Across Eternity: Book 2 - Chapter 5 free porn video

Silver and gold, only knights who held such rankings were present in the war room. Many grumbled in annoyance at their participation, having been busy the night before in stopping the fights in the streets. This dawn briefing was required, but why? If it was simply a matter of going over the details of the Red Revelry, then only those who had taken part would be present. For some reason, everyone in the city of sufficient rank had been gathered.

The stone palace walls were decorated with swords, shields, and monster trophies, and the east-facing windows let the sunlight shine across a map spread out over the table. There was always a map depicting the nation or the province, and today, it was a map of the city.

“Oi, at least let us sleep for a few hours. It feels like I’ve been running around nonstop for the past day and a half,” a silver knight complained.

“I’m disappointed,” said a gold knight. Unlike his human underling, this knight was an elf. His fair skin and platinum hair gave it away before his pointed ears. “If you cannot handle more than a day of active service, then how in the world did you rise above bronze rank? Or even graduate?”

“I can do it, but complaining helps me feel better about it.”

“A sentiment all too common in the younger ranks. I weep for the future of this nation if you are the standard for soldiers that has been set.”

“Easy, Aithorn. If you complain about others complaining, are not just another complainer?” a gold-ranked dwarf asked.

“I simply advocate for a stronger creed of knights, ones who know their place and do not disrespect their superiors with their sniveling gripes.”

“Sounds like someone’s cranky. Do you need your porridge and a nap?” asked Helena Frigga, the youngest in the room.

“Lady Frigga, I understand that they are eager about your promotion,” said the dwarf, “but you have not yet earned the right to speak to your superiors so casually, especially in the war room. Same for you, Sir Holmes. You should know that by now.”

“There are too many women here as it is. We don’t need the men acting like them.”

The owner of the voice slammed his hand down on the table, drawing looks of both silent agreement and disdain. Sven Gradius, the royal executioner. Everyone else who had patrolled the previous night had retired their plates and mail for garbed cloth uniforms, but he remained in full armor, including his helmet.

“I agree. I’ve noticed a steep decline in the quality of our knights as of late, and it’s always due to women,” said the oldest man in the room, a general who had transferred to the knight order.

“I find it funny that you only have the courage to say that when Lady Zodiac isn’t around,” said a gold-ranked woman in her 40s with a shaved head. “Speaking of which, where is she?”

“For her to be barred from active duty, including these meetings, is insane,” said a bespectacled male knight. Rather than armor or a uniform, he wore both the robes of a researcher and the ring of a knight. “You’re shorthanded enough as it is. Is it really a good idea to keep her off the streets?”

“Good riddance,” Gradius growled.

“Easy there, Sven. I believe you were all just discussing disrespectful juniors a moment ago?” All eyes turned to the doorway, where a towering man stood, shoulder to shoulder with the executioner. He had a rugged, scarred face, hidden by his beard and eyepatch. “Fate is a ravenous beast, and the sound of hypocrisy is like the moaning of an injured creature out in the wild, inviting all who hear it to an easy meal.”

“Sir Tarnas,” everyone said with equal respect, even Gradius.

“Apologies for my lateness.”

“Late? You weren’t expected until Knight’s Day,” said the old general. “And to arrive so soon after dawn?”

“The frontlines are in good hands. My commanders are simply mopping up. Besides, I always like catching a glimpse of the new recruits to see what we’ll be working with, and with princes Seraph and Galvin enlisting, well, I had to be here.”

“Sir, please take my seat,” said Frigga as she stood up.

“My thanks. Sir Elyot, it’s been too long since you sat at this table.”

The addressed knight straightened his glasses. “It is good to see you as well, Sir Tarnas. Unfortunately, things are so chaotic that I’ve been called from the academy to provide assistance where I can.”

“As is your specialty, to find the answer when brawn fails. I just hope we aren’t hindering your preparations for the new year. Now, I understand that there was a Red Revelry last night. Did something unusual occur?”

Gradius held up a ceramic mask and placed it on the table. “I encountered one of the Harajin. He managed to escape me, and when I found him again, someone else had already done him in. Where there is one, there are always more.”

“With Knight’s Day nigh upon us, this timing could not have been random,” said Aithorn.

“Did he say anything?” the knight in glasses asked.

“He spoke only in lies.”

“What lies?”

“He had something for the king, a treaty or something. He even held out a knight’s sword and said it was supposed to protect him.” All of the knights felt pits in their stomachs.

“And you didn’t think to take him alive?!” the old general thundered.

“My job is to kill them, not catch them!”

“Sven, Delta, calm yourselves,” said the dwarf.

“What was the condition of the body? Do you have it?” the knight with glasses asked.

“It had already been searched for valuables, but I did collect it.”

“Then there may be more we can learn, and like you said, if there is one, there are more. We’ll get another chance.”

“If the Harajin do have something planned, Knight’s Day may have to be cancelled. The festival could be their target,” said the baldheaded woman.

General Delta, coiling his white beard, countered, “it might be that their target isn’t the festival, just that their plan incorporates it. We may be able to catch them in the act if we allow events to unfurl.”

“You suggest we use the city as bait?” asked Holmes.

“Not bait. For them, it might be camouflage. We simply need to set a trap.”

The dwarf crossed his arms and sighed. “This close to Knight’s Day, stopping or simply hindering the festival could lead to riots, and with so many adventurers present, the city could even be destroyed.”

Adwith Tarnas nodded. “I agree. We must also consider the possibility that the Harajin do wish to engage in a dialogue. If they make another attempt, we should give it a try.”

“The Harajin are cutthroats,” Aithorn warned. “If you give them even a single opportunity, they’ll pierce your heart and disappear before you even hit the ground.”

“But why the Harajin? Why now? They are just a cult of bandits, so why would they want to align themselves with a country across the sea?” a silver knight asked.

“I heard that things were getting precarious in Ezeria,” said Delta, “with a civil war easily on the horizon. I do not know how the Harajin fit in the situation over there, but perhaps they want allies precisely because they don’t fit in.”

Tarnas sighed. “If we can find a way to coexist with them, then we must. They aren’t the only ones in need of allies. However, this is not our decision to make, it is the king’s. I must address His Royal Highness with the status of the front line, and I shall inquire as to our actions regarding the Harajin. Now, how did the night fare for everyone else?”

“These Red Revelries get more and more violent every year. For the safety of the public, we should separate academy enrollment from Knight’s Day,” said Lady Frigga.

