Book 3: Chapter 31 - 35 (Edited) (Patreon)

Chapter 31 - Scripted Events

The flowers of war are at their most beautiful when they blossom in spectacular disarray.

- Unknown.

I stood tall, drawing myself up to my full height, straightening my shoulders. As I did so, I couldn't help but to remember, ‘He who shouts first, shouts loudest’. It was an old adage, half-remembered and probably incorrect, from a different time and a different place. With a deep breath, I mustered as much confidence as I could, "Please, allow me to explain…"

The City Guard officer narrowed his eyes and stepped closer towards me. With a mere flick of his hand, he set his men into motion. On his silent command, he had ten guards encircle the Beastkin who held Zariyah hostage, their polearms poised to strike. Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered, obstructing the flow of traffic.

"Move along! Move along," the officer commanded sharply, a hand on the jeweled sword at his hip, his order cutting through the buzz of the crowd. His men started to shepherd the city's busy inhabitants around the scene, gently but firmly pushing away the onlookers.

With thinly veiled annoyance he shouted, “You there, Beastkin! Stinking savages, the lot of you!” He almost spat, his face twisting in disgust. “Go on, I dare you. Kill her, see if I care. It’s what your kind love doing. But the moment you finish having your little bit of fun, I’ll have you all strung up from the gates,” he warned, with all the authority of his office.

The wolf Beastkin looked around him and, seeing no new avenue of escape, released Zariyah with a defeated look. Some of the City Guards stepped aside to allow her through but kept the points of their weapons at Beastkin’s neck. The girl hurriedly pushed the guards to stand by my side.

With the immediate situation more or less diffused, he turned his attention back to me. The officer's expression was one of sharp inquiry. "What is going on here? And who might you be?" he demanded sharply of Zariyah, prodding at her chest in a manner that was both rude and dismissive.

Her reply was, of course, nothing but a prolonged silence, her expression set in defiance. Frustrated by her apparent reluctance to speak, he lifted his armored hand in a threatening gesture. A sneer crossed his face when he noticed her flinch.

“Thank the Goddess you are here! These horrid beasts attacked us!” I blurted out to divert his attention. “I am just a simple adventurer, still new to this great city. I was drawn here by the promise of wealth and renown. I was making my way to the Grand Bazaar with my companion…” I paused, nodding to Zariyah who had her eyes closed, expecting the worst. 

“When suddenly these animals…” I started, only to be silenced by the officer.

“Attacked you, you say? But even Beastkin would not be so stupid as to start violence within the walls without provocation…” the officer stated, removing his white-plumed helm.

“The man-thing threw scorn at us! You all here saw! Yes!? Yes!?” explained a half-recovered Hashmal, spluttering. A murmur ran through the members of the building crowd.

“That would indeed be a provocation for your kind. Still…” drawled the officer, as if he was enjoying the proceedings. Enjoying the petty power he held over us.

“I saw that savage animal start it, I did! Swiped at the man with those long sharp claws of his for no reason, he did. ‘Haps they got the crazy disease, their brains go to jelly before they go even more beast-like…” came an oddly familiar voice from the crowd. It was a voice that I could not quite place.

Hashmal gave out another roar but was silenced by one of the City Guards, who whacked him across the face with a heavy truncheon, smashing out a long white canine.

“I will have to add disturbing the peace to your crimes, animal,” the officer commented, nodding to the subordinate who had disciplined the lion Beastkin. One of his men who had been shepherding the crowd approached and saluted him. After a brief glance around, he leaned in to whisper something into the officer's ear.

Damnation, the last thing I needed was to be in trouble with the law. I had best play things safe. Even without using an Identify spell, I could tell that these men were a cut above the usual rabble.

“As I said before, I was just walking down to the Bazaar when these animals accosted me. They threatened us. You know how violent these things can get. Animals, aren’t they?,” I offered in explanation.

“There is more, no?” the officer added lazily.

“Yes,” I stated with a nod. I needed to lay this on thick. Silently I thanked the voice in the crowd who had spoken out in my defense, before continuing, “We were just on our way when these things threatened and accosted us for no good reason. They grabbed my companion and I defended myself to the best of my ability, but there were four of them… and then you blessedly arrived before they could continue…”

He looked at me thoughtfully as he sifted through my words, searching for lies, but found none. As always the truth was on my side.

“I think I’ve seen and heard enough. The simplest of explanations are almost always correct. The Beastkin wanted a little fun with your lady friend, and of course, being the chivalrous and generous gentlemen you are, you stepped in and defended her honor,” the officer declared, causing the wolf Beastkin to give out another whine in protest. “But what I can’t understand is how you pummelled three of them, by the looks of things at least, all by yourself?”

I looked him evenly in the eye, “I had a just cause on my side.”

“How I see it, using nothing more than your fists, at that. Perhaps the next Festival will be interesting. That nothing more than a decoration?” he observed, noticing the dagger at my side. 

I looked at him quizzically for a moment. 

He mused aloud as if to no one in particular, “Still, both parties have disrupted the city's peace... I wonder what the penalty for that would be?” 

“Perhaps, I can make some amends for taking up the precious time of the City Guard on such a trivial matter,” I suggested in a soft voice without batting an eyelid.

I smirked inside. He had barely given the Beastkin a chance to defend themselves and had all but given me a shakedown. The upholders of law and order were as corrupt in this world as they were in mine. It was best that I stay on the right side of those who held some power over you. 

“Yes, perhaps you can,” the officer replied with a superior smirk.

Slowly, I drew a single silver coin from my purse which only caused the man to raise an eyebrow. With a small sigh, I produced another coin.

“Most generous. Most generous, indeed. You truly must be new to Al-Lazar to donate such an amount in hard coin,” he guffawed, causing his men to chuckle with him nervously. “The name is Ahmed Rafiq… would you give me your name? For the record, of course.”

Had I misjudged him? Had the raised eyebrow been nothing more than signaling his surprise at being paid in real solid silver? Either way, it was too late now.

I drew a breath to calm myself. “Gilgamesh of Uruk,” I responded flatly, but politely. Even as I gave my name, I gathered the threads of Mana within and sent them questing to gauge the man before me and confirm the truth of his words. Identify was working hard, this day.

Ahmed Alim - Council Guard (Human lvl.17)

Health: 195/195

Stamina: 27/33

Mana: 9/9

"An unfamiliar name, but one I shall endeavor to remember. Making a friend of the City Guard is a wise move indeed. Should you find yourself in any trouble in Al-Lazar, I might be inclined to assist, provided your generosity continues," he said, his eyes gleaming with avarice.

With a sharp barked-out command, Ahmed directed his men, "You lot, round up these creatures and lock them in the cages where they belong!" The guards saluted briskly before descending on the Beastkin. They subdued any remaining resistance in them with the truncheons and clubs at their hips, secured them in irons, and then frog-marched them away, parting the crowd as they went.

Ahmed, following his men briefly, stopped a moment later to offer me parting words. "Adventurer Gilgamesh of Uruk, savoring a job well done is a rare pleasure indeed. I wish you and your companion a good day." He then added, with a cautionary tone but a sly smile, "A word to the wise, fraternizing with a crimson whore invites trouble. Not that I can blame you," he said, his smile turning rakish. 

I turned over his words and unfamiliar nomenclature, thinking that he had insulted me in some way. Understanding came a few heartbeats later when I realized that I was not out on my own.

“Indeed, Ahmed Alim,” I blurted, my words coming out faster than I intended. “I have heard such advice before in regards to your sister, but that has not stopped the long line of men who vie for her attentions. You would also do your best to mind your manners around my friends. Especially those of the fairer sex,” I said in my most friendly and false voice. It was a poor rejoinder, but it was the best I could do at the time in a language that was not my mother tongue.

He paused for a moment, giving me an odd look and I smirked in response. Ahmed looked as if he wanted to say something, but stopped himself. Simply turning around, he gave a dismissive yet casual wave and rejoined his men. Soon he was lost in the crowd. The tall polearms of the City Guard, bobbing above the heads of the general public, gradually disappeared from view.

