Than He Bargained For [Tribunal Power]

OoC: This RP is set to occur four days after the Unhealthy Interests event.

BiC:

Omentus sat on a high stool behind a counter of a little shop in the city of Kedaldown where he had set up shop for a relative pittance a month. It was lit by the light let in its single luxury -- cut glass windows, which were a rarity in this region and had the benefit of both keeping a room lit and keeping out the elements. The shop wasn't close enough to the center of town that officers of the law would frequent the streets outside it, but it was near enough that the necromancer could make his living as an apothecary until he'd saved up enough to set out on the road again.

On the counter in front of him sat notebooks and scraps of parchment littered with notes on various formulas, alchemical apparatuses and diagrams for his newest project. To his right were a pair of cages. One held a long-haired cat, the other a bantam breed of imperial peacock that made little noise. To his left were a small stack of carefully labeled boxes containing medicines that he made during the times that he could no longer concentrate on the work involving the cat and the bird.

In the shop itself, out in front of the counter, were a table in the center of the room, shelves on each of the walls, and wicker baskets hanging from the ceiling. Every surface in the store was stocked with generic goods of apothecarian and alchemical design, some simple charms, some ingredients for cooking or in-home medicine, novelties of mundane illusions and even some genuine works of magic.

The jingling of a silver bell announced the arrival of a customer to the store, but Omentus didn't bother to look up until the geometric semicircle in front of the door lit up with a magical silver-violet light. His eyes shone golden, as though they were a cat's instead of a man's as he looked over this newcomer. He was a a man of average build and height, certainly no more than six feet. Straight black hair fell down just past his shoulders and he had a paler complexion. The man wore an ostentatious but comfortable robe of crimson and navy blue that Omentus thought might have indicated he came from a mages' academy somewhere, and carried a large bag on his right hip.

Omentus spoke to his customer in the bored drawl of the uninterested, "Your magicals in the depository hamper on your right before you come in. Unless you want your ass and your mouth to reverse functions for the next week. I don't want any trouble in here." He waited patiently, knowing it usually took anyone with a charm somewhere on them a moment to catch on to the warning. Some poor sots didn't catch on at all, though, and found the shopkeeper's cautioning to be embarrassingly literal.

Hearing the jingle of the bell, Acthaiyne glanced up over the door before closing it behind him. Looking to the counter when the voice addressed him, he blinked at the lazy demand and narrowed his eye. Defiance was tempting, as it was an unusual request, but he understood, and trusted it to be legitimate. He turned toward the large, rectangular basked of which the man has spoken and pulled the lid back.

As he pulled the scabbard of his sword from the frogstrap on his belt, along with the staff on his back and the bag at his side, he temporarily held his breath and winced, as though in pain. But as his staff slid into the basket, a subtle purple hue shone over it and his other things, binding them together. In their bulky state, they would be impossible to move from the basket without destroying it; even the means of magic would be unable to penetrate the barrier. Acthaiyne finally gave another breath as he separated the magic from his own energy and attached it to the staff, turning away from the basket.

“Good day, my man,” he said with a slight smile. “That is an interesting ward you’ve concocted.”

He leaned his elbows onto the counter and brushed the hair from his piercing brown eyes, and quirked a brow as he saw the golden shine of the man’s eyes staring back at him. “Hm,” he said contemplatively. “Methinks this is not your original body. Or at least, not completely.” He glanced about the small shop and stated, “I came for a bit of medicinal healing salve. I get the feeling, however, that this apothecary is a bit more than just an apothecary.”

His curiosity took the better of his interest, and he leaned down toward the apothecary. “Tell me, friend. What else lurks beneath the alchemy and herbalism?”

"Acthaiyne, for healing salve," the man behind the counter replied as he returned his attention to the papers on his counter. He reached over to one of the boxes on his left and lifted it, set it down, then picked up a box beside that one and set it between himself and the customer. "Your order came in this morning; I could prepare only nineteen parts of twenty in the order specified. The twelve percent discount applies in your case for insufficient volume, and I have included four gelatin-cased tablets of low dose, oral beli with the order as consolation. They are to be taken in the case of pain or for trouble with sleeping, and not to exceed one tablet per nine hours. The effects are moderate narcotic, minor depressant and minor visual and aural hallucinatory in nature and carry no risk of addiction when taken as directed. You have no allergy to this medicine." He stated the last part as though he had a clear understanding of his customer's medical information. After a moment, he continued, "The charge for the salve is two silver, eight copper with discount. The opaque jar in the box contains the salve, the smaller wooden box with hinge the tablets."