Sir Delta objected. “It’s the enrollment that makes Knight’s Day what it is. This is when young adventurers flock to this city to spend all of their hard-earned money. Most businesses in Colbrand rely on that revenue, and the kingdom needs the taxes. Besides, moving the date will just move the problem. Recruits might get even bolder if the city is in a relaxed state.”

“Either way, I found four bodies and broke up five fights last night. It won’t be long before it’s completely out of our control,” said Sir Holmes.

Tarnas cleared his throat. “For now, all we can do increase our patrols and wait for this to blow over.”

----------

“I have a bone to pick with you.” Noah reluctantly opened his eyes and looked up to the angry bunny girl standing over him. “You tied me up, stuck a candle in my butt, and then just abandoned me.”

“I do apologize for that.”

“I’m cancelling your discount.”

“That’s fair.”

Noah sat up and Bella jerked in shock at the sight of his arm. He had regained none of his strength or sensation, only a dull throbbing and itchy skin.

“What happened to you out there?”

“I got roped into a fight. Are there any girls here that can use healing magic?”

“Rita, but it’s not free.”

“That’s fine. Can you please show me to her?”

“As you wish.”

The two of them got dressed, though a problem arose. “Would you mind helping me with my belt? Removing it with one hand was much easier than fastening it.”

Bella knelt down in front of him and began fiddling with the buckle, then looked up at him. “What are you doing?” she asked, referring to the ear massage he was giving her with his good hand. He was sliding them between his fingers and running his thumb across her soft fur. This touch, so delicate, was making her shiver. It was like a breath on the back of her neck, telling her that she was vulnerable and exposed to a possible predator. It made her anxious, but she didn’t want it to stop.

“Just showing you my gratitude.”

He slid his hand down, caressing her cheek and lifting her chin. He pressed his thumb on her lips and she instinctively opened her mouth and began sucking on it. She didn’t even realize what she was doing until he began tickling her under the chin. She relaxed her kneeling posture and began bobbing her head, sucking on Noah’s thumb with gusto. He pulled it from her mouth, the two linked by a saliva thread, and returned to her ear. Bella struggled to keep her balance as Noah started massaging her ear canal, thumbing the cartilage like a joystick. While strong, his movements were by no means rough or clumsy, and they left Bella mumbling with every weak breath and rolling her eyes.

When he finally pulled away, all the anger in Bella’s eyes had gone, and her dilated pupils spoke only of the lust within her, lust she had never felt for any other customer. She finally stood up with a smile of resignation and pushed Noah back onto the bed. The outfit she had just put on was tossed aside and she got on top of him.

“I’m still not giving you back your discount.”

Not too long after, Noah took a seat in the room of another working girl. She was dressed in a belly dancer’s outfit to expose the various piercings scattered across her face and body. Rita, she was examining his arm while Bella stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders as if to warn her coworker that he was her client and hers alone, having regained her lustful discount.

“You healed this with a potion?” she asked.

“I tried to. It was my last one. Why, is that going to be a problem?”

“Since your arm is in a state of having healed incorrectly, my magic has to first undo it and return your arm to its original state.”

“Will it hurt?” Bella asked.

“No, it’s just tedious. I charge extra for that.”

“That’s fine. Just fix it, please.”

Rita held up her hand to his arm, showing each fingernail painted a different color. “Mend Flesh.”

A magic circle appeared around her wrist and a yellow radiance began to flow from her palm and into his arm. The scar tissue on his burns began to quiver as it was dismantled and then put back together in its proper form. It was a strange sensation, to say the least. With healing potions, they often made wounds itch while they were healed, but the light from Rita’s hand was pleasant and warm, like the spring sun. He felt it sink into his flesh, this nourishing radiation, rejuvenating all of his cells and easing his stressed nerves.

“Healing spells are holy magic, aren’t they?” Noah asked.

“That’s right. Usually it’s only women who can perform them, while men are better at fighting spells. I’m guessing this happened in a Red Revelry? They got you good.”

“Well I just wanted to watch the fights and ended up getting spotted.”

“Do you know who hit you?”

“No, it was just some masked guy.”

“Well, I hope you got your fill of wonton violence.”

Noah and the two women looked over to the open door, where Madam Cyrilo was standing. Her appearance had certainly been polished since he last saw her, her face heaped on with makeup to try and hide the years. It even looked like she had added some dye to her hair, and she no longer had the body shape of a plucked chicken. As for her attire, she looked as one might expect for the manager of a brothel. She wore a lovely red dress, almost Chinese in design, and had a fur scarf draped over her shoulders. She was still an old woman, but Daniel being ensnared by beer goggles now seemed a bit more plausible.

“Good morning, Madam. You’re looking well,” said Noah.

“You can save the sweet talk.” The original hostess personality had been stripped away and she was shooting daggers from her eyes. “I knew I heard someone messing around outside last night. The nerve of you, sneaking in. I want you out, right now!”

“Madam Cyrilo, let’s not be too hasty…” said Bella.

“Silence. I’ve told you before, Bella, you can’t keep pets if they track blood onto my floors.”

Noah’s wounded arm, if discovered, could get him arrested, but he was unfazed. If Cyrilo really intended to throw him out, she likely would have brought Lucius to escort him off the premises. Either way, it would be best to play along. Noah crafted a believable look of panic and looked at her with fearful eyes.

“Madam, I swear, it was a one-time mistake! I only went out there to watch!”

“While I take no moral issue with those who participate in Red Revelries, as a rule, nobody is allowed to enter the building once the fighting starts. The doors stay locked until dawn for good reason. I don’t want a pack of angry knights busting down my doors and chasing people through my parlor.”

“I swear, it won’t happen again! Please, just give me one more chance! I have nowhere else to go!”

“That’s not my problem. I’ll allow Rita to fix your arm, and if you don’t want soldiers coming after you, you’ll come to my study so we can discuss what you owe me for damages.”

‘Damages? I didn’t damage anything, I’m sure of it. Is she going to claim I broke some antique and try to rob me?’ He glanced at Rita and Bella. ‘Or is that a code? Depending on what she has to say, leaving this alone could come back to bite me.’ “Very well, Madam. I shall meet you as soon as Rita is finished.”

“See that you do.”

She departed, and only when he was sure she was gone did Noah speak. “She’s a harsh woman.”

“Tell me about it,” said Rita, “but we’d all be sucking cocks under the pier if not for her. She’s been running this place for decades.”

“She even taught us to channel our totem beasts to give us an edge,” Bella said.

“Totem beasts? Is that what you call…” He pointed to her ears and tail. “This?”