You have gained 1 Charisma

As I read the notification, I could not help the thin smile that crept its way across my face. I would consider two silver coins a good bargain for a permanent increase to one of my attributes. That and a sprinkling of experience points from throwing down hands with the Beastkin.

My fists were clenched tightly at my sides, and I noticed I was shaking. Was I shaking because of frustration, fear, or anger? Perhaps relief, a quieter voice inside of me suggested. Maybe it was a blend of all four. 

Taking a deep breath, I stilled myself to take stock of the situation,  now that the danger had passed. Part of me wanted to scream out in protest at the waste of money. A different, darker part of me felt frustration that I had not slaughtered the lot of them, consequences be damned. 

Still, they had certainly got what they deserved. The irons suited them.

Could have done with a few more points of experience though.

Zariyah and I drifted off to the side of the street to let the growing traffic pass.

“Are you alright,” I asked softly.

She simply nodded, looking spooked. We were both likely still processing the whirlwind of events that had just unfolded. In my life, excitement had a peculiar way of arriving. All at once, overwhelming and without warning.

“Do you want to go back?”

To this, she surprisingly responded by shaking her head weakly. She gave me a weak smile. 

This is life in the city of Dust. I did not expect you to be the center of so much trouble on your first day here. Your friends were right to say that you attract trouble as honey does flies. 

But, you possess a rare strength, I think. I can see how the others are drawn to you. You treat those of the Silver like they were children and the savage Beastkin as if they were unruly pets. You choose violence when silence would serve you better. 

And when you laugh, I hear the echo of the Winds’ madness in your voice. You are troubling. 

This was her reply, her finger’s movements straight, crisp, and sure.

I crossed my arms and replied archly, “Should I be taking this as a compliment or a complaint against my character?” 

Take it however you wish, her hands messaged, as her usual thorny mask reasserted itself. 

With a small huff, she started off back down the road, giving me no choice but to follow her. Women, as always, were as inscrutable as the faraway stars. 

Unlike women in general, and Zariyah in particular, the ‘game system’, or whatever it was I had been given, was more comprehensible. My condition, broken down into numbers, could be understood at a glance and I saw that, already, my Health was steadily ticking back up, due to my Minor Regeneration. Iasis’ blessing was most useful indeed, but what would be the price of it? That aside, it would do nothing for my clothing, torn now in places, but that was a minor annoyance at worst. 

Moving together with the flow of the city, we arrived at the Grand Bazaar, a spectacle of raw capitalism at play. The air was filled with the cacophony of merchants, their voices slicing through the noise, boasting of their goods as though narrating epic tales. Amidst this, men and women engaged in spirited haggling over exotic goods, their exchanges resembling a playful pantomime. Money changed hands, sealing deals where the line between victor and vanquished was blurred. The Bazaar also unleashed a barrage of scents upon me; the heady mix of incense, spices, and the unmistakable presence of animals and humans. A potent blend that threatened to overwhelm my senses.

Immediately I was mobbed by a gaggle of children, pulling at my sleeves. They entreated me to visit this stall or that, promising, of course, the best of prices. I shooed them all off like the annoying tenacious gnats they were.

Please, for the love of the heavens, try not to cause any trouble here. And be careful of your purse, there are pickpockets and thieves here on occasion. An obvious foreigner like you would make for an easy mark, Zariyah advised, turning to me and displaying a hint of a grin.

“Quite,” was my simple sardonic response. 

Escaping the mob of children, we ventured forth into the Bazaar proper. The people were garbed in all manner of clothes. Vivid hues jostled with somber blacks and resplendent whites in a tapestry of visual discord. There was no organization to the Grand Bazaar, no rhyme or reason. Beside a stall brimming with exotic fruit and vegetables, a jeweler displayed his wares. A gemstone, set in a filigree of silver chained to the stall, shone like a captive star. A few paces further in, a book stall sat next to a display of weapons of various quality. Each merchant, a lord of their small domain, competed for our gaze and coin with cries and enticements.

I had no need of more weapons to cut, bludgeon, and maim with. Instead, it was the collections of paper, papyrus, vellums, and parchments for sale that drew me.

I gazed over the display of books and scrolls, ignoring the merchant until my eyes alighted on a leather-bound tome. The old book was worn with age and the stain of time, but the title could still be clearly read, ‘The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney’. Beron, I had seen or heard that name before…

The book caught my interest, and I was in dire need of new reading material. I gestured for the bookseller to come over, and tapped the book.

“I see you have an excellent eye and impeccable taste. That fine volume is a rare treasure, indeed. One and a half shekels, silver, for you samasa,” the book merchant proposed in a reedy voice.

He was an old man, his beard mostly gray going white. His face was pitted and lined, and he looked to be of the same age as some of the ancient books that he sold. Long, lank hair fell from the edges of a small bright red hat, similar to a Moroccan Fez. As he took off his spectacles, I saw that his eyes were rheumy and unfocused. More to the point, I was happy that he made no comment about my somewhat shambolic appearance.

“I saw another copy at another stall for half the price,” I countered smoothly.

“Bah, then you would have been better off throwing your money into the sea. This is a genuine, printed from the presses of Quas. Look, see here,” boasted the old man, tapping at a small mark on the spine.

“But at half the price, surely the contents would be the same?” I ventured.

“Those copies be made by hand, and prone to error more than not. A misspelled word here, a different turn of phrase there, and a new part added to satisfy a calligrapher’s vanity. You would be better with a genuine article. Still, they might make for a prettier piece, but a book made by the presses is a more perfect copy of Laney’s original words. One and a half shekels is more than a fair price for his wisdom,” insisted the old man.

I looked at him bemused, for it was odd that a mass-printed book was worth more than a hand-copied one. What sort of logic did this world operate on?

In accordance with local custom, I handed over a promissory note worth ten silver coins. I was almost surprised when he handed back to me the correct amount of change. It was a first for me, and I did my best to hide my surprise as we completed the transaction. 

We parted ways with a small formal bow to each other, Zariyah mirroring me soon after, and walked further in.

A seller who traded in all manner of animals bade us look at his stock. All of them were colorful creatures of paradise, of feather and scale. Birds with long plumed feathers, and frilled and maned lizards whose scales shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow. It would have been a wondrous sight, but I saw the frustration and melancholy in their eyes. Trapped in cages and robbed of their freedom, their futures were bleak, at best, and this turn of thought robbed the experience of its wonder.

Pressing on a little past, we saw that there was a section exclusively devoted to the sale of beasts. A strong animal scent filled the air, and the cries of a variety of animals both familiar and unknown could be heard. The whinny of horses, the barks of dogs, and the rumble and hiss of lizards all mixed into a chaotic cacophony.

All manner of beasts can be found in the Grand Bazaar of Al-Lazar, Zariyah shared with me. The smell in this section is most pungent, I hope you are not planning to take a closer look, she inquired, curling her nose in distaste.

In response, I raised my hand, just scanning the area for beasts I had yet to encounter before. I smiled when I saw a creature reminiscent of the Ceratopsians of Earth’s past. However, this specimen boasted six legs and was sheathed in a far more formidable armor. Thick, bony knobs and plates adorned its back and flanks forming an almost solid shell. It dragged behind it a tail that ended in a fearsome array of solid bone spikes. Upon closer inspection, it bore a striking resemblance to a gigantic tortoise, though it possessed a bony frill and a single horn jutted proudly from its snout. A bony ridge, or cervical, extended just behind its thick frill, where a boy with a serious demeanor rode atop the creature. Burly men, bare-chested, gently prodded the creature's flank with long poles, guiding it toward the gate of its pen. With a bit more urging, the beast moved forward, issuing a low, mournful bellow that seemed to resonate with a sense of resigned acceptance.

“What manner of creature is that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. It had been an awesome sight. Brave, indeed, must have been the first men to tame such a beast.

You have never seen Lumashitu before? 

“No, but we have creatures somewhat vaguely similar to it, though nothing close its size. A rhino, or perhaps a small elephant, would be the closest modern analog. Though there are precious few of them now. An ignorant people believe that their horns hold medicinal properties so they have been hunted to near extinction. There is about as much magic and medicine in their horns as there are in my fingernails,” I commented, a bit of bitterness edging into my tone.

