151. Draped in Dreamfire (Patreon)

V Oberon’s first handful of days of existence had been a complete and utter bore. The only thing El-Prime wanted and expected of him was practice. It had paid off. Dreamfire Core had already reached rank three. Oberon understood the importance. As a specialized clone, he was the only one with access to the ability. He had a long way to go before he caught up to even the weakest of all the other clones.

The Arcane Chronicler was the weakest of them, but somehow El-Prime’s favorite. Oberon didn’t get it, but hoped that with enough ranks and ability, he’d get an opportunity to be trusted with incredible roles. Alternatively, he loved the idea of running free like Bowie or Ace. Oberon needed the chance to prove himself. He didn’t expect it to come because El-Prime needed an escape from debauchery following a business meeting. 

“Make sure he has the time of his life and only sign the contract if you can twist things more in our favor,” the boss had ordered. “This guy is smarter than he looks and behaves. Slimier too. By no means underestimate his smarts or senses.”

“I don’t see it. He comes across as just another slimy businessman who presents an egalitarian and lawful face in public. Behind closed doors, he’s as scummy as they come. Seems like a pretty standard duality to me.”

“Or that’s what he wants us to think. That bastard is far more conniving than he looks. I’m sure of it.”

“Would you bet our right nut?” Oberon had asked.

El-Prime had sighed loudly and emphatically. “Yes. I would bet my right nut.”

The conversation in the eatery’s restroom didn’t last long. Oberon used Dreamfire to give El-Prime a glorious mustache that curled up into a mustache and thick, pointed goaty. For good measure, he turned all the hair on his body blonde and his navy blue clothes a luxurious purple. It allowed El-Prime to blend in with the other clientele as he fled. Oberon kept an eye on him distracting Zhent as he made his getaway. 

“I’m sorry for taking so long,” he said. “The whisky is going right through me. Perhaps we should switch to something—”

“Don’t tell me you’re already going soft on me, Lukas Zaun!” Zhent exclaimed, laughing. He clapped Oberon’s back. “We’re just getting started. You haven’t even finished your steak. The bath house and smokerooms await us after this. You’re young! Do you even take the time to enjoy yourself? I asked around. You visit soirees but spend most of your time talking business. The brothels, Pink Sellis dens, and winebars haven’t even heard of you.”

“Are you one of the parties who set spies on me?” Oberon asked, raising an eyebrow. His fingers danced under the table. He first cast Silencing Shadows under the tablecloth, muting all sounds and arcane signatures likely to come from underneath. 

A Dreamfire spell followed. He took it slow. Oberon hadn’t used anything as complex before or cast Dreamfire spells on anyone besides the clones. El-Prime had instructed him to study Zhent and find out whatever he could about the man. But spending the evening in high-end drug dens and bathhouses, which also acted as brothels, didn’t appeal to Oberon. As one of the newer specialized clones, he hadn’t developed much as an individual and felt a strange and unexpected loyalty to Mira. She knew the truth about the clones, their individual interests and pursuits. 

Mira understood that the clones, even though a part of Lukas, were individuals with their own wants and desires. The longer a specialized clone persisted, the more it became its own person, developing its own personalities, interests, and pursuits. El-Prime theorized that their unique shards held onto a fragment of their individual consciousnesses, granting a degree of continuity between dispellments and resummoning. Of all the clones, Morph enjoyed the longest periods of existence. He had his own life and interests, and Oberon suspected he would end up in a romantic entanglement with the Jotun warchief, Astrid. 

Over the past year, Bowie and Ace had several trysts, and Mira understood why it was important for them. She didn’t seem to mind the freedom El-Prime gave them. Oberon doubted Mira would mind if he, while pretending to be the boss, indulged in a night of debauchery to win Zhent’s favor. The issue was that he didn’t want to spend time around the man. Oberon’s current version of fun involved using Dreamfire to mess with people and make pretty things. Just the thought of it made him giddy. 

“It wasn’t me alone,” Zhent answered, shrugging. “A handful of my other associates in charge of major infrastructure grew concerned with your influence and motives. So, we had some of our people follow you.” He grinned. “You didn’t make it easy for them.”

After much experimentation, Oberon had discovered that Dreamfire had three distinct functions. The most basic of which was creating long-lasting still or animated illusions for all to see. With a greater arcane investment, Oberon could turn his creations into reality. His current limitations involved changing color and textures. Eventually, he hoped to achieve the same as the source of his shard. What intrigued Oberon the most, but he didn’t have the opportunity to test to his satisfaction, was the third function. Planting illusions and dreams directly into someone’s head. 