The peacock in the cage on Omentus' right cried out, its call was like a short, high pitched, whooping honk. The apothecary looked over to it and took one of the syringes out of the holster on his leg and poked the bird with it, injecting the merest drop of the bright purple drug in the barrel to the animal's bloodstream. The effect was immediate: the bird calmed and became sleepy, and looked at the air around itself lazily, though apparently interested in what it was seeing. Placing the syringe back in the holster on his leg, he took another syringe from beside that one and released a few drops of blood onto one of the apparatuses in his workspace. The turn of a dial here, the alternation of a few switches there, and the small adjustment a single line into a curve of a geometric circle on the table itself, and Omentus placed his left at the side of the circle nearest him, then pulled a brass rod on the apparatus toward himself.

There was a thin arc of not electricity, but something green that looked similar to it that jumped between instruments, contained in a glass tube, and the geometric circle began to glow in rhythm with the movements of that energy. Suddenly, the blood pooled atop one of the instruments went up in a puff of greenish black smoke. Omentus' only reaction was to turn off the device and record something on a chart in his mess of papers. One might have thought that he had forgotten about his customer, but he suddenly spoke to the man, "There lurks necromancy.

"I see you've developed an interest in this work, sir. A nobleman on the north of Kedaldown Center wishes a tame pet tresserym, but refuses to pay the price of the exotic menagerie which must fetch one from lands far from here and at price exceeding forty imperial platinum. Thus, I have been contracted to create one, my price being less than twelve imperial platinum." He gestured to the pair of cages that sat beside him, where in one a house cat slept, and in the other, a peacock was all but smiling.

The expression on Acthaiyne's face changed as he watched the mystification that unfolded before him. It seemed as though he understood the magics and processes happening around him to some extent-- better than most, anyway. He gave a soft, subtle nod to the man's necromancy comment.

To him, necromancy was like witchcraft. He was interested, but he saw it as wrong. He never wanted to pursue it, but could never turn down the oppertunity. It was a bittersweet attitude. His eyes moved from the bird to its keeper as he became informed on the situation. "So," he deduced, "you intend to splice together two breeds of common creature... And create an exotic one?"

"Merge," Omentus corrected his visitor. "To splice would indicate there will be left over parts, or that the combination is incomplete in nature. When I am finished..." Omentus released a few more drops of blood from his syringe onto the apparatus again and adjusted one of its knobs. He erased a portion of the geometric circle on the table, then drew in a different angle in its place. He connected wires to the outer ring of the circle, then pulled on the brass rod again.

A thin, blue-green arc jumped from one instrument to the next, housed in glass tubing. The rhythm was different than before, and the circle glowed in time with the arc's movements, but out of sync with them. There was a build-up of some kind forming in the tube, but Omentus reached over to the second device and adjusted a lever on it, then replaced one alchemical plate with another, and the build-up vanished. He waited for something, addressing Acthaiyne in the mean time, "there will be no trace that they were ever separate. You are welcome to watch the process."

Omentus looked up at Acthaiyne briefly, some new thought crossing his mind. "You attended an academy for magic, is this correct?" Without waiting for the man's answer, he picked up a few pieces of paper from his counter and set them down in front of the customer, "You can keep these for your notes. You might even recognize some of the basic invocations."

Were Acthaiyne to look at the notes he had been given, he would see that they were a collection of the concepts and premises that Omentus would have found important when he first began the process of creating a tressym. What he saw in those papers might shock or even offend him. The notes were written in an amoral hand, and some of the files suggested that many of the things Acthaiyne had learned about necromancy were fallacious, while others directly contradicted facts concerning the necromantic arts that were taught in most magical schools. Others still were just plain heresy, no matter of arcane or divine nature. Still, they were a complete and detailed work that could have been the result of years of research, all compiled into a tidy stack of eight pages.

Fidgeting with the small boxes he had been given, Acthaiyne looked up when the man addressed his learning background. A smile crossed his lips at the mention of an academy. “Not quite-- I just like the robe,” he said, leaning back down onto the counter. “I had a very wise mentor, but he hated teaching necromancy. What little I know, I learned from reading in my own pursuit.” When the notes came his way, he blinked and looked down to them. Taking them up in his hands, he quirked a brow at some of the details, before narrowing his eyes as he read. It was clear he was suspicious as to their authenticity, but did not dismiss them in any way.

He folded them together and set them with his two small boxes, looking to the man. “You have done a lot of research, I can see that. But I cannot even begin to understand these processes with my limited knowledge.” He had watched the process so far, but understood so little of it that he hardly had anything to say. It was a conglomeration of instruments with electricity shooting from one piece to another, and it was way over Acthaiyne’s head.