I see, of course, you haven’t. Well, these creatures come from the jungles north of here. Remarkably resilient creatures, they are as comfortable working the farm fields as they are charging across the battlefields. They command a hefty price, yet despite this, the Council of Al-Lazar boasts a unit of Lumashitu cavalry. Their charge is legendary, said to be unstoppable, came her explanation, a small bit of pride coloring her manner. 

That one, by its size, is a female, she finished, pointing at the docile Lumashitu. Her nose wrinkled as if she had found something distasteful.

Offering her a wry grin, I was unable to resist a playful tease, "Is that so? No wonder it was so stubborn about doing what it was told."

Yes, yes, but please can we go now? she beseeched, almost pouting in resignation. 

“Yes, as the lady commands,” I stated, giving her an exaggerated bow.

Surprisingly, instead of rolling her eyes as I expected, she gave me a formal curtsy in response. More importantly, she smiled at me, and I felt my heart beat just a little faster.

Chapter 32 - Ups & Downs

‘There are things that not even coin can buy’ is the mantra of the destitute.

- Unknown.

With renewed enthusiasm and a new skip to my step, I wandered through the Grand Bazaar, Zariyah at my side. Meandering past merchants peddling expensive, aromatic spices, she shared the names of those she recognized, detailing their origins and uses. However, I found my attention drifting. I was more captivated by the subtle smile curving her lips and the spark in her eyes than her shared knowledge. Despite this, her silent explanations brought the world around me to life as no lesson or lecture ever could. 

Focused completely on her, I did not see the changing numbers at the corner of my vision. In those moments I could almost believe that I was not trapped in the hellish dimension of a game.

Could one truly have feelings for a character from a game? If countless girls could tumble head over heels for someone who existed solely within the pages of a book, then surely the same could be said for a digital creation. Troubling, but in a sort of good way. It might be just an illusion, but the feelings I held were real.

As she concluded another explanation, her gaze fell gently. Thank you, she seemed to murmur with her fingers sketching a rare gesture of gratitude.

"For what, exactly?" I queried, a touch of confusion in my voice.

For everything, she replied, her eyes diverting, avoiding mine. When Gelgor transferred my contract to you, I feared the worst. I anticipated harsh treatment, to be ravaged like a… She paused, the bloom of a blush coloring her face.

"I would never," I started to protest, but she continued over me.

Please, let me finish. This hasn't been an easy transition. Living in fear, only to find the reality so starkly different... It's like being adrift in a tiny boat amidst a tempest, at the mercy of the surging waves. You've looked upon me with almost open lust in your eyes, yet you've scarcely laid a hand on me. Despite having every right, given I was all but your property. Why? Surely, you find me attractive...

"Indeed, I could have claimed you. But that would have meant not truly having you, the real you," I responded. The words felt clichéd as they left my mouth, yet she seemed to take them to heart.

Her smile then, playful and teasing, lit up her eyes. You nearly convince me that I'm a noble lady from the tales of old, not a despised Hazagadam. Despite knowing what I am, you treat me with such kindness. We hardly know each other, yet you accord me respect as if I hold some great worth.

She paused, her lips pursed in thought before she carefully added, And... you're the first to ever defend me in such a manner… against a captain of the City Guard, no less. I can't fathom why. 

"Maybe it's simply in my nature," I replied with a hint of playfulness, gently lifting her chin to meet her gaze.

You claim to be a man of your word, and thus I am a free woman. If I am to believe you, then please, do not touch me like that in public again, she stated firmly after she pushed me away. The moment of tenderness evaporated, and her thorny defensive side swiftly returned.

Where on earth did I go wrong there?

The Hazagadami woman led me next to a different part of the Bazaar. Here all manner of oddities and trinkets were being sold. Things like a magical bracelet that could help improve your insight could be found next to a tube of farseeing, a device I recognized to be some sort of telescope. Of the magical items, the greater majority of them were fraudulent, and the ones that I identified to have some modicum of magic were exorbitantly expensive. Most interesting of all was a wooden mask. Its seller advertised it as a good luck charm at the reasonable price of four gold, but my magic determined that it was really a cursed item.

Mask ‘Voice of the Flood’ [Magic][Cursed][Witchwood] 

Durability 259/260

A rather ominous name, I thought to myself. Now that I knew it to be cursed, I could almost feel the malevolence being emanated by the mask. Either that, or I had a rather active imagination. 

Curiosity tugged at me, tempting me to uncover the nature of the curse. However, prudence advised against such an inquiry, suggesting that some mysteries are better left unexplored.

I told the red-eyed girl of my findings, but she merely just shrugged her shoulders. All manners of things are sold here, was her simple and curt reply.

How could I fix the current tension? I much preferred the woman when she smiled.

“Zariyah, you know of a place where I can sell some rare alchemical materials?” I asked, breaking the silence.

Here of course, if we find a potion peddler. And perhaps also on Scholar’s Row. I have not been here for a long time so… Perhaps you can ask one of the merchants here? she answered, shrugging noncommittally.

It was a start at least.

Looking around, I saw a merchant at his stall selling what looked to be large umbrellas. Odd, I thought initially, for this region looked to be a dry area and the rains were said to be rare here. Telling Zariyah of my curiosity, she looked at me oddly but nonetheless followed me as I approached the stall.

Sitting on a small wooden stool, the merchant was a diminutive figure, his skin a deep, dark swarthy olive. Dressed in garish, tight pink attire, he was completely bald, lacking even the slightest hint of facial hair. His arms, bare from the shoulder down, were smooth and unblemished, mirroring the hairlessness of his face. Slender and lean, his physique suggested a lack of muscle. When he spoke to us, his voice carried a high tenor that was both effete and slightly off-putting.

“You wish to purchase a parasol for the lady,” he inquired, sidling up to us like a greedy crab.

“Yes, a red one. It will go well with the lady’s eyes,” I agreed with a fixed smile.

His expression froze for a moment, uncomfortably, before he recovered his professional mien. Zariyah looked away uncomfortably, her fingers trailing across a dark green colored bolt of cloth.

Please, I am sorry if I was short with you. Please, can we just move on? her fingers begged. I chose to pointedly ignore her.

“Of course, samasa, I have such a thing,” he said smoothly, producing an item for inspection. “A beautiful item, Qisnian silk and a wonderful shade of crimson… to… go well with the lady’s eyes, as you say.”

I accepted. “I’ll take it.”

“Excellent, sir. Now that will be…”

“A single silver piece,” was my monotone offer.

“Heaven’s forfend, samasa. The lowest I can part with such a piece of art would be three!” he shrieked almost girlishly. If he was acting, then it was a good performance for a few idle passersby who turned to look in our direction.

“Then two silver it is,” I countered, gauging his reaction. He was difficult to read, but I could tell I could probably get away with this price. 

I waited a moment, looking for telltale fractures of weakness, and found none. Perhaps three silver was a reasonable price. Also, there was something that I valued more than just saving a single silver piece.

“Very well, three then, if you can tell me of an Alchemist willing to buy rare herbs for a good price,” I offered, placing some notes on his counter.

“Very well, then,” he sighed as if he was doing me a great favor. “I know of such a man. Vincenzio of Scholar’s Row is always in need of plants for his experiments. You will find his place of business in the basement of the Adventurer’s Guild,” he sniffed, counting out the money. 

Once he was certain of the amount, he offered the parasol to Zariyah with a bright smile. Sheepishly she accepted, unfolding the parasol. 

It was a truly beautiful piece, a deep crimson with gold floral motifs that ran along the edges. Around the tip were the petals of a different flower, a flower I recognized now to be almost synonymous with the city. The Asixum, the flower and source of the Dust. I found it fitting, in a way.

The purchase must have agreed with Zariyah, for a hesitant smile played about her features and lit up her eyes. She twirled her new present about, the patterns on the parasol lost in a blur as we walked on.

“I am glad that you like it, but you might hit someone with that,” I gently chided. 