“That’s right, and sometimes we get trouble for it from those church whackos.”

“Yeah, I can understand that.”

For almost an hour, Rita floated her hand back and forth over Noah’s arm. Holy magic poured continuously from her palm, turning scar tissue into healthy skin and inflating it with restored muscles. Noah waited patiently and ignored his growling stomach. Finally, Rita sat back with a sigh of exhaustion and Noah paid her and left.

On his way up to Madam Cyrilo’s room, he passed by Daniel, carrying several chamber pots with a sarcastic grin and eyes full of bloodlust. “Guess who’s job it is to clean the shit buckets today!”

He was in no mood to talk, so Noah let him be and continued upstairs. He activated his spells before arriving at a familiar door. His clone knocked, and the sound, like the clone itself, was only an illusion.

“Come in.” He stepped inside and looked around, finding the room empty. “Over here.”

Noah passed through a door in the back of the room and stepped into a smoke-filled office. Cyrilo was sitting behind a desk with a long-stemmed pipe clutched in her fingers and its vapor forming a veil over her face. The sunlight passing through the windows showed the depth of the smoke and shined upon numerous scrolls, books, and antiques adorning the surrounding shelves. Noah was getting flashbacks to the apothecary in Clive, but at Cyrilo’s behest, he took a seat in an available chair and faced her, or at least, his clone sat down. Noah wandered around the room, searching for signs of danger and examining her artifacts.

“I see that Rita did a good job with your arm.” The smoke had deepened the sound of her voice.

“Yes, it’s as good as new,” he said through his clone.

“Unfortunately, we need her skills quite often. Sometimes men like to rough up the girls. Taking Lucius into my employ has cut down their numbers, though. He can leap over that counter with surprising dexterity and throw a man out into the street before you can say “black eye”. Daniel doesn’t seem nearly as reliable, but I’m giving him a second chance. I can’t deny, I’ve gotten a bit curious as to whatever it is he plans on doing on that stage.”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

“Hmmm. I admire your courage in coming up here. I told Lucius to grab you if you tried to escape.”

“He would have failed.”

“That was a nasty wound you received. Revelers rarely use spells so as to hide their presence, meaning you were probably wounded by a knight, and if you managed to get away from them, they’ll probably be looking for you. I’m guessing you have a letter of recommendation for the knight academy, and it has your real name. Noah, right? Daniel let it slip the other night over drinks. All I have to do is pass your name to the knights and that letter will earn you a place in the dungeon.”

‘Fucking Daniel…’ Noah thought to himself as he stood behind Cyrilo.

He placed his hand on a sheathed dagger but did not draw it. This old woman had invited a man who kills monsters for a living to a room where they wouldn’t be heard, all so that she could blackmail him. Either she was entirely confident in her ability to survive an assassination attempt, or she was baiting him to attack. His best choice was to keep her talking.

“What do you want from me?”

“I have a task I need you to do. Collect a parcel and bring it to me. It’s as simple as that.”

“If it was simple, you could have just sent someone else. I’m guessing it’s something you wouldn’t want to be caught holding.”

Cyrilo released two jets of smoke from her nose like a slumbering dragon. “That is correct. It’s a potion, and if you tried to sell it, all but one out of every ten merchants would abstain from fleeing your presence and alerting the authorities. Think of that before your fingers start getting sticky.” She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a scroll with a wax seal. “This is the payment. The contents are in code, so they are worthless to anyone but the proper recipient.”

“Does Lucius know about this potion?”

“Yes, I’ve filled him in on everything. He’s my insurance.”

‘If I kill her, he’ll either report me or try to kill me himself. I’d have to kill him, as well as Rita and Bella for knowing I’m here. That would be four bodies to deal with, and I’m not putting any more trust in Daniel keeping secrets. Maybe I should just burn the whole place down, take out everyone and any evidence. No, no more arson. She’s successfully cornered me, so I might as well reward her.’

“Fine, I’ll do it. Where and when?”

“At the docks, in the western side of the harbor, you’ll find a warehouse with a seagull painted on its doors. Someone will meet you inside. Be there at midday, and back here before sunset. Do that, and the knights won’t have to know about your nighttime activities.”

It was already midmorning, he’d have to hurry. He took the scroll and left without saying a word. Downstairs, he was stopped by Lucius, resting a powerful hand on his shoulder.

“Have you spoken to Madam Cyrilo?”

“Yes, she has a task for me and then we’ll be even. You can even go up to her study and check with her.”

He stepped aside and let Noah pass. Upon entering the street, he heard grumbling nearby. In the alley by the brothel, he found Daniel, crouching by a rain barrel and scrubbing chamber pots with the collected water. Next to him was a pot filled and left to soak. He had his back turned, so Noah walked up behind him, picked up the pot, and emptied it onto Daniel’s head.

“Ah! Shit! Fuck! Fuck!”

Daniel began to seize in utter shock and disgust, screaming and swearing as he tried to figure out what to do. His flailing was a deserving reaction to the situation. He rolled onto his back and tried to wipe the sewage off his face. He glared at Noah, too shocked and angry to speak. Noah normally abstained from revenge, but he was not above punishing others. He had failed to convince Daniel with words, so clearly harsher means of teaching were needed.

“I had two rules when we came here. Do you remember what they were?” Noah asked. Daniel didn’t reply, didn’t even break eye contact when he spit on the ground. “My two rules were ‘don’t spend all your money’, the money that I gave you, and ‘don’t tell them my real name’. Right now, I don’t care about the first and I am pretty pissed off about the second.”

Daniel wiped his face yet again, finally breaking eye contact. He stared at his hands and rubbed his fingers together. “How much cum do you think has been shat into that pot? I mean it, imagine all the women that have popped a squat in the corner of their room with that pot after some brutal anal punishment and proceeded to imitate a soft-serve ice cream machine. How many ounces do you think? Or how many liters if you want to get European? Please tell me, because I am going to be wondering that until the day I die. That question will haunt me, every moment of every day, until… the day… I die.”

Noah carried on. “Thanks to you, I am now being blackmailed into doing something that could get me arrested or even killed. If I don’t, she’ll report me to the knights and I won’t be able to enter the academy, and trust me, getting my letter of recommendation was quite the ordeal.”

