The hull of the boat slammed into the side of the dock, shuddering to a halt. Tyr Druil Halvin, who had stood tapping his foot on the main deck of the small corvette, lurched forward, nearly tripping over his robes. Steadying himself on the central mast, the Magister turned to cast his furrowed gaze at the pilot atop the boat’s cockpit.

“Is it your first time docking, sea-rat?” he screamed. The sailor scowled but didn’t respond, and instead jumped down and began tossing the mooring lines to a man standing on the dock. Druil adjusted his robes and sighed in frustration. He was still nearly a week out from Montefyd. Had he taken the usual route through Port Alshin, he could have chartered his regular Caravel and had an entire cabin to himself. Instead, he had spent the last four days sharing quarters with the rest of the crew, who lacked any sense of propriety.

While he waited for the other sailors to finish mooring the boat, Druil scanned what he could see of the portside town.

It was abundantly clear that he was in the middle of nowhere. There were certainly no bath houses here. Even if there was one, he wasn’t sure he’d want to use it. The harbourfront was practically in ruins, half the buildings that occupied it awash in brine and muck, the other half blasted by sand from the plains. The series of wooden piers that lined the wharf were in varying states of disrepair. He sneered as one of the sailors pushed by him.

“You’ll watch where you’re going, boy” he said. He’d been on this death trap for far too long with these filthy men and was just about at his wit’s end. Being stopped by a Vertan blockade earlier in the day didn’t help quell his annoyance.

The sailor muttered something under his breath.

“What’s that, boy?” Druil scolded.

“Uh..nothing…Magister. Sorry about that.” the man said, feigning a smile as he fiddled with the gangplank to ensure it was stable before making a gesture for Druil to cross it. Straightening himself, he gave a nearly imperceptible nod to the sailor and crossed onto the dock. Druil was relieved to finally be rid of the ship's crew, and he made a mental note to speak to the Melyin naval authority about them. He had a brother-in-law who was in a position of some importance. Perhaps he’d have him ring up some charges against the ship. While there was no sign of nefarious activity, he was sure the sea-dogs must have been up to no good. Their hospitality was certainly criminal. Kosun scum.

Stepping onto the dock, Druil groaned when he saw a hand proffered toward him. A tall man with a feathered hat pressed against his chest stood in front of him.

“Good evening, Magister” nodded the man, unphased by Druil’s outburst, “and welcome to Meshaf. You’ll find lodgings just up the road at our inn, Vermillion Lodge. Would you like me to escort you there?”

“Hah.” Druil gave a haughty laugh “No. I don’t think so. I have business here this evening, but I don’t want to spend any more time in this…town...than I need to. Why don’t you make yourself useful and take my bags to your Postation. I have a caravan chartered to leave this evening and I’m already late. Let them know I’ll be arriving in an hour or so.”

The man looked befuddled “Uh, well I work for the hotel sir. I don’t really have anything to do with…”

Druil flicked him a single Grellic mark. The man caught it in surprise.

“Listen, servant. I normally travel with a retinue to do these things for me. Unfortunately we were separated. That I’m even talking to you is a privilege, I assure you. I imagine that Grell will suffice, no?”

“Well, I guess I could, but I…” started the man, examining the gold coin, the setting sun glinting off it like fire as he turned it in his hand.

“Good man. My luggage is onboard still, but I imagine these…gentlemen…will help you locate it. Do be careful with my things, yes? Oh, one more thing. Where is Osham’s Taverna?”

“Just further down the harbourfront, sir.” the man said, pointing towards the southern end of the docks.

Without another word, Druil began walking down the dock, side-stepping around a pair of docks-men repairing a section of planks, their simple cotton shirts stained with what looked like fish grease. He clicked his tongue. He still couldn’t believe he was here. There was certainly no chance of eating any rosemary-crusted duck or smoking any quality tobacco in his chibouk. He’d be lucky if he could even find decent rations to supply his trip across the plains.

He watched several more workers make their way down the dock toward the wharf before following them. A bucket half-full of fish guts was precariously propped against the final post of the dock before the wharf.

Druil pinched his nose.

He was going to have to tell Trevyn that this was the last time they would be meeting in such a remote place. That he still acquiesced to the mysterious man’s wishes was a miracle on its own. Druil smiled. Well, the man did pay exceptionally well.