She paused for a moment, stilling. Zariyah looked confused, as if undecided as to what to say next. Robbed of her voice, her mouth uttered a quiet, no.. silent, thank you to me. Then she smiled, and for me, that was thanks enough. Internally, I shook my head. The woman’s, or girl’s, rather, mood was as changeable as the weather in autumn.

“You are, of course, very welcome. Next, we must be off to this Scholar’s Row, on our quest to find this Vincenzio!” I exclaimed, touching her elbow lightly. I could not help that she shivered at my touch, almost as if recoiling from me.

That moment stung perhaps a bit more than it should have.

Creating some distance from me, she gave a fixed and polite smile. That is an interesting way of bargaining, she commented with her hands. Was it me, or was I becoming adept enough at sign language to notice a hint of sarcasm in her motions?

“It is the only way to bargain when one does not have any true leverage. First, you must find their limit. Then you see what more you can get without costing the other side anything, without compromising your position,” I replied none too proudly.

Funny. To me it looked like something else. A form of clumsy extortion without actually extorting anything from the other side. Or, a way to save face from a bargain poorly struck, she replied with a shrug.

I was beginning to reach my limit. Even communicating with her was slowly becoming a waste of good Mana.

“Must you always be so combative? Can I do no right in your eyes? You saw how that merchant reacted, do you in all honesty think you could have gotten a better price? You being, what you are and all,” I added sarcastically, regretting my words almost as quickly as they came out of my mouth.

Her eyes flashed fire at me. Me being what I am. Thank you for reminding me. For a moment I thought you were different.

“I… I apologize if I have offended,” I offered cautiously, attempting a retreat.

How could you have caused offense? You were only saying the truth as you saw it. A truth I see every day, and that others have commented on nearly every day of my life, was her sharp response.

Looking around, I was glad that she had no voice to cause me embarrassment. It made displays such as these at least vaguely tolerable. There was no point arguing here, I had to just take my lumps and grin and bear it.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright. There, I am sorry. Let’s leave it at that and just try to enjoy the rest of… whatever this is,” I suggested, trying not to grit my teeth. 

She sighed a long sigh, no doubt blaming me for all the ills in the world.

Leaving the Grand Bazaar behind, she guided me towards Scholar’s Row. Entering the quarter was almost like entering a different country. Paved streets transitioned to cobblestones, while the architectural uniformity of the buildings dissolved into an eclectic mix of designs and sizes. Squat, gray structures neighbored slender, yellow towers. At one juncture, an arch spanned the street, serving as a bridge that linked two residences. To me, Scholar’s Row presented itself as carefully orchestrated architectural chaos.

Zariyah paused and leaned down to communicate with someone I initially mistook for a small ugly child. However, upon closer inspection, it became clear they possessed distinctly adult features. The individual had bushy orange eyebrows and a beard. He had a face that appeared unusually compact as if the clay of his features had been squeezed roughly together by an overenthusiastic potter.

Her words were very formal and she used the honorifics at all times. From what I could gather through their conversation this area of the city had seen quite a lot of change. The Adventurer’s Guild was one of the victims of an urban redevelopment policy and had moved to a larger site. Almost apologetically, she asked the little man thing for directions to the Adventurer’s Guild. Tersely, he gave a quick reply, his expression one of someone who had just been forced to do an unpleasant chore. With a huff he excused himself, once he answered her question, stomping off to whatever business we had interrupted. Zariyah remained bowing until he was out of sight.

Noticing my somewhat incredulous look, she decided to explain.

He was of the Giants, as they call themselves. They do not speak with their voices with others not of their kind. 

I could not help giving a flippant reply, “Giants, you say? There was nothing particularly giant about him.’

Not for their stature are they so named, but for their creations. In the times before the Cataclysm, the wise say they built the Green Road. In the modern age, they made the walls that protect the city and the deep wells that sustain us. That is why they are known as Giants. They are worthy of deep and great respect and you should be careful how you address them, she warned.

She pursed her lips in thought, It is good that you know the language of the flowing hands… The Giant told me that the Guild has moved to a different building. This way.

Chapter 33 - The Al-Lazar Branch

For the average man, the concept of free will is the grandest illusion. Yet, this misconception is dwarfed by the more profound and enveloping deception experienced by those touched by Mana. Forces whose natural state is one of indefinite paradox. 

Those blessed, or perhaps cursed, by Mana operate under the belief that their choices are their own. However, their actions are manipulated by Mana, a pattern as old as the universe. This deception is so deeply ingrained within the fabric of their souls that they never think to question its reality as they are slowly molded into something other. What remnants of free will they might possess are slowly traded for new invisible shackles on their souls.

This is the reason for their madness as they progress down their ‘path’.

But there is a force even more constraining than this. The notice of the gods. Once their gaze is upon you, and their voice reaches your ears, you are irrevocably transformed into a mere extension of their divine will.

Gone now is the illusion and all pretext that man’s choices are his own. 

- Attributed to the Wrack Witch before her execution circa 245 AC. 

The Adventurer’s Guild was not what I expected it to be. A walled and sprawling edifice of clashing Western and Eastern architectural styles, it was a fortress in miniature. A blue and white tiled mosaic of the Guild’s symbol, a sword crossed over a burning torch, was displayed proudly above a large arch that opened the compound to the busy public. Through this, I could see a large squat keep, past a courtyard of graveled stone. The keep seemed to be more a hodgepodge collection of cut yellow stone than a proper construction. Behind this crude construction, a wooden pagoda with golden tiles rose elegantly upwards toward the sky.

A small group of three, of what I assumed to be adventurers, stood just outside the threshold and seemed to be having a heated discussion.

“That is the last time I’m doing a job in the sewers, this is not what I signed up for,” moaned a rather vexed diminutive woman, with her hands on her hips. Freckled and pale in complexion, her face was stained with the color of emotion. “If I wanted to trudge through muck, I would have stayed at the farm! Heavens, even though I spent half a day washing I can still smell it!”

Garbed in dull gray robes and a wide broad-brimmed hat, she had a long wooden staff, festooned with fetishes and gems. A magic user, if I were to make a guess.

“Don’t be like that. I told you before, Tally, and for the umpteenth time, we need to do jobs like these to get some success under our belt. Look right, we knock out a few more easy jobs, talk to Aylin, then we do better stuff once we get the Bronze. You know how things is…” replied a middle-aged and dejected-looking man, his voice frayed with annoyance born from a long-time association. His stained rust-splotched coat-of-plate and notched weaponry gave him a decidedly disheveled appearance. 

A tall man, whipcord thin, suggested in a reedy voice, “I’m with Tally on this one, Gers, I’d rather ride out a bit into the Wastes than mess about in the sewers. It’s that time of year, right? They say the Alchemist in the basement always wants those horns and offers good money for ‘em.” 

“Hiring mounts’ll cost us a pretty penny. More trouble than it’s worth, hunting those three-eyed freaks. Finding ‘em is also half the problem. Can’t read the sands like I can the forests of home. Remember Del and his crew? They went out like yesterday, came back empty-handed, the lot of ‘em. I say keep things steady, keep things slow. It ain’t the best job, but it's safe, if not a little dirty,” explained Gers, sighing as he bore the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

“Tell me, where is the man who promised me the good and easy life in the City of Gold, eh? Tell me…” shrilled the one called Tally, in complaint.

“Not for that promise did you follow Gers, Tally…” started the tall, thin man.

"Excuse me," I chose to interject, flashing my most convincing, fabricated smile. "Is this the Adventurer's Guild?"

"What tipped you off? The massive, glaring cross and torch?" the small woman retorted, directing her annoyance squarely at me.

"Tally..." Gers cautioned, rubbing at a spot behind his neck.

Ignoring the woman, I decided to instead focus on the mercenary pauper. “The name is Gilgamesh, a fellow adventurer. If you would be so kind, could you tell me where I can find the job board? I am still new to this city…”

Taking off a beaten spangenhelm that had seen better days, he addressed me. “Pleasure to meetcha. Names Gersal. Over there in that building is where you can find the copper and bronze rank jobs,” explained Gersal, pointing at the squat yellow keep. “I don’t think you are of the Iron or Silver, but just’n case, the Tower of Triumph is where you can find the higher-ranked requests. Bloody self-aggrandizing name if you ask me though…” he added, pointing at the Pagoda. 