Still, he watched intently, before looking down to read a little more of those notes he had folded up. He wanted to take his medicine, pay the man, and leave. And yet he was drawn to the dark magics there like a moth to a lantern. As he looked up from the notes, he bit his lip and tried to identify the process that the man was using to fuse the creatures-- if that was what he was doing at all.

Waiting a few moments and watching the arc of energy leap between devices, Omentus was patient. Eventually, the blue-green stream in the tube turned entirely blue. The necromancer looked at the receptacle where he had placed the blood and nodded; the blood was gone. He pushed the brass rod back into the device, deactivating it.

From under the counter, the apothecary retrieved a long wooden box with a set of hinges and set it down on the table, to the right of his instruments and the circle. From it, he withdrew a syringe barrel filled with a clear substance, took out the one that was in the blood-filled syringe, and replaced it with the clear barrel. Over a small bowl, he ejected the entirety of the contents, removed the needle, and picked up another needle from a smaller metal box inside the wooden one. In a moment, the syringe was sterile and ready for another draw. For the amorality on his face, Omentus was surprisingly meticulous about his work. He took a deep breath, clearing all of the papers from the center of his worksite and asked his visitor, "Acthaiyne, where do the gods go when they die? And what happens to them?" He closed the box, turned it over, and opened the bottom side, revealing it to be very similar in contents to its opposite.

Omentus' hand skimmed over a small collection of clear glass wells on the right-hand half of the box that might have held ink, but their contents were obviously not. One of them shimmered and seemed as though its location changed from side to side in the box and bled shadows to hide what it contained, the next was filled with a black substance and alien images that evoked thoughts of dark magicks, the well beside that crimson with a distinctive black sheen and dredged up feeling of being in danger when looked upon and the well on the furthest right from the apothecary seemed sanguine red and bone gray at the same time, teeming with thoughts of agony and disease. Omentus lifted the shelf on which the vials sat, revealing three more similar shelves on a hinged lattice beneath it, each with its own number of 'inkwells' that were each filled with substances of similar wonder. Omentus tapped a number of them, as if counting in his head. His hand stopped on one of the wells and lifted it out of the box, but Acthaiyne's attention was not there.

Acthaiyne was staring into the box, engrossed unknowingly in a tiny glass jar filled with pale silver-white color with hints of green and black in its depths. He was fixated on that jar, and it revealed to him images of falling snowflakes, glaciers replete with rainbows and an eternal rest after a long life. He breathed a word, almost unaware that he had said anything at all, and reached out slowly.

"Bresaharine, yes," Omentus said, conjuring his customer from the dream he'd gotten lost in. It had sounded like he was repeating after his customer. "Are you familiar with Bresaharine?" The vial that he had taken from the box was different, and he was drawing a series of carefully placed angles and curves into the geometric circle when Acthaiyne began paying attention again. The ink he used was blood red in color, but Acthaiyne could have sworn that he could see trees, animals and blooming life in the depths of the lines that Omentus was making.

His attention was instantly gained at the mention of the gods, and he wondered if this man believed similarly. Acthaiyne thought a moment on the question; it was one he had researched fairly extensively in his religious pursuit. “According to my beliefs and research, they are reincarnated into the next of their line once their bodies are destroyed.” A hesitance was detectable in his voice as he tried to imagine where the man was going with his question, but fell short of an answer.

As he glanced to the various instruments, he spotted the strange jar that seemed to instantly rapture his attention. As his eyes locked into it, the patters in the blood appeared to him as snowflakes. He recalled images of the fair winters of Thatchia, and even the fair face of the Goddess he knew so well, some time ago. When he saw her face, he became entirely entranced in her beauty, and the beauty of all she had created. As he watched her dance lithely through the snow, he blinked to clear the image from his head. When his eyelids touched together, he heard his Goddess’ voice whisper, “Bresaharine.” Unintentionally, as his eyes refocused on the mystifying substance, he reiterated the word. It felt as though he had heard it before, and he knew he had seen the chemical somewhere.

Omentus’ words shook him from his daze. He glanced to the man, before looking back to the vial, a brief look of shock at his own inattention taking his face. In response to the question, Acthaiyne shook his head and said, “No, not at all. But I could swear I’ve seen it somewhere before.” He folded his arms as he glanced away from the vial again, looking to the man. The vial had mystified him in a way very few things can, and it was startling to him.

