under the thumb of the Church and out of sight of the Witch Hunters. All you have to do is make these for my mansion.” He leaned forward. “Do we have a deal?”
Derid nodded.
*****
Katarina rode into town, Tristan trotting by her side. She’d gotten some looks about the dire wolf, but as he kept to her side and didn’t look as if it meant to attack anyone, people tended to ignore him, though they gave the fierce-looking beast a wide berth.
It’d been a week since Derid had broken his bonds and dashed away, faster than she could draw. She’d hurriedly packed up her camp and lit out after him, her ability to sense magic allowing her to follow his magically-dusted footsteps even when the footing was poor and tracking all but impossible with normal means.
She'd named the dire wolf after an old legendary character from ancient history.
Tristan had been the grandson of Weyland, the Smith of a Thousand Swords. Weyland himself had sired Roland, another famous swordsmith, but Tristan himself was known as The Swordbreaker, in direct contradiction of his lineage. There wasn't much else to his legend, but Katarina liked the associations that went with the name.
Disappointingly, Derid's trail disappeared into the town of Aston; with luck she'd be able to find a clue, a witness, something that would lead her to the man, but luck was scarce enough to remember her training.
Derid's file led her to believe that he was for the most part harmless, having only barely passed his initial assessments in his magical capabilities, though untrained mages always carried an enormous element of unpredictability.
The streets were churned mud, and it didn't help that she had nothing of the mage to give to Tristan so that he could help track by scent. She'd have to find an inn or a tavern and listen for gossip, though that was no surefire way to pick up any clues.