Much to his disappointment, El-Prime disliked the concept, considering it far too close to Mind Magic. He had allowed Oberon to test it on the clones, but not nearly enough. Now, he had the perfect guinea pig for it. The possible consequences concerned him, especially given Zhent’s position and importance, but it also felt like the perfect opportunity to prove his worth.

“Would I be worth it if I didn’t make them earn their keep?” Oberon grinned. 

“No. You make them earn the hazard pay too.” Zhent laughed. “Still doesn't feel like we're getting our money's worth. There are too many holes and far too much confusion in their reports. Even the good trackers can't differ between you and your golems.”

“Do you think I'm here right now? Or am I a golem too?”

Zhent narrowed his eyes, sitting back in his chair. He looked Oberon up and down before bursting out laughing. “You almost had me there, Zaun. Quick on your feet. Accomplished. Rich. Do you come from money or are you self-made?”

“Self-made.” Oberon pulled back his hair, exposing the end of one of the many scars that covered his scalp. A wisp of Dreamfire made it look extra gnarly. “About three years ago, maybe a bit more, I arrived in Iskander as a refugee with nothing but the clothes on my back and a shard ability. Most of my memories prior to it are gone. Everything I am now is a result of arcane study and my artisanry.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Zhent’s face softened, but it didn't carry to his eyes. “Refugee from where?”

“Somewhere in the mountains closer to here than Iskander,” Oberon answered, still working his spell. He had started off just accumulating magic, shaping it, and keeping it in control. Now, as he spoke, he snaked it up through Zhent's clothes and into his brain, slowly giving the energy purpose. “It was just outside the kingdom, and I don't think it was possible to get through the border. I remember little from the incident or anything before. In fact, the only thing I know is that they found me in a corpse pit and the Cult of Rakan was to blame.”

“Bloody Wyrmkin.” Zhent sighed, shaking his head. “My brother fell in one of their raids too, you know. The sooner what they're doing within our borders, the better.”

Oberon suppressed a grin. He had found a thread worth unraveling. “You told me about that before the meeting. We bonded over this in the bath houses.” Zhent frowned, raising an eyebrow. Oberon continued ignoring the attempt at interruption and concentrating on the dream-like memory he was weaving, taking pieces that were already there and building an image in the man’s mind. “Don't you remember? We smoked pipes, had wine, and you told me about your little—”

“Big brother,” Zhent corrected, his eyes glazing over.

“I'm sorry. You told me about your big brother and me about the people you supposedly lost.” Oberon feigned dejection, breaking eye contact and shoulders dropping. He hoped all the liquor his target had consumed and the herbs smoked along the way had made him suggestible enough for it to work. “I understand if you don't recognize me.”

“No. No. I remember now! It's all coming back to me.” Zhent appeared embarrassed. A soft pink tinged his irises. “It was steamy. We were all wet and far from sober. I asked you about your scars! They looked so old, though.”

“They grow fainter and more aged with every body ascension.” Oberon smiled softly, increasing the intensity of Dreamfire he fed through their connection. “Honestly, I was surprised by the reception and treatment during the meeting. I worried that I had done something to offend you. Was it because I didn't join you—”

“No. It's not that.” Zhent gestured for Oberon to lower his volume. “I understand how things can get when discretion is a priority.” He hesitated when one of the wait staff passed and continued softly afterward. “Are you involved with the Coldfire Sorcerer?”

“I hear the pair of you arrived in the city together and—”

“Penelope and I are just colleagues. I'm involved with a member of the Aquila guild. She was the one Xander was asking about.” Oberon frowned. “Didn't we discuss this too? You don't remember a thing from that evening, do you?”

“I do. I do. It's just all fuzzy. You know how things get when smoking Sellis weed and all the salts. It's like trying to remember a dream.” Zhent glanced at his glass. Ice floated in the amber fluid. “Maybe I've had too much, after all.”

“Oh, but the night is young!” Oberon exclaimed. “I thought we were going to paint the town pink!”

“We were?” Zhent slurred his words. “I knew I liked you,” he repeated. “I didn't get to enjoy myself when I was your age. You should embrace life. The missus doesn't get it. I was working my way up to foreman and just starting to rub my shoulders with the bigwigs in my early twenties. There was—” He burped loudly before bursting into laughter. “We're going to have a good night, lad. Good steak. Good drink. Better company. The best herb a man can smoke and to top it all off, a scalding soak.”