"Hmm,' was the only sound of Omentus' response to Acthaiyne's answer for a few moments. Either his attention was consumed entirely in the lines filled with trees and flowers, or he was contemplating the thaumaturgist's answer. Momentarily, he finished with the lines and capped the inkwell, replacing it in the box. He turned around a picked up a short-haired black and white rabbit from a cage that had been hidden from Acthaiyne's sight until now. Setting the rabbit in his lap, he placed one hand on it and the other on the house cat in the cage nearest Acthaiyne.

There was a subtle change in the air; necromancy was at work, but the nature of did not seem dark. Then, the cat woke up from its sleep and yawned, looking around the shop lazily. Omentus put the hand that touched the cat onto the bird, now, and that in turn woke from its dreaming. The rabbit, on the other hand, seemed to have drifted off into a deep slumber. The necromancer picked up the rabbit and put it back in its cage. As he went about these things, he spoke to his customer, "Are you familiar with the astral plane or its nature?"

"Not especially," Acthaiyne replied, folding his hands on the counter. "It acts as a holding grounds for spirits, does it not?"

"Yes," Omentus said, "it does have a special relation to afterlife, where spirits are prone to be held beforehand. It has also its own inhabitants which are not related to the life and death of things in this world, and can be used -- if handled properly -- as a common doorway between here and there, no matter the here nor there you speak of." He put away the box that held the object that captured so much of his guest's attention, and then cleared the counter off all its papers. With a series of small iron keys, he locked the settings of each instrument in place, then ran wires from a few of them to key points on the geometric circle, securing them in place with a smear of clear, sticky substance with the tip of his finger.

"Although it is certainly possible that gods or other things beyond mortal ability can destroy the bodies of the gods, I have found that something else happens to them when they die for another reason. When a deity from our world is forgotten completely, it dies and its body goes to float in the astral, as an enormous and perfect island of autodeific paradise." He paused, letting that information sink in for the mage across the counter from him, then went on, "Even should they be remembered again, later in time, they will not be returned to their immortal lives, yet they will always gods and thus divine." He got down from the stool and crossed the back of the shop to a coldbox, from which he took a bottle of water and two cups. "Water?" the necromancer asked genially.

Blinking a bit at the hospitable offer, Acthaiyne replied, "Yes, please." Omentus poured ice cold water from the bottle into each cup, bringing one to his guest, but he was careful not to let the cup near the circle or the ring of apparatuses. "Thank you," the man said.

Omentus nodded, went on, "With the proper avenues of research, a man might even be able to discover the name of a dead god, which is the first step to locating the astral isle which is its remains. And though, if you were to attend the plane yourself and look about, you would not know it, the blood of those gods still courses slowly in their veins, far beneath the terrain of their skin." He sat on the stool again and sprinkled a ring of powdered metal and something else around the magical circle. "Bresaharine, in tens of thousands of years past, was a goddess of death, of rainbows and of winter... and a few closely related things." He opened the box that contained the vials again and withdrew the well that had kept the mage's rapt attention, placing it atop the box that held the jar of healing salve. "No additional charge," the necromancer said as he closed the box again and put it away.

Acthaiyne listened carefully to the detailed explanation of the astral plane and looked on with skepticism about the story of dead gods. There was nothing in his religion that specifically disagreed with it, but it just seemed rather far-fetched. The idea of gods becoming islands in death was simply strange, and certainly new to him. But he understood that there were many things in this world and the next that he could never come to fully understand. He did enjoy trying, though.

When the man slipped the vial of god’s blood over to the box of salve and pills, Acthaiyne blinked and looked over to him with a surprised expression. “Thank you again,” he said, confused. “But I am afraid I do not understand. Certainly you are a highly knowledgeable individual in this art and others, but why share this with me? What deed have I done for this, other than the business of my silvers and coppers?”

The notes, the vial, and the two boxes were scooped up into his hands, but he stopped and shuffled them into his arms, digging into a small pouch on his bag. He laid down the appropriate cost, with a little extra-- a total of three silver-- and prepared to gather his things from the basket in which he had left them.

"It is nothing you've done," the necromancer replied, "I only needed a little help to keep my focus, is all." He smiled as he opened the cages that held the feline and the bird, and sat each of them down inside the geometric circle. There was something in his voice that suggested he wasn't quite telling Acthaiyne the whole story.

The cat was sitting in the circle, sniffing at the blood beneath its feet, and the bird sitting beside it. The bantam peacock, in turn, was examining the cat. Omentus looked up at his customer, "Are you ready, Master Acthaiyne?"

Looking to the animals, Acthaiyne hesitated a moment. With a slight smile, he set his the medicines back down and leaned on the counter. He was tamed by his own curiosity now. "Quite."