Daniel released a long exhale. “While you were talking, all I could hear was the echo of the spray. Even now, I hear it. In ten years, I’ll watch my son being delivered, and instead of his cries, I’ll just hear… *pbtsbtpbsstbptpsbbs*. It’s all—”

Daniel was silenced by Noah drawing his sword. “I showed you a bit of trust, and after a bit of liquor, you screwed me over. If it wasn’t for our shared circumstances, I’d kill you. Perhaps I should anyway, just to make sure that’s one less person who can spread my name.” He put the tip to Daniel’s throat. “Did you tell anyone else?”

“No! I swear! Just Cyrilo!”

Noah took a deep breath and sheathed his sword. “Listen to me, this world is dangerous and unpredictable, and your first line of defense is deception. Depending on the situation, something as simple as whether you’re left or right-handed could be the key to proving your innocence, tricking an enemy, or avoiding detection. Whether it’s your ace in the hole or your greatest weakness, the truth needs to be protected, shielded, by lies that you can sacrifice when the moment is right. Under normal circumstances, Cyrilo would just kick me out for my actions last night, but right now, my life is in danger because she managed to find out my name, and that’s on you. Think about this.”

Noah didn’t wait to hear a reply and walked away. Now alone, Daniel slowly rolled back onto his knees, staring down at the ground. His breathing became heavy, his senses overwhelmed. Seconds became minutes, the stillness was broken only by the drops of filth falling from his hair. ‘Block it out, block it out,’ he thought, trying to stop the memories. Angry faces, faces of disgust, chastising him, condemning him, voicing everything from disappointment to utter disdain. He was so used to their negative voices, he had long-since learned to block them out, at least, he should have. He gripped his skull, but the contempt in Noah’s words, they wiggled under his fingers like parasites and burrowed into his brain. They found the holes burned into his mind by that insatiable itch, that hunger for a needle of happiness.

It would fix everything, everything that ached, both inside and out, let him sleep and eat, and make him stop thinking about his pocket knife. Everything would work out if he could slip back into the haze for a bit. He began rocking back and forth, trying to shake off the bad thoughts and distract himself from the throbbing pain migrating through his body.

“Oi, Daniel, you are done out here yet? Are you— Hey, you all right?”

Lucius, turning the corner, spotted Daniel in his disturbed state. Daniel didn’t hear him. When he finally felt the hand clasp his shoulder, he jerked and threw himself at the wall of the adjacent building. He was hyperventilating and struggling to hold back tears.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lucius asked.

“I’m fucking sick, man.” Daniel released a cry of anguish and beat his fists against the ground and wall.

“Hey, take it easy. Come on, let’s get you inside.” Lucius began to lift him up by the arm, but stopped when Daniel leaned forward and vomited onto the ground. He had also gotten a whiff of him and whatever it was that had been poured onto his head. “On second thought, the fresh air will probably do you some good. Anything I can do to help?”

“I just need my medicine. Do you have any Gonlief?”

Lucius checked his pockets and pulled out a joint that Daniel had rolled. “Here.” Daniel took it with trembling hands and lit it. The lighter caught Lucius’s attention. “What is that?”

Daniel took a deep drag and released a great cloud with trembling breath. The pain was dulling, reaching levels that could loosely be called bearable. He looked at the lighter.

“This? This is something from home, something I just picked up off the ground in an alley like this.” He showed Lucius how to light it and handed it to him. It took him a few tries to ignite it and he stared in amazement, then used it to light a joint for himself.

“I can’t even count the times when I would have sold my soul for one of these.”

“Where I come from, it’s a piece of cheap junk.”

“And where is that?”

“A place you’ve never heard of, a place where I can never return to.”

Lucius took a drag and sat down next to him. “You feelin’ homesick?” he said while sending jets of smoke from his nose.

“My life wasn’t really that different, but back there, I had stuff a million times better than this. It helped block out the bad things, turned everything into a sweet dream, and the more I used it, the more I needed it. I’d do anything to get it back.”

“Then perhaps it’s a good thing you don’t have it anymore.”

“Yeah, I know. I try to tell myself that, but things aren’t getting better without it. Of the few things that made me happy, getting high was a heavy loss. He really carried the team.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Maybe it ruined my life, maybe my life was already ruined.”

“That just sounds like an excuse to me.”

“Yeah, it probably is.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“It’s an excuse, but maybe it’s a good excuse. I can’t know if you don’t tell me. Go on, try to convince me that you needed it.”

“What, you want to hear my life story?”

“In my line of work, I’ve heard plenty. I’ve seen men cry into their drinks, obsess over the girls upstairs because they were shown a glimmer of affection, and rot away in despair. You’re just another man trying to climb into a bottle. What chased you into it?”

Daniel took a long drag and released a column of smoke. He watched it float up to the sky, as if to take its place among the rest of the clouds. “I hate the sound of a baby crying, it drives me nuts, cuts right through me. But there are so many different kinds, like different notes in a song. They cry when they’re cranky, uncomfortable, hungry, needy, but the worst is when they’re suffering, truly in pain. She’d cry like that nonstop.”

“A daughter?”

“Sister. I was growing up in a shithole house in a shithole town when my parents brought her home for the first time, trying so hard to put on a brave face. She was born prematurely and her lungs hadn’t developed correctly. We were broke, couldn’t afford the medicine or care to treat her. I can barely remember her face, just her coughing and crying, always at their worst during the night. Such a small sound, but it just chipped away at all of us.

Mom lost her mind trying to comfort her. Dad spent most of his time at a bar, just so that he wouldn’t have to come home and hear her crying. I would play my guitar all night to drown everything out. I’d play a song until I had completely memorized it, then I’d just learn another. It was easier to ignore the pain in my fingers than my sister’s coughs. Even after she died, I still heard her voice, and I kept playing to try and drown it out. As I got older, it got harder and harder, so I started taking drugs. My life after that is one giant blur.”

“Hmmm.”

There were several silent moments, then Daniel turned to him. “Hmmm? Is that it? Is that all you have to say?”

“What, you want me to rank your story against others or something?”

“I just spilled my guts. I was hoping more for sagely advice, or at least some sympathy.”

“I only said I’d listen. I’m a good bartender, not a great one.”

“Great, thanks, you’ve been really helpful.”

“Do you hear her right now?”

“Right now I hear something else, and I’m pretty sure I’ll have to get blackout drunk so that it’ll stop. But yeah, I hear her. It fades out for a while but always comes back when everything is quiet. Now I’m stuck craving and I don’t even have my guitar to drown her out.”

“Maybe you’re not supposed to. Maybe she’s trying to tell you something.”

“No, she’s not.” Daniel put out his cigarette on the ground and stood up on shaky feet. “She’s dead. The problem is me. I’m just unfixable, same as her.”