Gersal looked like he was about to say something else, but he was beaten to it by the other member of the group. “What happened to you? Looks like you got in a fight with a pack of animals. I thought we had it bad with sewer work… bloody giant rats…” the tall one commented.

“Indeed. I had a run-in with a few violent animals, the bipedal sort. Anyway, thank you for answering my questions. It is most appreciated,” I said grinning. Giving them all a small formal bow, I moved off. Behind me, Zariyah hurriedly mimicked my actions and chased after me. 

There was a crunch of gravel underfoot as we crossed the courtyard. We passed by several groups, much like Gersal’s, on the way to the yellow keep, their equipment and composition as varied as the flowers in the field. Some seemed to be veterans of campaigns and adventurers long forgotten, grizzled men holding old weapons and donning utilitarian and well-maintained armor. Others were younger, their gear freshly forged and newly bought. The weapons at their waists they wore awkwardly, the tools of their trade looking more the part of a costume. The assortment did not end there, for several parties featured  eclectic mixes of species. Dwarves and Beastkin, even a dark-skinned elf, were peppered about here and there. It was quite the tapestry of diversity. I was tempted to use Identify on the more interesting individuals, but with my magical reserves at about half, I decided against it. 

Stepping through the open doors into the main hall designated for lower-ranked adventurers brought a welcome surprise. The hall's interior offered a refreshing coolness, a stark contrast to the outside's balmy heat, and was alive with the sound of bustling activity. Along the hall's length, long tables and benches provided spaces for various adventurers to exchange tales, enjoy refreshments, or simply unwind. The serving staff, dressed in white shirts with billowing sleeves and necklines, complemented by black waistcoats, moved through the throng, attentive and efficient.

At the hall's far end, pink marble counters staffed by the Guild’s personnel dealt with a neatly formed queue of people waiting patiently for their turn. Each person handed a miscellany of items to the Guild staff, including plants - root, stem, and flower, rocks, an ancient clay pot, and body parts wrapped in rough cloth. In exchange, they received money and a polite smile.

To the right, a considerable gathering clustered around a large notice board that dominated its corner. This must be, of course, the job board. I contemplated checking out the latest postings, but the crowd's size, which seemed to swell by the moment, dissuaded me from this course. Moreover, after a brief reflection, I concluded that it wouldn't be appropriate to select jobs without consulting my companions first for their input.

Even though the group was not run by a majority vote, I knew well enough that people appreciated being consulted. It made them feel important.

Instead, opting for a moment’s pause, I decided to take a seat. I sat with Zariyah next to me. An awkward silence grew between us, creating a wall. Seeking to keep my hands busy, I took a slate tablet that I assumed to be today’s menu. Strange symbols, curved and boxy were inscribed upon it, their meaning unclear to me.

Without looking at me directly, Zariyah broke the silence without disturbing it. Her fingers moved in a pattern I could decipher now without the age of magic, Can you read it?

I never had the chance to learn, my own fingers waggled clumsily in reply.

She looked at me in puzzlement, and I went through the motions again.

You are terrible, she smiled, biting down on her lower lip to stop the expression from spreading. Of course, you never had the chance to learn. I’ll read it for you. 

This world’s sign-language was mainly phonetic, with only a few words baked into specific gestures, making it easier to learn. I had observed her in our time together, drinking deep of her detail. I never truly could forget the details that Identify revealed to me. It was a growing catalog of memories, magically seared into my mind, ranging from the most trivial items to the mightiest foes I had faced. The information remained as clear in the present as it was the first time I cast the spell.

However, I would have to agree with her that my execution must have been rather bad.

No need, just order something for you and me. Something light, was my halting response. Or rather you tell me what I should order, I added a little clumsily.

In the end, it had taken me three tries to actually convey my meaning. I could have just spoken to her, she was mute, not deaf, but a part of me did not want to break the silence. It was a shared moment, an island for two in the noise of the busy establishment.

I’ll have the day’s set and you should do the same. Watered wine if it pleases you, was her reply.  

A server came, a young girl with curly orange hair and a wide beaming smile. “What will you two be having then,” was her cheerful inquiry that broke our private moment.

Her infectious expression caused me to smile back in reflex. “Two of the day’s set, and watered wine for the both of us, if you would be so kind,” I ordered. 

Acknowledging and repeating my order she gave us another sunny smile and started to move away.

“A moment please…” I stopped, grabbing her lower arm.

This time the smile she sent my way was forced. “Can I get you anything else,” she asked primly, looking at my hand as if it were a venomous snake.

“Apologies,” I said as placatingly as possible, slowly releasing her arm. “But where might I find a certain Vincenzio the Alchemist?”

“You’ll find Vince in the basement, over there, down the stairs,” the serving girl answered in almost a huff. “Now, if you will excuse me,” she finished, turning up her nose in annoyance as she made her exit.

I looked at Zariyah, seeing the hint of a barely repressed mocking smile at the corner of her lips. “Not a word,” I warned irritably.

Chapter 34 - Beron’s Dream

Puissant indeed are the priests of the River. When touched by their God, they are given the power to pierce the veil of what is yet to come and to peer into the mists of the forgotten past. Unlike their God, they are mortal, and thus flawed. Their vision imperfect, their memories stained by imperfect minds, means what they see requires wisdom to interpret correctly. These mortal advocates of the River can not see the Source, the start of all things, nor can they see the sea of infinity into which time flows.   

Many say they are the guardians of order that protect our world against the coming of the next Cataclysm. 

I know that for a lie. They are the servants of a cage that binds mortal free will and even I will never let them have me.

- Attributed to the Wrack Witch before her execution circa 245 AC. 

Paying for the meal, we found the service to be efficient, though hardly welcoming. This didn't detract from the food's quality, which was outstanding, albeit somewhat lacking in flavor. Zariyah had warned me of its spiciness, but I found myself disagreeing. It seemed she had a more sensitive palate, as evidenced by her frequent sips of water to tame the dish's supposed heat.

After our meal, we cleansed our hands in bowls of lemon-scented water, and I offered my thanks to the server whose name I hadn't taken the trouble to learn. It was not custom, but I left a few tattered bills as a tip, drawing a puzzled glance from Zariyah.

As we made our way to the lair of the resident Alchemist, I could not help but notice the odd looks that were directed my way, likely a reaction to my disheveled appearance. However, these were merely fleeting, stolen glances, and none bore a hint of challenge. And rightly so, I thought to myself.

A set of stairs, wide and carved from the local yellowstone, led to the basement. There was no handrail, but the steps were relatively shallow and the gradient gentle. Glowing purple Zajasite set at uniform intervals provided adequate, but not great, lighting. Intrepidly we descended. 

A man passed us, robed and cowled in crimson cloth. He made no greeting, and I offered none. 

A smell, familiar yet different, slowly crept upon us as we continued our descent. Unguents and preservatives, burned herbs, and long-hidden rot mixed into a strange melange that stole upon the senses. Zariyah wrinkled her nose signaling her discomfort.

You know the best places to take a girl, she cried out with her fingers. The whiny complaint was writ clear in her discomfiture.

“Wait for me above, if this is unpleasant for you. I will try to conclude my business as quickly as possible,” was my considerate suggestion.

By your leave, she replied formally, before scurrying back up. 

I continued my descent into the bowels of the Guild, the smell growing ever stronger. At one point I swore that my Health had even dropped a point, only soon to be regenerated. At the bottom of the stairs was a black wooden door banded with iron. For some reason, or another, I felt like there would be a significant encounter beyond that door. I needed to be prepared, as well prepared as I could be.

I reached into my pack, rooting around until I found the cheaper Mana potions. I looked at the blue liquid for a moment,  unstoppered the glass vial, and swigged down its contents. It tasted like purified and distilled water, liquid nothing, as it slipped down my throat. I grimaced as I drank it down, more at the potential waste of money than its flavor. Seconds later, starting in the pit of my stomach, a tingling sensation came over me, spreading. It felt as if all the pores of my body had opened and that something electric and unnatural was filling me. That I was sucking something in, strange and alien. This must be Mana. I was feeling Mana itself coming to me.