The necromancer pulled the tiny brass rod that activated the first of the apparatuses, and a blue arc of energy jumped from one instrument to the next, then flooded through the wires that connected to the circle. The deific blood on the table turned bright green, glowing with an incredible intensity that startled both animals. The cat stood up starkly and tried to dance off of the writing, while the peacock gave a shrill honk. Not fearing the animals should they panic, Omentus set his hands inside the circle of magic and alchemical instruments, pressing his fingers to a set of little circles laid down in ink. His eyes turned white and shone golden at the same time, and he began to speak in one of the arcane tongues. His voice echoed through the room and shook the glass windows in their panes. Other devices on the counter jumped to life, their colored contents bubbling and arcing together storms of light, thunder and fiery streamers.

This seeming chaos swirled about in front of Omentus, who was no longer seated on the stool, until its shape resembled a plate of gears inside inside a finely made pocket watch, and yet a slowly spinning world at the same time. Blinding light had engulfed the work space and most of the necromancer, but his eyes were trained intently on things that seemed to be happening within the loosed magicks. To the trained or observant ear, one of the animals cried out loudly from inside the circle, but its voice was drowned out by the pealing of a magical thunder that swept the room when several of the glass containers on the wizard's counter erupted and spilled their contents into the sea of light and sound. The sound of steel keening on metal began to howl, and the walls of the little shop shed dust in indication of their shaking. Yet, Omentus moved as if nothing had changed -- he was still chanting in a voice that could not be heard over the tempest of magic, and his fingers were still shifting from one spot in the geometric circle to the next.

There was a crescendo of events: the sound thunder escalated until Acthaiyne was not certain it was still sound, the light filled more of the room until he could see through it as only a thick fog (but still not make out the counter), and the necromancer's own skin was glowing with a multitude of previously invisible lines that were drawn on he, himself.

Then, everything subsided. The light shrank away into the counter and the pealing thunders vanished in a heavy silence. The energies that were swimming through the shop a moment ago? There was no proof they even existed at all, and the man behind the counter had returned to normal, for as far as he could be called so. As the last bits of light dwindled away, Acthaiyne could see that rivulets of spent liquids were streaming off the counter. The instruments that Omentus had spent so much time fine-tuning looked blackened and beyond repair, and the center of the counter where the geometric circle was laid was equally black and seemed to have receded into the counter top by a fraction of an inch or so. It looked like it had been burned.

Curled up in the middle of the charred spot on the counter slept a creature the size of the average house cat. Its fur was distinctively light and feathery, like down. It was tawny in some places and soft black in others. On the creature's back were a pair of feathered, dark blue-green wings that seemed almost black until the light struck them in just the right way. Its tail was long and graceful. It woke up slowly, looked around the table where it sat and yawned lazily. It stood up and stretched its body, then stuck out its nose at Omentus, then Omentus' guest, sniffing the air before each of them. The feline looked up at the customer's face. The tresserym's deep, dark brown eyes looked as though they could never miss a single detail in anything upon which they set their gaze. For one of them, it was nearly like looking in a mirror.

It mewled at the thaumaturgist, as though asking for his name.

To Acthaiyne, most of what happened appeared as a bright white blur. Everything was smothered in the blinding light that filled the shop. Every few moments, he could just barely make out the outline of the man and his creations. All these apparatuses and various magics were entirely foreign to him, and he longed to understand it better. But then, something happened that he understood even less.

The light cleared, but the mystification in the vampire’s eyes remained. As the effects of the spell left a resonating aura in the room that cleared gradually, Acthaiyne glanced from the spilled remains of the chemicals, before hearing the gentle mew from the creature. When he looked to it, a smile crossed his lips at the sight; it was adorable in his eyes. But the smile vanished instantaneously upon meeting eyes with the creature, for when he did, something incredible happened.

Suddenly, there was a black flash, as though he had blinked, and everything looked different. Things were slightly darker, but each color was more defined. He identified what he was looking at immediately; it was his own robe. Confused, he looked up, and saw that he was actually looking at himself, as though he were a reflection in a mirror, but for some reason his eyes were only stomach-level. As his eyes moved higher, he saw his face, and a chill surged through him when he saw his own eyes. They were misty, and lacked detail; they looked like the eyes of a man blind from birth. And yet, he saw more now than ever before. He studied his own face for a moment, before turning to look around the shop. Everything gave off a different color, from vibrant hues of green and purple to the darkest shade of black ever seen. He realized that these colorful signals were actually the aura of the magics these elements contained. Intrigued, he turned toward the shelves to get a better look, when he caught a glimpse of his own body. It was the creature on the counter-- the tresserym.