----------

It started as a whistle, deathly sharp, and seeming to rise as Foley’s mind broke free of the muck of his intoxication. As he became more aware, the sound deepened in pitch, even becoming intermittent, and soon he could even recognize words.

“I’ll see you all hang for this!”

“Just wait until my father hears of this injustice!”

“I’ve been framed! Someone is out to get me!”

It was the howling noble sons, demanding their release while banging their fists against the doors of their cells. With a groan, Foley opened one eye and looked around to the nearest source of light.

“Yep, iron bars, shit,” he muttered.

He slowly pushed himself up, sitting on a straw mattress that hadn’t been made with any intention of comfort, and beneath that, stone. Beside him, a bowl of cold, watery porridge that a rat was going to town on. Around him, brick walls with swears, prayers, and dashes carved and smeared on. Before him, a corridor lined with cells like his own and filled with those who participated, or were suspected of participating in the Red Revelry.

Many of the culprits were noble sons, wanting to try their hand at barbarism and now suffering the punishment, something they were not used to. The arrogant ones would yell threats and orders to any guard who might hear them, not yet realizing that both their own personal powers and the power of their families had little influence in these cells. They almost all had letters of recommendation and proclaimed that their future occupation of knight cadet gave them the same authority and freedom as graduated knights. Those who were more spineless would loudly repent, try to buy their way out, or beg for leniency on the grounds that they couldn’t enroll in the academy if they were locked away.

Then would come the yells from others present in the dungeon, fellow participants in the evening violence not even enrolling in the knight academy, and the guards forced to watch over the bloodthirsty rabble. They’d demand silence from the top of their lungs and threaten those who continued to make noise. So many revelers hadn’t gotten their fill of action and were simply antagonizing each other, getting into arguments like bored children. Dozens of angry voices shouting over each other brought one inevitable conclusion.

“OI! SHUT THE FUCK UP! MY HEAD’S KILLIN’ ME!” Foley roared.

That bought a moment of silence, then the jeers and threats started back up, most directed toward him. Foley got to his feet and checked the bars. They were firm. Three stone walls and a set of iron bars, a scene Foley had woken up in plenty of times before, but it was rare to be in a cell with a magic barrier. A sealing spell had been inscribed onto the walls, floor, and ceiling, and then bricked over. It trapped all mana within the space, like air in a sealed room, and resulted in similar sensations for those inside. Their radiating mana filled the air, making it dense and difficult to breathe, and the growing pressure could be felt on their bodies. Any magic used to try and destroy the walls would be reflected back, like the echo of a gunshot inside a submarine. He sat back down and groaned in anguish. He was badly hungover and there was a throbbing pain in his chest.

‘What the fuck happened last night? I think I got into a fight with some skinny bastard.’

“Hey, hey, hey…” It was coming from the cell across the corridor, a young man clinging to the bars with eyes wide as dinner plates. “Hey, hey, hey, heyheyheyhey…”

“What do you want?” Foley growled.

“If your head is hurting, I’ll fix it. I’m a really nice guy, I’m gonna do you a favor and find what’s hurting and I’ll cut it, I’ll cut it right out of there. I’ll cut it out and you will be so grateful, you’ll just want to sing and dance.” He was talking fast and his eyes were swerving back and forth.

“Bother someone else, it’s too early for this shit.” Foley went back to lie on the straw mattress and the man began jumping around.

“No, you’re not listening. What they do here, what they do here, it’s all fake, and they tell you that you did bad but they don’t tell you what you did. We shouldn’t be here. You and me, we gotta escape. We’ll get out of here, we’ll get a boat, and we’ll live off the sea!”

“Whatever you say, dear, you crazy fucker.”

The man continued droning on and on, making it difficult for Foley to piece together the events of last night. He didn’t know how long he lay on that dirty mattress, feeling his heart beating in his eyes. In time, a heavy door opened, Foley heard the sudden hushing of half the prisoners and the screaming and cursing of the rest. A group of knights had entered the dungeon. Ill-informed agitators yelled insults and demands, only to be rendered silent by a howl of agony.

“Sir Gradius, that man had not been sentenced for execution!”

“These are my prisoners, dwarf, I decide their punishment. If they wish to scream within my dungeon, then I shall make them scream.”

“Monster, you stand on the wrong side of the bars,” a woman hissed.

Foley could hear approaching footsteps, and the deranged prisoner across from him was going wild. “Oh, there he is! There’s the man who took my face! Give it back! Give it back! God can’t see me without my face! He told me so! He told me to cut that guy up! Come here! Come here and I’ll tell you a story! It’s about dragons and eels and so many amazing things!”

The three knights stopped at his cell. Gradius, venting crimson flames from the slits in his helmet. Beside him, an old dwarf, beardless like Foley but with white hair and a nose like a potato. Joining them was a woman, hair wound in tight braids with several crossed scars on her cheek. Two were gold-rank, while the woman was silver, all displayed on their armor. The prisoner continued to ramble on, until Gradius extended his hand into the cell.

“Don’t!” the dwarf yelled.

There was a blinding flash and a scream of pain as the cell became a roaring forge, flames searing everything without ever passing the bars. The woman grabbed Gradius’s arm and pulled it away from the cell. Snarling, the enraged goliath threw her to the side and aimed his palm at her. Loud as thunder, a crash rang out as the dwarf struck Gradius in the back with his palm, tossing him through the air with a large dent in his armor. Hands made of moving stone burst from the floor where Gradius landed and pinned him down.

He pulled at his earthen binds and howled like a beast with flames streaming from within his armor, producing a sound like a boat horn. More hands continued to grab him and conceal the flames. Throughout the dungeon, prisoners who had been silenced by Gradius’s rage were hollering like agitated chimps.

“Well done, Lady Opal,” the dwarf knight said with a grimace. The female knight was crouched where Gradius had thrown her, her hands pressed to the ground and surrounded by two magic circles.

“It’s bad enough dealing with these vandals without him making it worse!” She noticed his hand, the way his palm had been burned. “Sir Berholm, are you well?”

He looked at his hand and sighed. “Hmmm, my palms have gotten soft. I suppose I’ve fallen out of shape. He is burning far hotter than usual. That armor was made by the dwarves and enchanted to contain his power, but it appears to be reaching its limit. What little sanity he has always fades during Red Revelries. As the violence grows worse each year, it seems he does as well.”

“He’s gone too far this time! If he has lost all distinction between friend and foe, then he doesn’t deserve to keep his title, or even his life.”

