“...We’re not working today?” asked Liam as he stood by the entrance to the laboratory, which was conspicuously closed, the key dangling casually from Sigmund’s hand.
“Nope! This, dear Liam, is one of the advantages of being your own boss: you do the hours you want.”
Liam looked at the lizardkin as if he’d sprouted a second head – he checked surreptitiously his neck to make sure he had not, in fact, done just that again – before frowning: “What have you done?”
“What? Nothing!” answered the innocent lizardkin, looking confused.
“You don’t just ‘not work’. It’s not like you. There’s something more to this. What is it? Have you accidentally destroyed the laboratory again?”
“Nope, lab’s as good as it was yesterday.”
“Then you want to ask me something.”
“Yeah, sure, want to play a hand of Adventurer’s Journey?”
Adventurer’s Journey was a game of cards created on Rodar long, long, long ago as an effect of the continent’s misfortune and its impact on the gambling business. Namely, the total impossibility of any such business being profitable: in the course of one week after the curse took hold of the land every single gambling den found itself bankrupt – the winners lost their money in other ways not even a week afterwards – and afterwards nobody ever attempted to set new ones in place. That is, until one day an enterprising [Crafter] decided to create a game of cards that wouldn’t require someone to just be lucky to win – or be able to count cards.
So it was that Adventurer’s Journey was born. Hundreds, thousands of cards were created, all different, all with depictions of adventurers of the man’s time with abilities and powers that affected other cards. In short, a game of luck, sure, but also of tactics, of being able to come up with tactics on the fly with whatever life gave you. In a way, the game reflected the adventurer’s life.
In short time the simple [Crafter] became rich and, by the end of his life, he was a Level 55 [Maker of Cards, Bringer of Joys and Sorrows]. A strange Class to be sure, but a golden one that was surprisingly powerful, especially because one of his Skills allowed him to temporarily gain the abilities of any adventurer depicted on his cards.
Liam stared at the lizardkin for a few seconds more.
“Oh, come on! Why can’t you just relax?”
“Because you’re you…?” it ended up sounding more like a question than he would’ve liked but it communicated perfectly his feelings on the subject.
“Ok, look, I know my lessons can sometimes be a bit traumatizing.”
“You nearly made me explode on my first day.”
“Nearly! That’s the key word! You’re still here with all your body parts! Anyways, with all that, is it really so strange that every now and then I give myself and my, admittedly rare, apprentices a moment to rest?”
“Yes.”
“...I mean, you’re not wrong, but I have the key, therefore I have the power, therefore today is a lazy day. Go do lovey dovey stuff with my daughter or join me in a game of cards or get drunk and regret it. Today you’re free from my tyranny.”
And with that he started whistling, pocketing the key and walking up the stairs, his prosthetic leg clunking slightly on the stone steps that lead upwards towards the floor dedicated to his shop.
As for Liam, he looked at his back in confusion, before a sigh escaped his lips and he found himself following the man. A free day wouldn’t hurt him anyways: for all that Sigmund was a great teacher, he also ran him ragged every lesson. It was an effective and efficient teaching method, that much had to be given to him, but dear gods it was tiring.
His steps were light, making nearly no noise as he got up the stairs, entering the near total darkness of the lizardman’s strange shop. Apart from a few scant candles lit all over the place with no rhyme or reason behind their positioning everything was shrouded in darkness that formed shrouded corners and darkened corridors, a labyrinthine place of mystery that perfectly reflected the persona Sigmund tried to project on all his clients – with various degrees of success – which is to say: the old merchant selling not what you wanted, but what you needed. That was his whole gimmick, what all his Skills as a [Secretive Merchant] revolved around.
He created magical items of all sorts – and even some non-magical ones – and then left them randomly around the shop. One of his Skills reshuffled the location of every single object daily together with, he had found out, the shop’s very layout. His Skills then helped guide customers towards what they would need, however esoteric that might sound. He felt, for all intents and purposes, like one of the fae whenever he sat down behind his shop’s counter, always there, smiling slightly towards the people within, waiting patiently for them to find the thing that maybe would change their lives, hopefully for the better.
Now Liam walked through the new corridors, following the patches of light, hoping to find the door that would lead him outside, but the corridors seemed to twist and turn around him, hiding the exit from his sight, as if trying to trap him in.
With a grunt of disgruntlement the young [Crafter] hastened his steps, as if trying to get to the end of each corridor of shelves faster could prevent them from moving.
His foot caught on a floorboard and he fell down, his hands automatically rising up to try and prevent his face’s close encounter with the floor and succeeding… barely. He still felt the sting of his elbows compressing too much, but his nose merely touched the wood, his eyes crossing as he stared at the crack between two boards.
Well, fuck this shit, he thought. Recently these accidents had started to happen a lot more often for some unknown reason.
With a groan he pushed himself back to his feet, his hands rising to brush themselves off on his clothes, the gesture more automatic than necessary since, for all that the place may look dark and abandoned, Sigmund always found the time to keep his shop fastidiously tidy.