At that point, everything flashed white. Acthaiyne felt slightly dizzy, but when the white aura cleared, he was looking down on the creature, through his own eyes once more. He swallowed nervously, and looked to the man with a pallid, blank expression. “What…” He struggled for words, but fell short. The tresserym let out a soft meow and looked up to Acthaiyne, who looked back down, and their eyes met peacefully. The creature practically had copies of his own eyes. “What is this?” he asked simply, not looking away from the incredible creature.

Sighing, Omentus turned around and pushed his stool out of the way, crossing the small room behind the counter to fetch a small broom, a mop, a large bucket and a rag. He was receding back into his haze, where he pondered idly things which should not cross mortal minds. Acthaiyne seemed dazzled by something but it did not surprise the necromancer. Not many people had ever seen what the thaumaturgist was seeing just now.

The shop's owner took the rag in hand and swept the blackened instruments, devices, various shards of glass and some of the liquids that were still atop the counter into the bucket. They made a muffled clatter as they landed in the bucket, but the sound didn't seem to bother customer or creation alike. Omentus had just begun to mop up the liquids that had spilled onto the floor in the power of the spell when his customer asked a question. Omentus didn't really hear it, at first, but he took a moment and looked up the man, a sort of clouded confusion that might be mistaken for exhaustion evident in his eyes. "Oh," he started to say, "what is--" he blinked once and shook his head, clearing away the fog in his mind. "It is a tresserym kitten, Master Acthaiyne. A magical creature which appears to be a cross of peafowl and housecat. This one is, for all purposes, just a few weeks old, and will eventually grow to nearly thrice its current size. It will be sold to Caravius Tyilon in the north of Kedaldown Center... sometime tomorrow." He glanced to the side - it wasn't a good business practice to share the name of one's customers with other customers - but he didn't admit his blunder. Instead, he grimaced slightly and went on, "...for the price of eleven imperial platinums and three gold."

Omentus wrung the mop out into the bucket, "Yours was good company to keep," he said. "I hope you find good use in your salve and beli. If you need anything else, just send in a ticket, will you?" The mage resigned to his haze, then.

It seemed as though the vampire was in a sudden, intense hurry. “Likewise,” was the only word he spared before stepping rapidly toward the door. Not wanting to risk being thought rude, he added, “And your countenance has been much appreciated. And not soon forgotten, I’ll assure you that.” He paused momentarily at the basket in which he had deposited his belongings, before retracting them once he was certain the magic around them. With that, he vanished through the door of the shop.

“One day,” he thought to himself. “One cycle to concoct a ploy-- a scheme through which I may ascertain the tresserym.” He sighed a bit, and gently patted the hilt of his sword as he reaffixed it at his waste. “My tresserym."

But he did not devise much of a plan. Instead, he spent the night gathering funds. Unfortunately, there was little work to do in the town. The only job he was able to do was the paid request of a local shopkeep; to sabotage the goods of a competing shop across town. He earned two Imperial platinums for it, but even added to his money, he was far short of the price paid for the animal.

So, he realized, things were going to get much more desperate. He now weighed the options: burglary and robbery to earn the money and try to purchase the animal from this fellow, or simply steal the animal itself. It appeared theft was the only option either way. So, just after dawn, he began to establish himself in a position that gave him a good view of Kedaldown Center. He knew he would feel some kind of connection with the tresserym once it came near, so he knew he would be able to find the man when the purchase was made. Then, once the man was alone, he would strike. The mechanics of the process were yet to be established, partially because Acthaiyne had considered the fact that the tresserym may be able to help him in his quest. Another factor, however, was that he did not know whether the man would get violent or not. It was a chance he was willing to take for the creature, though. In his eyes, there was no being or belonging as precious as the tresserym. It felt like a part of him.

There he waited as the sun grew higher into the sky, sitting on a stack of wooden crates near a broken-down wagon, beside a stall in the center that seemed perpetually vacant. It was an out-of-the-way spot that most people were too busy to glance at, though not hidden or shadowed enough to look suspicious were he spotted. Its elevation gave him a head-and-shoulders view of everyone in the center, which he figured necessary should the area become crowded and jammed like many of the markets and town centers he had seen. This one, however, was no longer just another town to him. It was an outstanding memory of a place where he found a piece of himself; a piece he would stop at nothing to obtain.