“Not too hot, I hope.” Oberon winked, making Zhent laugh even harder. “Should I have some company brought over for entertainment?”

“I think you're entertainment enough.” Zhent grinned, dropping his volume again. “The bath house has everything, and I'm sure better than anything you can acquire. Especially for elite clientele like yours truly.”

The pair did go out afterward, but mostly in Zhent's dreams. Oberon walked him to the bathhouse nearby. Zhent stumbled and slurred, giggling most of the way. They sang together, going into the baths. Oberon took the man to a shallow steamy corner before bribing an attendant to keep him alive and convince Zhent the next morning that they had a brilliant time. 

Finally, after planting a handful of scandalous images in the man’s mind, he snuck out of the back. He hoped that embarrassment and worry of the story getting out would ensure Zhent signed whatever contract El-Prime sent over. It wouldn't be exploitative. The last thing they wanted was to make it look like blackmail. Oberon worried the tapestry of dreams and suggestions he had woven would unravel. Instead, he intended to advise El-Prime to make the contract heavily in his favor, just enough so that Zhent wouldn't want to meet again to haggle and bargain and think it best to let things be. 

The night was young, and Oberon had no intention of going home. He had consumed nothing to drink. Formulating dreams and ideas, and then selling them to Zhent had left him with a headache. The mental stress of intricate spell weaving didn't help. 

But I'm just getting started. 

Before leaving the bath house, Oberon had used Dreamfire to make subtle changes to his face and also alter his outfit’s appearance. He didn't report to El-Prime as instructed. The last thing he wanted was to be dispelled or sent back to practicing in the basement. Either was likely to happen regardless of what the boss thought of his handiwork. Instead, he walked through the cavernous district of the Grey away from the affluent area but staying close to the geothermal vents. The tavern with the loudest music and largest crowd got his attention. The clientele milling outside were mostly young workers of around his age, making merry after a long day. Many still wore their uniforms from the forges, refineries, laundries, and waterworks. Eager to celebrate a job well done, Oberon joined them. 

“Do we know you?” One of the three women at the table asked. The only man with them was twice Oberon's size and appeared prepared to physically reject him if necessary.

“I was told if I introduced you to my sister, I'd get to meet some beautiful, lovely ladies who appreciate a good dance and fine mead,” Oberon replied, a prepared Dreamfire spell ready to go. “Given how the other night went—”

“What is he talking about?” the woman who had asked the question demanded, staring daggers at the man.

“I swear he's lying or mistaken—”

“No. No. Not him.” Oberon sat down opposite the woman he found most attractive and grinned. “Wasn't it you who wanted a roll in the coal with my sister?”

“No,” she replied, eyes narrowing. The woman appeared more surprised and confused than offended. “I've never met you or your sister.”

“Oh, right. You're far too graceful for her.” Oberon leaned forward in his chair and waved her closer. When the woman hesitated, he did so again. “Between you and me, I think you can do a lot better.” 

“You don't even know me.”

“And whose fault is that, Linda?” He caught a hint of a smile. Oberon fed everyone but her a hint of Dreamfire, slipping in dreams of laughter and dancing in the tavern with his adopted face among them. Meanwhile, he ensured only the woman he was speaking to saw a visage closest to what he truly looked like.

“It's Eleanor,” the woman said. 

“I'm sorry, Eleanor. How about I make it up to you and your friends? A round or two on me?”

The man burst out laughing, and the woman who Oberon assumed was his partner shook her head. “Smooth, but only worked because we're on our second drink.”

“I've seen better,” the third woman finally said. Much to Oberon's relief, amusement appeared to have replaced her initial annoyed expression. He had worked on her the hardest, cooking up a subtle dream of blurry colors where they had danced, and then she had rejected a second to have a spin with another partner. “Kind of cheesy if you ask me.”

“I don't know about you, but he had me,” the man said. “By the looks of it, Eleanor too. I was ready to throw hands.”

“No. I knew what he was doing.” Eleanor gave Oberon a coy look as he got the attention of a nearby barmaid and gestured for five drinks. “I'm only allowing it because it was funny.” She smiled at Oberon. “Why do I get the feeling that you do this bit often?”

Oberon feigned offense. He reached into his coat and burned a large chunk of his Dreamfire. When he withdrew his hand, a pink flower came with it, blossoming as he held it out for Eleanor.

“I reject all such insinuations. Why do you think so little of me, Eleanor? This is my first time.”