I observed my Mana bar in the corner of my vision. Slowly it rose as I waited before the threshold, trepidation and caution stopping my entry. Wanting an excuse to waste time, I went briefly over my character sheet and Status.

Health: 418/434

Stamina: 66/75

Mana: 14/18

When my Mana had returned to over three-quarters, I could no longer make the excuse to myself that I was just being cautious. I knew fear for what it was. I could defeat it. With this thought, I placed both my hands on the door, felt the very grains of the dark stained wood, and pushed. 

The door opened inward and I was immediately greeted by a hammer blow upon my senses. The stench, an almost palpable thing, was pungent and thick. Just breathing it in felt as if my lungs were being clogged up. So distracted was I that I barely noticed the chimes that tinkled, signaling my arrival. 

The room I found myself in was exceptionally well-lit. The crystal Zajasite lights that hung from copper chains from the ceiling were almost as bright as any modern equivalent. Various specimens trapped in glass, animal and plant in origin, lined wooden shelves like alien soldiers on parade. 

“Hello, Vincenzio?” I called out from the entrance.

There was no reply. I took a cautious step into the room and called out again. This time there was a rustle of movement. A curtain parted at the end of the room, and a thin sallow cadaver of man walked into sight. His eyes were sunken hollows, his skin the waxy pale shade of a drowned corpse. Brown robes, splotched and stained in many places, hung about him a skeletal frame, just this side of the grave. I was so taken aback by his appearance that I could not help but cast an Identify on him to confirm if the thing in front of me was human.

Vincenzio Utnapishtim Barbierri - Necromancer (Human lvl.32)

Health: 272/272

Stamina: 24/24

Mana: 16/16

My recent encounters with the locals had led me to believe that I was perhaps a little over-levelled for this zone. However, looking at this I might be proven wrong, either that or Mr. Barbierri was a sort of secret hidden boss.

In a voice, rasping and throaty, Vincenzio the Necromancer was the first to break the silence. “Ha, it has been many years since one has felt the touch of Sage’s Eye. You are too young to be in possession of such a magic,” he observed.

I was rather shocked, for it was one of the first times my staple spell had been detected by one of the denizens of this world, I found myself hesitant in my response. His level was worrying, even if his attributes were not. How many had this man killed to reach such height?

“Gilgamesh,” I began, “and you are Vincenzio Utnapishtim Barbierri the Alchemist, I presume?”

He crossed his arms, his pale hands lost in the fabric of his robes. “Very much so, young man, the very one. Though, one has not heard my family name in many long years, nor do I remember telling anyone in the Guild. Bravo, you even know the name my mother gave me, the legacy of her people. Your Sage’s Eye must be powerful, and thorough, indeed to know of these things,” he replied with a dark smile, his eyes focused on a space behind my head.

“And what is your business with the last scion of a long-forgotten Qisnian house, young master Gilgamesh?” 

“Beron Vision. I have heard that there is a market for it and that you were a potential buyer,” I offered, waiting for the expected correction. It was always good to make sure the other side felt superior to you.

“Beron’s Dream, is the common layman’s term these days,” he corrected with a sniff. “Isurru Sutu was its original name before it was ‘discovered’ by the insufferable Laney. Still, one doubts you would have any interest in that. I promise to pay well for it.”

I reached into my bag, producing the sample for his inspection. Reverently he took it, unwrapping it from its leafy container and placing it onto a small silver platter. The lichen had lost some of its luster, but it still glowed a weak green.

“Fantastic, a relatively fresh specimen and decently preserved,” Vincenzio observed, taking out a looking glass with his index finger and thumb. He brought my proffered sample up towards his face for his closer inspection, held it up to the light and muttered in appreciation. “You did well to wrap it in a leaf and keep it in the dark. Ignoramuses would just throw it in a glass flask and call it a day. Like you, young man, your work is surprising.”

He put down both glass and lichen and fixed on me with the dark hollows that served as his eyes. “Three gold, twenty if you can tell me where you found it,” was his flat statement, but underneath were the faint undertones of a very mortal greed.

As I was about to accept, a very rude and obnoxious notification flashed before my eyes, stopping my reply. A reminder that I was just playing a twisted game. 

New Quest: Acquire the Raise Zombie scroll from the Necromancer.

A sly grin crossed my face. It seemed that the world was shaping itself to see to my needs. My wants. Very well then, game, I will play you. 

“Your Manzaza Shiptu, the birth seed of the magic that has touched you. A scroll that imparts the new magic. For that, and not just the luster of gold, will I tell you where this lichen grows. Necromancer,” I replied. A pronouncement with the weight of an undeniable fate and destiny behind it.

Chapter 35 -The Accord

Alchemy revolves around extracting and enhancing the natural properties of materials to achieve a specific outcome. This process is fundamentally powered by the alchemist's own Mana, which dictates the final characteristics of the concoction. Materials with a stronger innate magic are more malleable and responsive in this process. However, the quality of the end product relies more on the Alchemist's skill and belief in his process than on the materials themselves. Instead of relying on chants and rituals, alchemy uses precise recipes and measurements, though the essence of the practice with its use of Mana remains deeply rooted in spellcraft. The act of creating a magical potion is simply a spell construct in a liquid form.

Therefore, hypothetically, a true master can achieve wonders, such as creating a healing potion from mere water, provided they possess sufficient talent, enormous Mana reserves, and an unwavering belief in their method. A highly unlikely proposition, as the whole art is steeped in esoteric nonsense.

- A Study of Alchemics by Vincenzio Barbierri. 

In my arrogance, I had made a grave error in judgment. Whips of segmented bone flowed like liquid lightning from the Necromancer without warning, striking at me with fierce suddenness. The Mimic within formed a shield almost as swiftly, a thin barrier of false wood and iron against the storm. Where sharp white bone met flesh, a dull cold blossomed, eating away at my Health as they drew fresh blood.

In response to the cold, a familiar emotion grew in the pit of my belly. Sparked twice already in a single day, it was not hard to stoke the remaining embers of anger into a new flame. In answer to that anger, the dark part of my magic begged… no, demanded, for release. A release I willingly granted.

Entropic Aura burst from me in a seething pulse, an echo of the final death knell. Ivory bone began to turn gray as the waves of raw entropy crashed against bone whips that slashed at me. Seven were their number, heads of a relentless hydra made of engraved bone. Mystic sigils flared briefly about the tendrils of bone, tiny motes of black eroding its arcane nature. What attacks that struck through my automatic guard now bruised instead of drawing blood.  

“You must be quite powerful for a Visitor,” snarled Vincenzio the Necromancer. 

I took in his words as I stepped away, trying to get some distance as I drew the dagger at my waist. 

“You are indeed powerful, but you will find one to be no easy prey,” he continued in a flat clinical tone, the barrage of bone tentacles on my person unceasing.

Game theory dictated that the correct response to an attack was to initiate an overwhelming counter-attack of one’s own. It was the only logical choice. However, my need to complete my new quest stayed my hand from following this obvious course.

“I have no quarrel with you,” I shouted as I dodged a snake-like length of bone. A crashing tinkle of glass soon followed as it smashed into a row of beakers, vials, and alembics behind me. Liquid spilled from them, and an acrid stench filled the room like rotten fruit plucked too late from the vine.

This was definitely not how I expected a Necromancer to fight. But then again, outside of video games and fantasy, what did I know of Necromancers?

“But one has quarrel with you, feckless servant of the hated gods. The stench of their blessings is upon you. The reason for your coming can be no other than one’s demise. One is not so feeble of mind to believe in coincidence,” he answered, blind hatred staining his words with passion, and twisting his expression.

Another whip of segmented bone came down, as if in thunderous judgment. “Do you know not of the hundreds that are caught up in the wake of your kind?” he spat as I barely dodged his attack. “The suffering that you people bring to this world!?” 