Omentus walked through the busy marketplace of Kedaldown Center, carrying in a wooden cage a most peculiar creature. It was in many ways like a cat, but with exceptionally feathery hair, and it had wings that came up from its shoulders, which were adorned with feathers that looked not unlike those of a peacock's tail. The creature, called a tresserym, slept quietly in the cage. Overhead, the noonday sun cast Kedaldown Center into beauty. Unlike the area of town where Omentus made shop, these streets were washed with bright colors of white and gold, red, green and blue. Nearly every building was the white color, with shining walls that gleamed even in starlight, but with accents of each of the other colors, which made the place appear not garish, but cultured and artistic. The people were also of obviously higher quality. More nobles walked the street, most of them dressed in a combination of clothing that was and had been the fashion of Kedaldown Center for the last twenty years.

The men were dressed in colored tunics and white undershirts, with silk rope belts and comfortable cotton leggings. On their feet, they wore either soft leather boots or sandals, and over their backs, ankle-length colored cloaks with white lining that displayed silver, red or gold embroidery of their House symbol. Gold and silver set with blue or red stones were common elements of adornment for the men, who wore bracelets, rings, earrings, and also had special embroideries, studs or similar embellishments put into each article of their clothing.

Women, on the other hand, dressed in white, flowing dresses with colored pelerines and silk gloves. Their pelerines displayed the symbol of their noble Houses in much the same way the men's cloaks displayed theirs. They wore less jewelry on their hands and arms, but more necklaces, chokers and earrings, where the colors gold and silver with stones of blue, yellow and green were common. The women did not wear boots, only sandals, and also adorned their clothing with custom embellishments in the same way as the men.

Everything in Kedaldown Center talked about the differences between it and the surrounding city. This was the place for nobility and wealth, outside its wall was Kedaldown, which was sometimes referred to as the outer city, despite the misnomer. Although it was the home of both the upper and lower middle classes, the outer city was impoverished when compared to the Center. Beyond Kedaldown were the places known as the Gathers and the Sprawls, each more impoverished than the last. In the Sprawls, no family could expect a stable income, but some families might be able to scrape up to three imperial silvers in month, if luck was on their side, but many went on less than a single silver for the course of a month. In the Gathers, a family with four working members might make up to eight or nine silvers in a month. In Kedaldown, a family could expect an income of three to five imperial gold coins each month. Five silvers were enough to feed well a family of four for a month. In Kedaldown Center, however, there were Noble Houses, and just one of those could generate an income of 250 to 400 imperial platinum coins per month, though individual families might see only five to ten platinums a month, which was exactly why Omentus was here, carrying a tresserym in a cage, in the first place.

He was here to make a sale at a rendezvous, and despite the utterly different way he dressed, he attracted no attention to himself. The necromancer weaved and brushed through the market traffic, making his way to a small, covered plaza with a white floor and a gold ceiling. Arriving there, he sat the tresserym's cage down on a white table, dismissed the Ignore Me that had surrounded him since he left his shop that morning, and waited. Ten minutes went by, before he was approached by a priveleged-looking man in a rich, forest green tunic and an azure cloak with gold embroidery on it. It proudly claimed him as a man of the Kaliore family, one of the wealthier noble houses in the Center.

"Good day," the man said.

Omentus turned his head to him and inclined his head, "Good day. Do you represent the House Tyilon?"

"No, sir. My name is Argesius Kaliore. I am an agent in the House, and I'd like to discuss with you the possibility of the guildsmage sponsorship. Are you a member of any guilds, sir?"

"I am not," Omentus replied.

"Are you then, a mage or wizard of guild ability?"

"I am that."

"Then guilds aside, House Kaliore would still be interested in sponsoring your status as a mage. The House will provide you with financial support, living quarters if you need them, and aid in any political endeavors involving the city you might be interested in. The only thing House Kaliore asks for in return is your open affiliation to the House and quarterly reports on your progress and studies in field of magecraft, as well as any journeys you may go out on."

Considering this, Omentus hmmed aloud, then shook his head. "I'm afraid that House sponsorship is not for me. My current position requires that I stay neutral to the houses of Kedaldown. However, there is a mage across the courtyard from here," he said, nodding subtly toward Acthaiyne, "He might be interested in the support your House can offer."

Bowing, Argesius took a step back from Omentus, saying, "Thank you for your thought on the matter, sir. House Kaliore understands your position, and thanks you for your consideration for your fellow man of the art. I bid you good day." He rose and left the little plaza, crossing the courtyard to Acthaiyne's vigil on the crate. As he reached the thaumaturgist, another man approached Omentus.

This man was dressed in a silver tunic and belt with blue leggings, soft leather sandals, and a silver cloak that advertised his affiliation the House Tyilon in sapphire embroidery. He wore a set of gold, silver and platinum bracelets that ran from his wrists, almost up to his elbows, and three golden rings, each set with a gemstone of a different color. On the left shoulder of his tunic, the likeness of a red rose with tiny garnet studs had been embroidered into the shirt's fabric. "Omentus Anima?" he asked.