Turning onto the wharf, the Magister avoided eye contact with the locals as he strolled south. That was another thing. Travelling alone without a guard escort was unheard of for a man of his station. What if some unsavoury decided they wanted to rob him? Sure, Druil could probably deal with any threat himself but getting his hands dirty felt so vulgar. Blast Trevyn’s paranoia to Dyn and back. Sharing examination details was technically prohibited by the Charter, but nobody cared. A little information for a lot of coin wasn’t going to hurt anyone and half the Magisters took their fair share of bribes.

Moving along the wharf, his mind drifted to home: to the sun drenched spires of Montefyd, the smell of lavender in his apartment gardens. He was just daydreaming about sipping Elderwine on his terrace, when he nearly ran into a drunkard stumbling out of a large brown building. The man walked two more steps and vomited on the road before stumbling off.

“Lovely. This must be the place” Druil said to himself, looking up at the stone building, its wooden sign dangling from the facade, “Osham’s” shoddily carved into the rotting wood.

Opening the door, the overpowering smell of burning wood and stale ale greeted him. He stepped in and surveyed the dimly lit tavern canopied with a thin layer of smoke. Four or five patrons sat quietly scattered amongst the cluster of eclectic tables in the middle of the room. Druil wrinkled his nose as he ambled around a puddle of ale on the floor, lifting his robes.

“Can I get you anything, Magister?” called out a voice from behind the bar at the far end of the room. A burly woman in a green tunic with a towel slung over her shoulder looked at him expectantly. Druil took the wide, crimson mitre off his head and smoothed his hair.

“I hardly think you’ll have anything I’d like. A tea will have to suffice.” he responded.

“Notta problem.” responded the woman, starting to turn around.

“Barkeep” began Druil. The woman turned back. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone here, do you have any rooms put aside?”

The barkeep’s face shifted before responding “I’ll bring that tea over” she said, nodding towards the far corner of the room.

“Are you deaf, I said…” Druil started, but stopped when he followed the keeper’s nod and noticed a cloaked figure sitting at the corner table, barely discernible in shadow. Druil strode over, oblivious to his long robes smacking one of the bar patrons in the face as he walked by.

“Couldn’t have picked a nicer place to meet, Trevyn? I fear we’ll fall ill if we tarry for too long.” said Druil as he sat down at the table, looking about with a pompous smile on his face. No one seemed to acknowledge his joke.

Trevyn adjusted the silk scarf around his face, his emerald green eyes watching Druil intently as he sat down and situated himself.

“If your report is anything like the last ones I doubt we’ll take very long” he replied, his quiet voice, barely discernible over the sound of the waves lapping against the wharf outside.

Druil eyed the mysterious figure. He’d met the man nearly a dozen times over the past two years and, surprisingly, had not been able to learn much about him. Not for a lack of trying. He’d had several of his subordinates try to follow him, unfortunately, to no avail. What he did know was that the man had coin to spend.

“Oh. Well I’ve actually got a few interesting ones for you this time.”

Trevyn raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yes” continued Druil. “I’ve been conducting exams throughout the Western Continent for the last month. I’ve met several exceptional potentials.”

Druil was about to pull out his list when the barkeep came over and set down a small pot of tea before pouring it into a cup in front of him. He feigned a half-smile while staring at the woman’s hands dubiously. After filling Druil’s cup, she set the pot on the table and walked back to the bar.

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“Give me the list. Tell me about the ones who stood out the most” said Trevyn, his voice even, and calm.

“Do we really want to discuss this with all this rabble here?” began Druil, turning to look at the rest of the room’s occupants. The taverna was empty. Even the barkeep had disappeared. Druil turned back.

“Impressive. I knew you were rich, but I didn’t think you so resourceful. No matter. Well yes, let’s see.” Druil took a small scroll out of his sleeve and threw it on the table before leaning back in his chair and crossing his fingers.“Ah yes. There was a young woman just south of Luka. Very impressive. By the way, I wouldn't recommend going there. The city is such a pain to enter, what with the siege and all.”

Trevyn fidgeted with the scroll, spinning it around absently on the table. “How was she impressive?”

