Elena’s small orb of light raced towards it’s entire purpose of existence... to find Trent. It was getting so close, it could feel it, the little thing was getting so excited. Past the market and the guard, out into the slums and weaving deep within the heart of thatched huts and shanties. Then it took an abrupt turn. This was it! This was its entire purpose and it was about to succeed. Yay! Go, little orb of light, reach your dreams!
With a “squawk” a raven blazed past, disrupting the spell’s senses. A carnal means, but effective nevertheless. A twig tipped and snapped and suddenly a bone cage snapped shut behind the orb, trapping it inside. The ball danced and bounced, tried this way and that, but it was to no avail. It was stuck, trapped. Welcome to the real world little orb of light.
Somewhere, in the dark mansion that was decaying over the years, a tiny tin bell began to ring. It caught the attention of the denizen, a tall surly looking fellow who proceeded to the front door. With an annoyed snuff from his nose, the mostly bald fellow took the cage and proceeded into his house with it. He bolted the door with heavy iron bars, four in all.
“Well, little scry, what hell shall we put your master through to today?” he sneered at the spell, and opened a cabinet searching through it to locate some tools and materials. “But first things first.”
He unraveled a scroll of names and began searching thoroughly. Most of the names on the list were dead. Others were missing, which with the king and guard as tyrannical as they were, they were probably dead too. Some were incredibly adept, and it was dangerous to deal with them. However, with an assassin on the loose, the wrath of the king was not only going to need a reasonable redirection, but it counted as a distraction out of the sheer fear and panic that was to come with it as well. One name on the list had been burning in the heart of the landlord for years. Meagher, Marquis Faich Meagher. The powerful man had earned the jealousy and rage of the depraved little slum-lord for long enough. But never had any opportunity arisen that could dent the fellow’s reputation much less his power. This little man, though not afraid of backtracking or retaliation, feared the Soturi powers that the Meaghers held, wrapped in a mockery of secrecy. Everybody knew they had them, but no one dared to make an accusation. If the Meaghers somehow discovered existence of their enemy-in-waiting, then, somehow pieced together the identity of this man in the room... then and only then were they a threat. That was too much for him to simply toy with.
Then he pulled out some techniques and knowledge that few even knew was possible... even to the Maji. He tampered with the spell. Oh, sure, diversion, blinding, and disruption were all possible and relatively common techniques used by the privileged, however, to actually alter a spell after it had been cast wasn't even myth, it was considered completely outlandish. Yet he succeeded from decades of practicing the ancient knowledge and tact. Only 4 others on this globe had ever known how to do. Even the detection of such tampering would have taken the eye of an Arch Maji.
The little spell suddenly became confused about who exactly it was searching for. Souls blended and blurred and fluctuated until its scent was honed to search out Marquis Faich Meagher’s right-hand man... you know, the one responsible for the dealings of the house that were not exactly legal? Oh, the choice was quite intentional. Had the scry gone straight to the Marquis, suspicion would be cast as to why someone so high in the ranks would bother traveling far and wide and attempt to personally hide a fugitive.
With a little bit more tinkering, the spell was set to destroy itself upon arrival, leaving Trent completely undetected.
Carefully the trinkets were replaced, and the scry locked away in a cage, along with the three others the King’s wizards had used in an attempt to locate the troublemaker. This cage was to keep people out. There they would remain until a spell caster came to pay his dues to the King.
The diabolical fellow then sat in his aged seat at the desk in his office... that of the tax collector (who held the power to round up funds from all spells cast that passed through the streets) While he held knowledge to tinker with spells, they were all carnal techniques. In other words, magic was no profession of his, nor would he desire the renown.
Sure he would not receive his normal cut of taxes from the King’s search parties, and of course he would release the spell once they showed their authority, but little did they know the chaos which would follow. So lay the trap from the hidden-dragon known only as Ichor. The fellow stifled a maniacal laugh. His crows flitted and squawked again, disrupting another magical search. This was a busy day.