"All of you lack free will, no more free than the pitiful zombies one mastered in youth. You're merely another puppet in their grand, foolish game. Ignorance being, perhaps, your only defense. Exterminating your sort has ever been a most mundane and odious task. Like weeds in the garden, you sprout where you are not welcome. One will pluck you out, as one has ended the others."

He began chanting in a flat, mechanical monotone, each syllable echoing softly. A glowing circle materialized, expanding into a series of concentric and intertwining rings. These rings spun slowly, with archaic and mystical symbols flashing and revolving around the center. A sickly green hue, the mystical spell construct, seemed to bleed unnatural magic.

It was plain to see that if he finished whatever spell he was casting, my immediate future would not be a bright one. Greater Drain, my only offensive magical option, whispered seductively in my ear. Too long had it been, it whispered sibilant and sure. Still, I was hesitant to attack. There had to be another way.

Even as I was weighing up my options, my shield blocked two more, almost simultaneous, blows of hard bone. My unnatural shield provided an impressive defense, but it was not perfect. Each successive blow against the Mimic shield chipped away at its Health. A few more blows snaked through its guard, bruising and cutting where they impacted against my flesh.

The Necromancer's voice surged, rising to a tumultuous clamor with echoes from beyond the veil of death. Oddly, I heard the faint tinkling of bells and shuddered as the air grew unnaturally cold and a chill crept over me.

“I am free. My freedom bought with agony and suffering. Damn the gods and their ilk! Who are you to judge me so? What do you know of me?” I declared in defiance, my cries almost feeling cathartic in their expression.

A flicker of hesitation passed over his face, and in his corpse-wax features I saw something hinting at a burgeoning seed of doubt. His relentless assault halted, the whirling flails of sharpened bone freezing in place.

"You dare to speak against the gods... Such defiance would be unthinkable for one in their power. Do you not fear the punishment of heaven?" He regarded me with a mix of suspicion and wonder, as if I had suddenly sprouted wings and horns. "Or is this a ruse? Yes, it must be a trick!"

I felt I was close. This encounter, this story event, could be solved with something other than violence. Just a little more, one final push.

“Vincenzo! I have offered you no harm, and have only defended myself. A Visitor you say, what is this? I fear there is a hidden meaning in such a word. I offer you this; I am not of this world, if that is your meaning, but I swear upon my mother’s grave that I am no friend of the gods,” I confessed as sincerely as I could.

My mother, to the best of my knowledge, was probably still very much alive but the lie came easily to my lips for the added dramatic effect.

Stretched across a few agonizing seconds, silence reigned supreme here, in the lair of the Necromancer. However, it was soon shattered by the growing heavy thud of many boots descending the stairs. 

The bone growths disappeared, slinking back into the Necromancer’s voluminous robes. Hastily, I sheathed my knife, my shield becoming a tangle of wormy threads, then disappearing into my arm.

A good thing too, for a group of well-armed men burst into the basement room, scant seconds later. Armored in ensorcelled heavy plate and chain, they could have been mistaken for automata golems. With weapons drawn, they scanned the scene before them through the grills of their helmets.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded one of them, his voice deep and strong, yet somewhat muffled by his heavy helmet. His presence exuded a menace, like that of a faceless and uncaring machine.

Vincenzio stood motionless, like a statue. "One was being assisted by a Copper in one of one’s experiments, Ezlas. Unfortunately, an accident occurred," he replied slowly, his eyes not quite meeting those of his questioner. It seemed to me that his gaze was fixed on a point just beyond Ezlas' head. 

"And if I were to go upstairs to verify, would I find that such a request was indeed made? That your experiment has received the necessary approval?" Ezlas's voice rose sharply in alarm, his tone verging on the edge of irritation.

“One has never been one to just go along with accepted societal norms,” The Necromancer shrugged nonchalantly, a gesture that seemed out of place with my image of him. He let out a raspy sigh and shook his head, subtly dismissing the question.

The armored man approached Vincenzio with heavy, metal-clad steps, towering over him. Yet, despite his imposing stature, he did not seem to overshadow the Necromancer.

Removing his great helm and tucking it under his arm, he revealed his features. Beneath, a padded mail coif struggled to contain the curls that peeked out from its edges. Yet, it was his face that was of note, dispelling much of the dread and mystery. With homely, rounded features, he resembled perhaps a benign village baker. A face far from menacing, but strikingly ordinary and harmless.

"You intellectuals all think alike, believing you're governed by a different set of rules. No respect for the established order. You're supposed to make your requests through official channels, without trying to bypass the Guild. Am I making myself clear?" he insisted, his deep voice sounding much clearer now.

Watching the scene unfold, I realized what Vincenzio was doing. He was masking a greater sin with a lesser one. It was an impressive performance, worthy of a prize. Had I not known better, I would have believed him as well.

Suddenly and without warning, the armored man Ezlas turned, the full force of his gaze bearing down upon me. I had to stopper a grin, suppressing it deep within. The whole situation bordered on the comical and absurd.

Still obviously irked, he demanded, almost hissing, “Your name…” he paused for a moment as if unsure. “Copper ranker? I have not seen your face before.”

Before I could give an answer, a wave of entropy brushed against the armored brute, causing runes on his armor to flare in warning before dying down.

“And this? What is the meaning of this, pray tell?” he asked sarcastically, turning to the Necromancer. He had found his spoor again. 

“As one has said, a minor accident has occurred. One would advise you and your men leave us, for one can not guarantee their safety, Should you choose to interfere more. Rest assured, one will see to dealing with any lingering magical effects in good time,” he stated calmly, shooting me a look, heavy with meaning.

“And what exactly were you working on?” he continued stubbornly. A hint of worry threaded his voice as he cast glances at various points across the room.

The dark master of magic looked at Ezlas with reserved contempt. “A magister’s secret is his own, one is under no obligation to tell you the steps of one’s path. You know full well that one has been given a broad remit to do as one likes here. One dares add, it is thanks to one’s research that many of your brothers and sisters have been saved from crossing the River too soon,” Vincenzio replied haughtily.

With a mocking smile, Ezlas raised a hand, commanding his men to begin a search. Initially undaunted by Vincenzio’s warning, the group spread out to investigate. However, mere meters in, they entered my Entropic Aura and, much like what had happened with Ezlas, the arcane sigils on their armor flared. Alarmed by this unexpected reaction, they stopped in their tracks muttering with one another. Annoyed, their leader ordered them back and they quickly retreated to the entrance, wisely opting not to venture further into the Necromancer's den.

With an almost foolish slowness, I pulled the energy of my Entropic Aura inward, ending the spell and feeling an odd hollow feeling of regret. Why hadn't I done this sooner? It struck me then. Casting the spell had become as natural, a reflexive action barely noticed. Like drawing breath, maintaining it, doubly so. 

Just as I was wrestling with this dread proposition, a notification flashed across my sight distracting me.

You have learned Entropic Aura (lvl.4)

“Little Vince, you will write a report and submit it before the day’s end. Be sure to clear this mess up, this place stinks enough as it is,” he almost spat in response. An admission of defeat. I pushed aside the last notification as he looked at me, almost as if imploring me to add something else.

Vincenzio gave them all a stiff formal bow, a hair’s breadth away from what would be considered to be polite. It was as good as an order of dismissal.

Ezlas of the Guild shot us both one last suspicious look before he left, clanking back up the stairs with his men. Vincenzio and I remained in almost contemplative silence until we heard the final echo of their departure.

Without realizing it, I had held my breath in the grip of tension, and only upon their departure did I let it go. It felt as if a heavy destiny or fate was balancing on the edge, teetering between one path and another. This day had been eventful indeed, a day that was still not over.

The Necromancer drew himself up proudly to his full height. “You know that one is a practitioner of the forbidden, and not just a simple purveyor of potions. You could have told them of one’s secret there and then, one would have done so in your place. Tell me why you chose otherwise,” he insisted.

It made sense, at least, that playing about with the dead was taboo. I paused, closing my eyes for a moment before replying, "That would not serve my purpose."

"Your purpose?" he said hollowly.