“This is not the place to discuss such things, too many ears and eyes. Go find Sir Tarnas, tell him his rabid dog is in trouble. I’ll lock him up in one of these cells and proceed on my own.”

Opal maneuvered the stone hands to expose Gradius’s hip, where a ring of heavy keys hung from his belt. She passed the ring to Berholm and then warped the stone further into a cocoon, with Gradius’s enraged screams echoing through the air holes.

Foley got up and approached the bars of his cell. “Oi, while you got that key handy, you think you could let me out?”

“Be silent,” Opal hissed. “While we are not as harsh as the executioner, for you to so rudely ask a favor through prison bars is worthy of punishment.”

“Is this how you treat newcomers to the city? I got drunk, was thrown out of a bar, woke up in an alley, and some lunatic tried to rob me. And who should come to my aid? A lass that kicks like an ass! Planted her hoof right in my chest! Go to the Sledgepaw, near the docks, you’ll find my faceprint in the mud next to a two-day old pile of horseshit.”

Berholm stepped forward and looked him up and down. “He might be telling the truth.”

“Are you not saying that simply because he’s a dwarf?”

“I’m saying it because he smells like everything that he just described.”

“So does every reveler that gets drunk before fighting.”

“True. Hmmm, if this place starts overflowing and they decide to let some go, I’ll mention you. What’s your name, boy?”

“Jim Foley.”

“Foley, huh? Very well.” He turned to Opal. “Tarnas might still be speaking with the king, but it’s best that they both know about Gradius.”

Lady Opal departed and Berholm opened the door to the charred cell. Gradius, bound in stone, was pushed inside like he was a block of Styrofoam and left next to the charred corpse of its original noisy inhabitant.

“Thank God,” Foley muttered, “that shit got old really fast.”

Berholm reached the door at the end of the dungeon, his hand approaching the iron knob. Then, in the blink of an eye, he spun around and that hand flattened into a blade, aimed for the assailant behind him. His hand was stopped by a cloaked figure, but not the one he expected.

“Lady Zodiac?”

The hood was pulled back to reveal long hair, like threads of silver, and cinnamon-shaded skin. Her eyes were gentle but vibrant, displaying the strength with which she had blocked an attack that would have sent most others flying. Valia Zodiac, she was famous for both her beauty and her power and had been for decades, for as her ears pointed out, she was a dark elf.

“Easy, Marcus. Don’t go lashing out like Gradius. We can’t have you going crazy on top of everything else.”

“Lady Zodiac, what are you doing here? You’ve been removed from service.”

“I may be stuck on the sidelines, but I can still impart my knowledge, and I still keep my ear to the ground. That you would ask Joyce for advice on the Harajin instead of me is rather insulting.”

“You’re just hoping this is a lead to Valon, isn’t it?”

“And if I do, does that not prove my innocence? Is your trust in me really so shaken?”

“Shaken, not broken. Your wisdom is much appreciated.”

Knights Berholm and Zodiac continued on to the next dungeon, deeper underground, but while the last chamber was for holding the living, this one was for holding the dead. All the corpses from each Red Revelry were stored upon shelves and tables, with countless herb branches hanging from the ceiling that both warded off insects and the stench of death. Here, underground with only lamp light, Gradius’s servants would examine the dead for signs of identity so that they could be returned to their families. but not for humanitarian reasons. For a noble son, especially one about to enter the academy, dying during a Red Revelry would be a black mark for the family. Depending on the family’s level of loyalty to the king, the bodies could be quietly returned and the secret covered up, or the bodies could be disposed of with the rest of the revelers, and the scandal could be made public. At the moment, they were absent, off researching crests found on bodies.

“There he is.”

Valia pointed to a table, where a body garbed in a black robe lay facedown. But they were not alone. By the table was Sir Elyot, cleaning his glasses.

“I knew you’d be here. You can never resist a good puzzle,” said Berholm.

“I didn’t know it for sure, but I did have an inkling about you being here as well. You aren’t after the Harajin, you’re after the knight who handed over his sword.”

“Gradius was sure it was a knight’s sword. Now for all we know, it could have been taken off a dead knight or bought on the street, but it’s possible that the knighthood has been infiltrated. If that’s so, we need to know and act quickly.”

“What have you found so far?” Valia asked.

“Well, he had been looted, so there isn’t much to go on. Beneath the cloak, he’s got wool clothes and a layer of bandages that covers almost his entire body. The cloak is filled with pouches and pockets to conceal various weapons, all empty. The fabric itself is interesting, so I think I’ll hold onto it.”

Valia stepped forward and examined the wound in the back of the Harajin’s neck. She was spared the sight of the face, molted and disfigured. “You two were right to come here. The blade slipped right between the vertebrae, didn’t even chip or scrape the bone, and it severed the nerves and nothing else with minimal blood. This was no accident and not done by a ranged weapon. This is the work of a real contender.”

“Sneaking up on a Harajin is supposed to be impossible. I’ve seen them dodge arrows aimed at their blind spots,” said Berholm.

Valia began looking the body over for other injuries and even flipped it over. “It most likely was done by another Harajin, though the wound doesn’t quite fit their style, unless they were covering it up. The question is: What were they fighting over?”

“Probably the decision for a peace accord. What’s important is the sword, and whether or not it was actually bestowed by a knight,” said Elyot.

“I’ll start turning over stones, see what crawls out.”

“Unfortunately, this is where you and I must part,” said Valia. “Without the king’s order, I can’t interfere any more than this, though I wish you two the best of luck in finding your culprit.”

A question from Berholm stopped her as she turned to leave.

“Did Valon ever possess an official sword? Even just a ceremonial one?”

“No.” She said it automatically, but once she left the room, that question became the spade with which she dug through her memories.

Berholm and Elyot left soon afterward, and all was quiet. Then, in the corner, a figure appeared, as if born from the darkness, though his white mask stood out against the shadows. He was certain he was alone, but he did not allow himself to display any signs of fatigue, or even exhale in relief upon ending his spell. He approached the body with his eyes averted. It was a sin for a Harajin to see the face of another, same as it was a sin to reveal it.

“Oritz, you fool. You brought shame not only to yourself, but to the clan.”

What should have been a small blessing, his reckless subordinate lying dead and looted on this table instead of Grond, had become a big problem, for the man now felt himself plagued with the same questions as the knights. Despite his behavior, Oritz didn’t have a liar’s instinct and would rather fight than try to escape through deception. He was an honest scumbag, if such a thing could ever exist. But which was more unlikely; that Oritz had simply lied to try and save himself from a knight’s wrath? Or that he had been assigned a secret mission that even he, the group leader, was not aware of?