“Well, her manipulation was extremely durable. She was able to concentrate even with the highest level of distraction. Nearly uncanny. It’s a shame she was an orphan. Filthy thing, really” Druil took a small bronze disc out of his cloak and rolled it between his fingers.

“And?”

“And that’s it. You wanted anomalies in the test. She’s an anomaly”

Trevyn sighed. He unravelled the scroll and began to look it over. “Who else?”

Druil sneered. The man was impossible to please.

“There was a very impressive boy...Northern Verta…but I think you’re out of luck with him.” mumbled Druil.

“What do you mean?” snapped Trevyn, looking up from the list.

“He’s affiliated with the Tyr Onum. I imagine he’ll be whisked away in no time. Was channelling two forms of kose at once though. Just in the exam. I’ve never seen anything like it. Well-bred too.”

Trevyn mumbled something under his breath and continued perusing the list. Druil had the sneaking suspicion that he had said something to upset the man. He relished the thought as he took a sip of his tea.

“Disgusting” he said, spitting on the ground and pushing the cup towards the centre of the table.

Trevyn stretched out the list on the table and began moving his finger down it. Druil smiled to himself. The man cast an almost pitiful figure. He was clearly consumed by some futile obsession.

Trevyn’s finger stopped . “What’s KW?”

Druil leaned forward and turned the list slightly. “Ah, yes Kellek’s Watch. Remarkably, someplace even more insignificant than here. There was one young woman who was quite exceptional…if you’d like to hear about her…”

Trevyn held up his hand as he read through the notes.

Druil sighed “We’ve been doing this forever now, Trevyn. I’ve highlighted half a dozen extraordinary potentials on this list but I can’t narrow it down if you don’t specify. I really don’t know what you’re looking for. Would you like me to tell you about the nump in Revenshore with the broken leg who couldn’t channel, even with the stone pressed right up against her forehead. Oh! I know maybe the forty-year-old man from Princeps who said he’d never been tested but claimed he learned weaving from a city full of rats. Really, Trevyn, I think if you were looking for something you would have found it by now.”

The cloaked man didn’t reply and rolled up the list, leaned back in his chair and began fiddling with it. His green eyes were flicking back and forth, as if searching for something in front of him.

Then they focused on Druil.

“I’m going to keep this,” said Trevyn.

“Ah. That won’t be possible. I need it for the Archives. I can copy it for you but you will have to pay me. ”

Trevyn pulled a rolled up piece of paper from inside his cloak and handed it to Druil, who began to unroll it

“Yes as I said, I’ll need payment and at least twenty minutes to perform the necessary…” He gasped. Before him was an exact copy of his list.

“You’re Rellian?” asked Druil, aghast. “How did you…”

The man didn’t respond. Instead, he took out a bundle of notes and began to flick through them. Druil felt an itching sensation on the back of his neck. He took a breath. He didn’t like being ignored.

“I won’t be testing again until after Storm Season. If you want to continue our arrangement I can ask the other Magisters for their records. I am sure it’s not lost on you that I only oversee a small fraction of examinations. But sharing material is prohibited and not without its risks. If you want me to stick my neck out then we will need to…renegotiate...our contract”

Trevyn’s nose was buried in his notes, which he had put up in front of his face.

“Did you hear me? Trevyn?” Druil hissed.

Sighing, Trevyn pulled out a heavy leather pouch and tossed it on the table, casting a reproachful glance before turning back to his notes. Druil grabbed the sack and weighed it in his palm. It felt about right. Maybe he’d purchase a new set of gilded robes to go with his mitre when he got back home.

“Excellent. You’ll have to double it if you want other Magister’s notes”

“Huh? More? Yes, sure. Fine.” Trevyn replied.

“Fine. Very well.” Druil stood up and absently wiped off his robes.

“It looks like we are done for now, yes? The sooner I leave this place, the better. Write to my steward as usual when the storms pass. I’ll speak with some of the other magisters, but don’t expect anything from me unless I’m paid. Remember, Trevyn, double.”

With that, he turned on his heel and walked towards the door. On his way he noticed that the barkeep had returned. Odd. Druil glanced back one last time before leaving. Trevyn sat unmoving in his seat, his fingers idly tracing something indiscernible onto the table as he read one of his crumpled scraps of paper in the dim candlelight. An odd man, thought Druil. He pushed the door and walked out onto the wharf.