"Perhaps the purpose of all men who have tasted the first fruit. What the gods call sin, but men such as us call enlightenment and knowledge. You asked me earlier if I feared the punishment of the heavens. No, I do not, because I am to become that very punishment upon the heavens," I declared, my words fueled by a heated, seething passion. A sense of divine purpose vibrated within me, infusing my heart with correct meaning and direction. All was right with the universe.

"To achieve this, I am on a quest for knowledge. For knowledge is power, and it is with this power that I intend to tear down the heavens themselves," I stated loftily, my words ringing as if they were fresh-forged gospel.

Wryly, I smiled at the sallow man. “And I would have you know that I am considered somewhat of a scholar in my homeland. I feel that there is much we can learn from one another.” The words held an echo of repetition for me.

“Arrogance and such hubris, though one can not say that one is not guilty of the same sin. Your lofty goals and weak attempts at poetic verse and philosophizing aside, why would one do so?”

“Is not the purpose of knowledge to be spread for the betterment of all?” was my musing response.

“Please spare me rote aphorisms and platitudes… let us speak plain.”

I smiled, feeling more confident. I was close, I could almost smell it. He had gone from enemies to somewhat cooperative. How quickly things could change. With an internal shrug, I also registered that I had recently grown a rather devil-may-care attitude that surprised even me.

“Yes, indeed. Lets. Have I not proven to not be your enemy? I seek a bargain with you. Knowledge for knowledge. And, I am in the belief that the scales at the moment are ever so slightly weighted in my favor. I am in the belief that we are not so different, you and I. Still, I would have you tell me why you call me a Visitor. I believe there is more meaning behind such a word,” I offered with aplomb.

He looked at me in the way one would look at a roach that suddenly learned speech. Disgust and interest in equal measure.“Such florid speech for a Visitor. Like a child with a new toy, you play with language thus. Strangers, not of this world, that wear the flesh of men like one wears clothes. Bound to the will of the gods, they bring only torment and suffering to this world, ”.

“Forgive me then. It is how I spoke in my own world. But then again, it is said that one thinks and acts differently in any given language. Bound to the will of the gods you say, that sounds like a very tragic fate indeed,” was my response, in all seriousness.

His expression remained the same as he offered a new comment, “And a Visitor you are. You have that look and feel about you. But, unlike the others, there is something different.”

“You would make a young maiden blush with such words. Different you say? You have encountered others?” I answered, attempting to lighten the mood. 

“Your attempts at weak humor are not necessary. Indeed, encountered and ended, one has offered more than a few Visitors swift passage across the Shallow River,” was the pale man’s boorish response. By his negative reaction, I must have failed an invisible check against my Charisma of sorts. Oh well, it was my lowest attribute so it was to be expected.

More seriously now I asked him, “Why? For what ends?” 

“By what obligation does one have to explain my reasons to a stranger?” he rasped.

The man was like a woman. Hot and cold, my patience was being worn away slowly but surely. “Are we not to speak plainly? I am indeed, as you say, a stranger, but one you know you can trust. Perhaps a Visitor as you call it. As another offering of trust, I will tell you of myself. I am from a different world, a world called the Earth.”

“A rather bland name for a world. Too bland to be anything but the truth. Then, yes you are a Visitor. A being summoned from another world for the Divines’ inscrutable purpose. But not you. You are not, or it seems, the common sort of Visitor. What is different about you is that you seem to be in full command of your faculties. No thrall are you, and one would be able to detect the heavy mark of their yoke upon you. Perhaps, it is as you say, that you are free?” There was a hint of something else in his voice. Was that eagerness?

“A moment,” he ordered, a tentacle of bone flowing out of his robes to grasp an old tome from a shelf. The appendage plopped the hidebound text on a research counter in a small explosion of dust. “One must not let hope undo caution. This is a holy text of Kaes-Loka, the god of hearth and herd of the steppe savages. Read from it and make a mock of it.”

I frowned, his meaning escaping me for a moment. “You wish for me to read a little from this text, and ridicule it? Just to make sure, of course,” I said, caught off-guard.

“Has one not stated it as such?” he replied flatly, nodding at the old text. “Go on.”

“Very well, then,” I acceded. It was a small thing to humor the man.

Little did I know that it would be the first request of many. He produced many more texts of various gods, making me mock their names and ridicule the wisdom upon the pages. Religion in this world, as it was in mine, was an institution built upon silly lies draped in the garment of fairy tales.

However, enough was enough. After going through a veritable pantheon of gods, I decided that I had only endured enough. I had only put up with this as much as I had because I wanted answers.

“What more would you have me do? How many other gods must I curse?” I asked in a strained voice. “What more must I prove?”

The sallow and pale man rubbed his chin in thought. He bent down to rummage through a battered chest in the corner of the room. It creaked with the squeal that set my teeth on edge. After a few moments, his questing hand emerged, clutching a rough stone. Cracks ran across it and it held a sick and weak glow of stained yellow.

“Place your hand on this, it is a Binding Stone. Blessed Zajasite. Similar to what the Guild uses. Swear upon that you will not speak of our conversations,” he offered, holding out the stone in front of him.

Shrugging and wanting to get this over with, I quickly took the stone… no, snatched it really, in haste. “I do swear to keep the confidence of Vincenzio Barbierri. Good enough?” I declared.

There was a quiet pause, pregnant with the heavy air portent. Vincenzio looked as if he was shouting something at me, but he seemed so distant as if he was speaking through several panes of glass. Suddenly there was a shift, and a sense of vertigo overcame me. I felt as if I was lying down instead of standing. I could see nothing save for an inky blackness. Was I blind? In panic, I drew a heavy breath. There was something around my mouth, a pressure like a mask. Distantly I heard odd beeping noises and rhythmic mechanical hissing that grew and lessened in cycles.

Then a cracking sound, like ice breaking under a heavy foot. Disorientated, I was standing again. More importantly, I was free from the claustrophobic dark. I could see once again, and before me was Vincenzio, looking to be muttering and nodding to himself.

Incredulously, I took an involuntary step back. Yellow sand was sifting lazily through my fingers. Sound slowly returned as I came back to the here and now.

Disorientated, I could only croak stupidly, “What happened?”

“One does believe you are responsible for breaking an almost priceless artifact,” he replied, pointing with a bony digit at the last of the sand falling from my fingers.

“What the… that was no fault of mine,” I stated in immediate denial.

The man looked at me as if I represented a profound quandary. “Indeed, perhaps it is so. It seems, within you, you possess the innate ability to defy the goddess of the twin blades herself. That was, as one stated before, a Binding Stone. It places a geas of sorts on a person who gives an oath freely. It seems that you are free of even divine constraints. Both a worrying and hopeful prospect,” he stated calmly. “It gives weight to your claim of being free from divine meddling.”

“Then do we have an accord?”

“And compensation for the Stone?

“That was no fault of mine. The fault lies with you.”

“One had to try. Indeed it does, one grants you that. A small price to pay. Yes, we have an accord. For the Isurru Sutu, one means Beron’s Dream, and other things. Consider this a downpayment of sorts,” he acceded, producing some dog-eared and well-worn notes from within his robes.  

“Your scroll?”

The man almost seemed to bristle. “We will discuss that another time. A magister’s Manzaza is a personal thing. A heavy matter. Unclouded by recent events and emotion, one must think and reflect for a time.”

“Very well then… another time. But when exactly?” was my reluctant reply. I wanted more information. And sooner, rather than later.

“Word will be sent in good time. Where can one find you?”

I pursed my lips, before giving my answer, “The Begonia’s Shade. Do you know of it?” 

“Yes, one knows of it. We will speak soon and one will send for you. Now, it is best that you be off now. Ezlas will likely return with his lackeys soon. It's best if he finds only the straightforward truth that his simple mind can grasp," he explained.

After a brief pause, the odd man offered me a suggestion in an almost conspiratorial tone, "It would be wise for you to continue playing the part of a humble adventurer. One will post some requests for some… some odds and ends. It'll provide us with a bit of cover for any future meetings."

I nodded in agreement. “So be it. Stay true to your word, and I will stay true to mine, Vincenzio.”