The fact that he had been taken out in this style was a red flag, leaving the rest of the Harajin as suspects. If this really was an inner conflict and none of his subordinates had stepped forward, then either one of them was covering it up, or it was Grond. Add in the detail about the sword, and it brought the leader to one conclusion: there were traitors on both sides and something was happening under his nose.

After performing an examination of his own, the leader removed a jar from within his cloak and poured several small scarabs onto the body. They wasted no time burrowing into the dead flesh, and soon a rancid smell began to rise up. By nightfall, those scarabs would number in the hundreds and they would leave no evidence of the body behind.

----------

Noah trekked through the city towards the docks, his mind abuzz as he re-evaluated all of his options every time he took a step. Should he bail on this task and hope that Cyrilo wouldn’t follow through on her threat? Should he collect this potion and use it to threaten her? Collect it and then kill her? Kill the seller and keep it secret from her? Fulfill the task and give her what she wants? At the moment, all options seemed equally bad. He needed some new variable to help him decide.

But there was more on his mind than just Cyrilo. He was also thinking about the new detail of his magic. He could take on the appearance of someone dead, at least fresh, but the spell couldn’t be ended so simply as usual. A large part of him wanted to experiment with this development, to replicate the process and see what he could learn. It wanted an excuse, a scenario in which he could play with his new toy. That part was scanning his surroundings, sizing people up to determine who would be a good candidate to mimic. Who wouldn’t be noticed or missed? Who could be disposed of? The homeless? Other adventurers? Participants in the Red Revelries?

It was not his conscience which reeled in those thoughts, but a nagging worry, like a festering bug bite in the back of his mind. Reckless. Lifetimes of experience fueled his survival instinct, but to Noah, death was little more than an inconvenience or even a relief. He lived each life in pursuit of new experiences, feelings, and knowledge, living on drops of meaning while mortals basked in fountains, and that required taking a lot of risks.

This life was different, his first experience in a magic world, and there was no telling how long it might be until he got another. He needed to be careful with his life, but the excitement was changing him from risk-taking to reckless. His overreliance on potions in training, nearly dying in the dungeon crab because of a lack of preparation, the wounds he suffered while fighting beside Alexis, and now this whole situation because he wanted a closer look at the Red Revelries; all were because he let himself get carried away.

If he played it safe, he knew he would miss out on too much. Should he savor this world one tiny bite at a time, or eat it whole and enjoy the full taste? It was a question he failed to answer, even after grabbing some breakfast and reaching the docks. Here, great groaning vessels filled with food, monster pieces, and wood were departing and passing by others coming to deliver treasures from lands across the sea. It was late in the morning and expectedly busy, with sailors and fisherman crawling about like ants.

Noah found the warehouse with the seagull, but he didn’t approach, not while visible, and not without giving it a look around. He scanned the area, searching for signs of traps or an ambush. If any traps were set inside, they’d most likely be set around the doors and activate when he opened or stepped through them. There was an open window thirty feet up, the second most likely place and his only way in. It required him to climb up onto the roof of an adjacent building, where he summoned his clone and had it jump into the open window and climb amongst the rafters. It was dark inside, and he couldn’t see, hear, or feel anything through the clone, but from his perch outside, nothing appeared to pass through it. He jumped into the window and went no farther than the frame. No traps activated. Sunlight streamed through him at full brightness, and he scanned the warehouse for signs of another presence. It was full of barrels and chests just coming in from across the sea or soon to be loaded.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” he asked through his clone, standing several feet away. No response. “I’m here to pick up a package for Madam Cyrilo. Speak up.” Nothing. It appeared he had arrived before the seller, excellent. He moved into the darkest shadow amongst the rafters, where he had a view of everything. There was no telling when this person would arrive, so he deactivated his spells to conserve his mana, while trusting the darkness to conceal him.

Several minutes later, he reactivated his invisibility as someone finally appeared in the window, and their appearance set off alarms for Noah. Dark cloak, porcelain mask; they were an associate of the man Noah had killed the previous night. Was this a set-up by Cyrilo? Had one of them tracked him down to avenge his comrade? The royal executioner called these folks the Harajin, and considering the response it brought, Noah knew it would be bad to be seen with this man. Should he bail and risk Cyrilo fulfilling her threat? Or make contact and risk a fight? After mulling it over, Noah decided to see how this masked man would act.

The stranger looked around from the rafters as Noah had done and could detect no one else in the warehouse. He then dropped down to the ground and stood in the corner near the door. Was he planning to ambush whoever came through the door? He didn’t appear to have a weapon in hand. They both waited in the darkness, Noah testing the man’s patience. After a while, he deemed it safe enough to make contact. He summoned his clone and left it in his spot while he climbed away through the rafters. His mana flowed through the wooden beams, keeping them making any sounds. Once a safe distance away, he spoke through his clone with a deepened voice, one rehearsed enough to sound natural.

“Are you here to make a trade?”

The man became tense, his head darting back and forth in search of the voice and settling on the clone. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I was sent here to pick up a potion in exchange for a scroll. Are you here to deliver it?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. Identify yourself!”

“My name doesn’t matter, I just need to take the potion and give it to Cyrilo. Do you have it or not?”

“I will only give it to her, no one else.”

Noah conjured his bow and shot the man with an invisible arrow. It was planted in his thigh, prompting him to curse in pain and drop to his knees. He stared at the wound, feeling the arrow but not seeing it, then gasping as it seemingly materialized out of thin air. “Hand it over or I’ll loot it from your corpse. I’m just going to take it to Cyrilo.”

The man paused, trying to steady the mental scale he was using to weigh his options. He gripped the wound to slow the bleeding and try to ease some of his pain. “Do I have your word?”

“Yes,” Noah replied. The man slowly reached into his robe and pulled out a ceramic bottle, then set it on the floor. His gloves, now bloody, left several red smears on the bottle. Noah tossed Cyrilo’s scroll onto the floor by the man’s feet. Wrapped in his mana, it didn’t appear until it hit the ground. “There is your payment. Now exit through the door and close it behind you.”

“I can’t walk.”

“You can limp.”

With a suppressed growl of pain, he snapped the shaft of the arrow but did not remove it, out of fear of bleeding out. He pushed himself up onto his feet and limped to the door. He managed to get outside and closed the door behind him. After a few minutes, Noah climbed down from his perch and collected the bottle. Hopefully, this was what Cyrilo wanted. Should he give it to her so easily? Try to extort her? Either way, if there was one thing he had learned since coming to this world, it was to get potions appraised as soon as possible.