As he shook his head, Liam’s eyes landed on something at the bottom of the shelf he’d nearly unwillingly kissed, the light of a suspiciously close candle shining over the small item: a pen. Not one of those he used to take notes, no, this one was made entirely from metal, probably simple iron from what he could see, closely resembling more modern fountain pens from Earth. Without him noticing his hand had already reached for it, closing around it.
As he examined it closer he noticed that the fountain pen wasn’t completely made out of iron: no, there was silver decorating it, the lines of the beautiful, once-shiny metal having dulled by the moving of the sands of Time. He could see, clearly, that they’d been fashioned into words, although he couldn’t read them: they weren’t in Rodarion.
He jumped when he heard someone talk behind him: “Ah, so you finally found something!”
Liam whirled around, nearly throwing the pen away in his surprise, but the instinct to keep hold of it was nearly overpowering – that, together with the knowledge that the shop probably wouldn’t let him go if he did it – as he noticed the reddish scales and then the smirk on Sigmund’s face: “How in Airm are you so silent?”
The smirk grew into what he could’ve called a cheshire smile as he answered: “[Cryptic Presence], boy. So long as I’m in the shop I am much more silent, secretive and feel like giving cryptic hints that leave people with more questions than when they started.”
Liam felt the sigh coming but, this time, managed to keep it in: this was the lizardman’s Class, there was nothing to be done about it, and it wasn’t like he was doing anything bad other than giving people a scare before being... sort of helpful.
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So, instead, he showed him the pen: “What is this?”
Yellow eyes settled on the small writing implement, a frown crossing over the lizardman’s face before, in its place, an expression of pure surprise appeared: “Oh, I hadn’t seen that one in years! It was… well, it was a fair trade. Nearly a decade ago a [Witch] came here saying she needed something only I could make for her, a specific amulet crafted out of rare and delicate gemstones.”
A chuckle left his lips, his sharp white teeth glinting in the warm candlelight: “She despised every second she was forced to spend in this city, kept saying something about the ‘sins of Rodar haunting her dreams’ or some such, but she knew I’d need time to make what she needed. Her name was… [Witch] Aria, yes, that was her name. Old woman, probably older than some forests, at least that’s what it felt like to me.
“Anyways, as payment for the work I’d done she gave me this little marvel. She called it a ‘Deepwell Pen’. Strange name, but it never runs out of ink as far as I tested it. Stranger thing is, I never managed to see a connection to anything that could store all that ink, and I’m not dumb enough to think it just creates it out of thin air.”
Liam nodded: “Because Transmutation Magic is a bitch,” he agreed.
“Because Transmutation Magic is a bitch, and because this was made by a [Witch], which – Ha, nice – means there’s more to it.”
His eyes looked dreamy for a moment as he added: “Oh how I wish I could be half as cryptic as those crafty women. I’m certain it would help with my business!”
Liam put a hand on the excited lizardkin’s shoulder, an expression of pity clearly visible on his face: “Please. Don’t.”
Sigmund deflated faster than a pierced balloon, giving him a forlorn look that quickly disappeared, a sly smile taking its place: “Well, you can keep that pen anyway. I’ve got my own and they’re way less frightening than that thing which I cannot understand. And anyways, the shop brought you to it.”
With that he turned around, moving back towards the now-visible counter, his gait as silent as it had been when he’d appeared behind him.
As for Liam, his eyes couldn’t seem to decide whether to look at the lizardman or the unexpected gift.
Which more than suited the being who’d planted the item where it was now.
A shadow with white circles in place of eyes, hiding in a lightless corner and observing the whole interaction with, had it still had a mouth, a smile.
The last piece was in place.
----------------------------------------
Liam found Amarie in the company of, of all people, Dame Giulia and Sir Neville. The other [Knights], apparently, had better things to do, like spending time with their families and loved ones or, in one case, organizing a snowball war in a city block.
All in all, extremely good reasons, and Liam couldn’t say he disliked the company he was keeping right now.
“So my father’s Skill strikes again,” said the [Knight Commander] with a smirk upon hearing the rather humorous tale of how Liam had ended up owning the Deepwell Pen.
“I mean, I’m pretty certain the shop just kept looping me ‘round and ‘round until I found it, so yeah. Does it do that often?”
Amarie shrugged: “I don’t really know: so far he hasn’t received a single complaint, so I can’t be sure if it ever happened to anyone else, but knowing him? Yes, there’s a good chance it happened other times too.”
Well, that was some disquieting knowledge.
“Anyways, so this pen supposedly has an endless supply of ink?” asked Neville as he looked in curiosity at the small probably-enchanted item.
“Yes, although I can’t… sense any mana coming from it,” admitted Liam, his eyes flashing down, “If it could really just… create ink out of nothing this little thing would probably be comparable to an Artifact, what with Transmutation Magic being one of the most complex to ever exist,” he started rambling, causing a small smile to form on his girlfriend’s lips as she got comfortable.