He shivered and tightened his cloak around him in the evening chill. Inhaling through his nose, he looked past the docked skiffs with their furled sails and out toward the sea. He was tired of the smell of rotting seaweed and brine and couldn’t wait to be back in Montefyd. Back in civilization.

Taking a few steps, he inspected his sleeves and pants in turn. They reeked of smoke. He’d have to change into something cleaner once he settled into the Caravan. That dolt from the docks better have not damaged his luggage.

Druil looked around, getting his bearings, and set off down the wharf towards what he presumed was the Postation. The streets were empty; night had fully fallen on the town. The slow lapping of the buoys floating in the bay produced a calming rhythm, and Druil let out a yawn. It was tiring dealing with a month’s worth of idiots compressed into the past four days. Hefting the coinpurse in his hand a few times, he smiled, before tucking it into his breast pocket.

The wharf was illuminated by torches that had been planted into the dock posts, their flickering light casting elongated shadows across the few shops on the other side of the street. It was beyond him how such places even stayed in business.

“Druil”, whispered a voice from behind him.

The magister startled, stifling a yip as he stopped in his tracks. He looked back. There was no one there. The day’s toil was clearly starting to weigh on him.

He took another step and then stopped again. Something was different about the street. The torches had stopped flickering, and Druil, horrified, realised that the long silhouettes they cast had turned into more definite shapes. He swallowed and took a step back, as a crowd of shadowy figures formed along the wharf, staring out to sea.

Still moving backwards, Druil fingered the bronze coin in his robe, watching as the silhouettes’ heads moved ever so slightly, as if tracking something beyond the wharf. Cautiously, he followed their gaze and saw a strange yellow light snaking through the water.

“What mischief is this” he muttered, watching the light dart erratically below the surface of the shallow waves.

Suddenly, the mote shifted course and shot towards one of the short piers just in front of Osham’s. Druil turned to find the shadowy figures had been restored to nebulous shapes dancing in the torches’ firelight.

“What in all of Estioch is going on” he cried “Trevyn, if you have something to do with this you’re in for a world of pain.” He strode back to the front of Osham’s and peered in the window. The taverna was empty, the only signs of life being the half-filled mugs sitting on the tables from the patrons he had seen earlier.

Turning back towards the water, he saw the strange mote circle one of the moored skiffs at the end of the pier before plunging down toward the seafloor. He squinted. Something down there was being illuminated.

Druil started inching towards the pier. Stepping down onto the first wooden plank, he looked about. He took out his coin and held it tightly in his hand as he sidled toward the light.

A gentle splash sounded from beneath the dock.

Druil reached the edge. As he leaned over it and looked down into the water, the light suddenly vanished.

There was still something there. Just a few feet below the surface.

Getting on his hands and knees, he leaned over the dock and brought his face right down to the water.

An eel head burst through the surface and nearly smacked Druil in the face, who lurched up and fell back onto the dock. The creature splashed back into the water and darted away.

“Damnit!” he yelled. Gathering himself, he stood up and kicked a chum bucket into the water. He looked about, but no one was around. He started back towards the wharf.

About halfway up the pier, something wet slapped against his ankle.

Sighing, Druil kicked his leg and looked down, expecting to find the eel or some discarded fish carcass left by one of the dockworkers.

Instead, what appeared to be a smooth tendril of water, no bigger in width than his forearm, had latched around his shin, and was slowly engulfing his foot.

Druil yelled and tried to kick it off but its grip grew tighter and started to tug him toward the water. Four more tendrils erupted from the surface and shot towards him, latching firmly to each of his limbs, the final one wrapping around his neck. He was ripped off the dock and into the water.

As he splashed about violently, Druil managed to wrench a hand free from its shackle. He grabbed the edge of the dock, his nails biting into the wood as the violent force tried to pull him into the depths.

The magister screamed for help, but all that came out of his mouth were muffled squeaks of choked air.

He couldn’t hold on.

Fingers slipping off the dock, he fell backwards and plunged beneath the surface.

As the icy waters filled his lungs, he stared up toward the surface. Silhouetted against the dimming light of torches, he could just make out a cloaked figure standing at the edge of the dock before the world went black.