____________Meanwhile____________
Down in the catacombs, Trent was being tended by an old... and I might add, rather unsanitary hag in the dank darkness. She worked through an iron prison door that remained locked, examining the wound on his side.
“Oh, did my deary get hurt by the bigger boys?” she mocked.
Trentrolled his eyes and sighed. She touched the wound with filthy hands, and he winced. “Does it hurt?”
She pressed hard on the laceration and he gritted his teeth and winced. She smiled and licked the shattered bits of her teeth, and jammed her thumb into the wound again. Trent finally had enough and smacked her hand hard. She withdrew, a coy smile on her lips as she sucked his blood from her digits. “Does he need a kiss and some motherly love?”
“Shut up, Lewoada, I’d handle this myself if I weren’t being hunted,” he shot back in annoyance. He glanced away, and then looked back, “I wound up discovering the king’s escape passage, no thanks to your cryptic little stories. You mind telling me how you found out about it.”
“My dear boy,” her squealing voice jumped and lowered in a hideous and demonic song. She retreated into her filth ridden cell. Tossing gnawed bones and refuse aside until she pulled out a festering root. She returned to her charge, and stuffed the disgusting thing into the wound. Trent gritted his teeth as it suddenly sprang to life, growing upon the contact of blood and binding the wound together. Roachwood was disgusting but useful. It would remain roachwood until the body eventually won out and it was piece by piece absorbed. However, one had to be careful as to the frequency of its use, or the roachwood would win out and the patient would become the treatment, completely replaced by the parasite. The pain was ten fold, and Trent stumbled backward clutching his side, and blinking back tears. The pain would last at least a half of an hour. “Twas I who harassed the king to the point of creating it, and twas I who made him fear it once it was complete. They are pliable in their fears, you should witness the nightmares I have put Prince Dominic through.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Trent grumbled. She glared at him in disgust. “It gives them ideas.”
Wonderfully twisted ideas mind you. Ideas of torture, massacre, and a reign of terror. Ichor and Lewoada delighted in their craft being publicly displayed, even if no credit was given to them. The truth was that the King and his men were thoroughly convinced that the atrocious ideas were entirely theirs... but they weren’t. It was the “art” of those Trent now spoke to. However much they enjoyed their labors, They preferred to remain hidden entirely. “Now, you MUST become my pupil now that Lempea is no longer safe save for our underworld. We will throw a party, and watch hellfire rain down on the city tonight, death will march the streets and the gutters will flow with blood! Then, you will take your rightful place by my side and we shall devour this nation from the inside out, and rather than a pure ivory tower, we will create a dark and unwholesome pit in its stead.”
“So, that’s what this is all about? You set the suspicion of the king upon Kate and fed them my way, just so that I can join you in your little game? Fantastic. Your own pride would see your downfall, hag, you would defile your own abilities if you delivered half of what you are boasting." He tried to laugh, but he was already short of breath. It came more in the form of a hemorrhaged breath. "I'm disappointed, Lewoada. It isn’t like you to make such a rash move, don’t tell me your judgement is clouded by your temptations.”
She withdrew, “Then where are you to go, child?”
“Muratti, and Kate is going with me.”
“You would sacrifice your nature for love? You would choose to allow fear to drive you to a place so ignorant and alien that it does not even know how to fear?”
Trent gripped his side amidst labored breathing. “Sure, love that’s it. Because I am a hormone driven teenager that thinks that life is a series of happily-ever-afters stuck together. Didn't you know? I'm going to go be a world famous jouster there.”
Trent was not about to spend another second in Lewoada’s hole being antagonized by her. Though it was very painful to even stand, he used his hand to guide himself down the passage and heading up to the basement of Ichor's house. Lewoada knew the truth. Trent was not so easily swayed. If he was going to Muratti, he (just like Lewoada) would have a plan, and if he were collecting Kate, he would have a plan there too. Still, Lewoada enjoyed annoying and antagonizing Trent by proposing the idea of affections. “You will learn. The choice is yours to learn by my tongue or learn by the blood spilled by you and your enemies, but you cannot refuse my offer, child. You... are mine!”