“But since I can’t sense any mana either this is a closed off circuit with no leakage whatsoever, which would be… revolutionary doesn’t even begin to describe the idea; or it’s using something else as a source, but whatever that is I cannot for the love of me imagine what that might be.”
He sighed, his eyes going back to the words written in silver on the side of the pen, written in a language he didn’t know. Learning Rodarion had been… surprisingly easy, all things considered, taking him no more than two weeks to become fluent, which was probably a miracle in and of itself, but afterwards he hadn’t thought about trying to learn any of the other languages simply because there had never been a need for it: he could, after all, understand all the spoken languages of this world, apparently.
“He did say that this was gifted to him by a [Witch], so maybe she did something else to make this work? Honestly, I can’t say, I don’t know jack about their magic.”
Giulia siddled closer, hands behind her back and looking extremely innocent, which was usually… actually, he wasn’t sure whether it was a good or bad sign, the woman was unpredictable.
“It’s Evarion,” she said in her low, crystalline, voice. The rare sound shocked everyone in the group, causing them to turn and stare at her as if she’d sprouted a second head… or set something on fire. Again.
“You can tell?” asked Neville, completely dumbfounded.
“Mhmm,” was all the answer he got.
“How?”
“Uncle taught me. He knew a lot of languages. He was ooooold.”
A chuckle escaped Amarie’s lips at that: “He wasn’t that old. I mean, he was what, forty?”
Giulai shrugged: “I don’t know, but he spoke like an old person. And only old people know all the languages,” the certainty in her tone was disarming, especially because it was used in such a childish argument.
“Ah, because you’d met a lot of old people when you first got to know him, right?”
The dame nodded, her mouth firmly set in a resolute line.
“Can you read it?” asked Liam, stopping the woman he loved and his pyromaniac friend from beginning a debate that probably wouldn’t end well for any of them.
Giulai turned back towards the pen and nodded. Her hand rose, an unspoken request in the gesture, and he gave her the pen, which she began to turn this way and that as if she were uncertain at which angle the words should be read.
Then, finally, she spoke: “‘Pour your heart into every creation’, that’s what it says.”
Silence, followed soon after by Neville’s voice: “Well, that tells us nothing. It’s just a corny inspiring phrase. Now it almost feels like a recycled present.”
The group burst into laughter, Giulia merely letting a chuckle out even though her smile stretched out her face.
And then Amarie came up with an idea: “Liam, how about you draw us? That pen’s got endless ink, somehow, and I know you’ve got that [Sketcher] Class of yours.”
“What? Wait, really?” asked Neville, looking first at his [Commander], then at the [Crafter], before saying, “But I haven’t even combed my hair!”
Liam chuckled at that: “Don’t worry, I can do some ‘editing’ in process and make you look as good as you’ve never been.”
“Hey! That hurt! I’ll have you know that I’ve got a line of ladies waiting to get my hand.”
“I don’t see them,” deadpanned Giulia, waving her hand around them, clearly showing how empty the area around them was.
That, again, got everyone in the small group to laugh – except for Neville, who just grumped away at the ground with a booted foot.
That’s how they found themselves sitting outside a bar – or was it a tavern – which had placed heating enchantments on the pavement before their entrance, allowing them to set some tables outside.
Amarie, Giulia and Neville sat in different poses: the first acted relaxed, her head supported by her hand under her chin, a gentle smile carved on her face; the second was slouched in her seat, attempting her best imitation of a melting cat and, surprisingly, managing rather well at communicating how comfortable she felt in the spellborn heat; the last sat with his feet on another chair as he leaned back in his own seat, looking for all the world as carefree as could be.
Liam sat some distance away, a small tablet of wood under in hand, a square of paper he’d found lying in his bag of holding – not the one claimed by the Knight, that one he’d hidden in his room under a floorboard – placed on top of it as he sketched away at the trio of [Knights]. He, too, like them, was smiling, feeling a soothing calm mixed with joy at being able to do something so simple yet rewarding with people he cared for and, in one case, loved.
The pen indeed didn’t seem to run out of ink, nor, he noticed, did the substance form drops that moved around, ruining the drawing. That, more than anything, gave him a feeling of true, great, satisfaction.
And then, nearly thirty minutes later, he was done.
The trio, as you can well imagine, was mesmerized.
“Look at that! I look like a queen on her throne,” joked Amarie before bursting out in uproarious laughter.
“Cat Giulia,” is all the dame says, smiling gently at the image of her very unstable and probably uncomfortable position.
“You didn’t get my best angle!” cried out Neville in false outrage, causing everyone around him to burst out into laughter, which he soon joined.
All around them the patrons of the bar looked at their group and smirked, memories of their youth emerging.
That night, as Liam fell asleep, pendant around his neck, he felt happy.
[Conditions Met: Sketcher -> Inker]
[Inker Level 15!]
[Skill – Bound Item: Deepwell Pen Obtained!]
[Skill – Album Obtained!]