He left the warehouse and headed in the direction of the Knight’s Sheath. However, rather than walking through the streets, he was moving through the dark alleys, many of which were occupied by the homeless. He got a tail within minutes, some mangey thief, and once Noah reached a quiet area, he made his move. He cast both his spells and stepped out of reach of the man’s dagger. The blade passed through his clone without any resistance. The man didn’t understand what was going on, but his adrenaline wouldn’t let him stop to ponder, and he began swinging wildly at the clone. Nothing he did, no matter how he tried, inflicted any damage, as the real Noah was standing several feet away, waiting for this thief to tire. The foolish fish had taken the bait, but not until its fins went slack would he reel it in. With every attempt, the thief became more agitated, unable to understand what was happening and why his blade wasn’t harming Noah. It was when he finally stopped to catch his breath that Noah stepped forward and lopped off his head.

Noah deactivated both spells and then reactivated his invisibility. He crouched down, placed his hand on the now cooling body, and summoned his clone. He felt it once again, foreign mana from the man latching onto him and shrouding his body like a nasty odor. Or perhaps that was just the smell of the corpse. This guy and his ratty clothes stank to high heaven. Noah’s clone appeared, giving him the appearance of the slain man.

“Now we’re talking.”

It was confirmed: he could now take on the appearance of other people. The mana use was heavy, taking three times as much as his usual clone, and killing people each time could get him in trouble, but it was worth it to know that his magic still had room to grow. Whether he had more tricks waiting to be discovered or his magic would evolve on its own, that potential was priceless. Now to experiment.

Just like the previous night, he could not separate from his clone, nor could he dispel it simply by covering his eye. He tried to remove the illusionary shirt he was wearing, but the spell refused to be altered. Normally, removing clothes or drawing weapons was within his clone’s capabilities, so either that would change in time as he’d train and experiment, or this wasn’t a clone at all, but a third type of illusion he could create, one with its own rules. He looked at his hands, now hands that he did not recognize, and brought them to his face, covering both eyes at once. Whenever he tried it before, all it did was activate or terminate both of his spells simultaneously. Maybe… no. He lowered his hands to find that the illusion was still active, even though his spells had ended.

‘Damn. Will I really have to wait for my mana to hit zero for this spell to release? After last night, that’s not really something I want to be stuck with. Maybe if I just repeat the process, that’ll undo it.’

He covered his left eye with his hand, and to his surprise, he returned to his original appearance. So casting his invisibility spell undid the illusion? A welcome mystery. While still invisible, he put his foot on the dead body and conjured the illusion once more, no issues. He released his invisibility and recast it, and the illusion was dispelled.

“That’s one issue out of the way.” Like the spell, his bitter mood from dealing with Cyrilo came to an end. There it was, that spark of excitement, pushing the shadows from his mind. He savored it as much as he could, like the meager sunlight in winter.

Now that he had a sense of how to use the illusion, it was time to put it to good use. But first, this body had to be dealt with. Noah pulled out his bottle of high-proof liquor and poured it on the severed head, then lit it with his flint and steel. The flames wouldn’t remove the evidence, just disfigure the face so that it wouldn’t be recognized.

Disguised, he left the alleys and made his way through town, soon arriving at an apothecary shop he had passed on his way to the docks. Cyrilo told him that the potion would immediately draw the attention of the authorities, but this time, Noah could make a proper escape. He had been in these shops several times since arriving in this world, and they were all the same. The walls were lined with shelves of merchandise, mostly jars of ground up herbs and potions, while various plants hung from the ceiling to dry. Behind the counter, an old man was working a mortar and pestle the size of a punch bowl, with biceps that shamed most of the blacksmiths Noah had encountered so far.

“Can I help you?” he asked. He looked uncertain as he sized Noah up, but his disheveled appearance would naturally bring such mistrust.

Noah laid out all of his ceramic bottles on the counter, including the one he had received in the warehouse, six in total. Each had a different label written in an unknown language, except for the warehouse potion. “I pulled these off a body earlier this morning and want to know what they are.”

The man got up from his seat with a grunt and came over to examine the bottles. “Well, judging by the ceramics, I’d say western Ezeria.” Noah vaguely recalled the name. It was a nation to the southeast, across the sea.

The apothecary uncorked one of them and gave it a whiff. “I’m detecting filo berries, fermented lizard blood, some keel mushrooms, and a hint of… rose cactus. This is a slow-acting health potion.” He studied a second. “Hmm, smoky, with hints of melted fat. I’d say honey root, dried over a cooking fire, with malin sage and water. A second healing potion, faster acting.” The third: “Scorpion venom, mixed with velmon fruit juice, a bit of… harken, and some… camel urine. This is a paralyzing agent.” The fourth, he described as musty with the scent of desert flowers, cactus juice, wildebeest eyes, and ash, all ingredients for a deadly potion, and the fifth bottle was the antidote, but when he came to Cyrilo’s potion, the old man grimaced. “I’ve never smelled something like this before. It would take time and money to research.”

Noah smelled the mysterious potion and he too was thrown for a loop. It was a smell that came out at first as subtle, then, once it filled his nose, there was a sharpness that made him twitch. Organic, metallic, chemical, it seemed like a combination of all three and yet different from all of them.

“I’ll pass. Anything else you can tell me?”

“Well all these potions here are used almost exclusively by the Harajin. The bottle shape is their handiwork and they’re labeled with some code they use in the field.”

“What are the Harajin?”

The man began examining the bottles once more. “Long ago, a plague swept through Ezeria, one that rotted the body inside and out. People began wearing masks to protect themselves from the disease, hide their deformed faces, or even commit crimes. Eventually, the citizens banished the infected, casting them out into the desert to die. Those that did not succumb to the disease or the desert heat learned to survive amongst the dunes. They formed clans of cutthroats and thieves, living off those who entered their domain. Legends were born of masked marauders, appearing like a sandstorm and then vanishing before their victims even knew what happened, leaving bodies utterly drained of blood. Their skills and reputation have only grown with the passage of time.”

“Would you be interested in buying these five?”

The man spat on the floor. “Nothing good comes from being associated with the Harajin. Throw them in the gutter, preferably far away from me.”

Noah bought some herbs and potions and left the shop, then ducked into a nearby alley. Not all of his questions were answered, but the scales had been tipped.

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