"House Tyilon?" the necromancer responded.

"The same. Austreas Tyilon."

Omentus slid the cage with the tresserym in it forward on the table and gestured to the creature with his left hand, as if showcasing an expensive treasure. "Born three weeks ago, pedigree. Kept on a fine diet, tame and friendly with children and adults alike," the necromancer stated simply, listing off the facts as if he were reciting a very boring speech.

The Tyilon agent looked over the creature, reaching into the cage to pet the tresserym and wake it. The tresserym looked at him, stood up and yawned, arching his back while he spread his wings. He walked around in a little circle in the cage and mewled at Austreas. Something sparkled in its eyes, and the agent looked up at the necromancer. "Its eyes... the agreement was blue or cyan. This will cost you, apothecary. I'll not be paying any more than eight imperial platinum coins for this creature."

Omentus waved his hand, "I will not sell a laming animal to Caravius. Blue and cyan eyes more often are the traits of blindness in the tresserym before adulthood. Pretty to look at, but the animal will be tortured and the owner will be dissatisfied or disheartened in the long run. This tresserym's vision is better than perfect, and it will stay that way. The price does not lessen one penny from eleven imperial platinum and three gold, or Master Caravius will have to pay the full forty that any other exotic pets dealer would charge him for their animals. And none of them can guarantee the pure heritage of their tresseryms." The annoyance was obvious in the edge of his voice.

Austreas Tyilon looked up at Omentus, looking at him directly in the eyes. They flashed golden in the noonday sun. After a moment, he managed to pull his heart down from his throat, and apologized, "I... am sorry, Master Anima. I know that you must have put in some serious work to attain this creature, and to offer it to the House for such a low price... I overstepped my boundaries. Eleven platinum and three gold is a more than fair price."

Omentus nodded, and the rest of the conversation was brief. A money pouch traded hands, and Omentus handed over the cage to Austreas, who left the plaza, thanking Omentus for his time. Omentus also left, walking toward his shop in eastern Kedaldown.

Sitting atop the crate, Acthaiyne pulled an apple from his pouch for the wait. The juicy bite was refreshing as he sat, exposed to the sun hanging high in the sky. The bustle of the center was a bother to him, as he usually preferred to avoid people, particularly in large numbers. But any time he felt doubt, he recalled the creature for which he was doing this, and his resolve was reestablished.

As he watched the crowd, scanning from person to person, he felt the sudden impression that he had felt in the shop. It must have meant that the tresserym was nearby. Scanning quicker, he grew annoyed with his inability to spot Omentus, but then finally noticed him already sitting down. He looked as though he had just gotten there, and Acthaiyne wondered how he could have been so inobservant to miss him as he moved to his spot.

And there, sitting beside him on the counter, was a small cage that had to contain the animal.

A brilliant smile crossed his lips as he watched. A well-dressed man wearing a blue cloak approached the stand, and he watched their inaudible exchange of words. But then, when he saw Omentus nod in his direction, and the other man turn and look directly at him, his eyes widened. Does he know my intentions? Is he telling the buyer about me?

He clenched his teeth together as they finished talking, but when the man walked away from Omentus, confusion took over in Acthaiyne’s mind. Apparently, since the man left without the animal, he was not he buyer. However, he noticed with annoyance that the man was approaching him, and sighed softly.

“Good day, sir!”

Acthaiyne stared on in silence, taking a slow bite of his apple.

The man shifted uneasily, before speaking, “I believe a friend of yours recommended you. I represent House Kaliore. I would like to speak with you about the possibility of sponsorship as a guildsmage.”

Still, the Roulen did not speak. Instead, he peered back to Omentus. His back stiffened a bit when he saw another well-dressed man at the stall. He watched as the man reached into the cage, and knew it was the buyer.

“…Perhaps you are not in a guild, either? That is acceptable-- we would still like to sponsor you as a freelance mage.”

The man kept talking, but Acthaiyne did not hear it. In fact, all sound began to fade from around him, and his vision darkened. For a moment, he prepared to brace himself, feeling as though he would pass into unconsciousness. But when he remembered the first time this happened-- in the shop with the tresserym-- it reminded him of the extraordinary ability that attached him to the creature so much in the first place.

A bright flash changed the entire scene. Suddenly, he was looking into a white cloth. He identified it as the same white garment the buyer was wearing. Looking up, he saw the man’s face, and instantly memorized his features. He glanced around quickly to take in all that he knew of the man’s wardrobe, hoping to make him distinguishably different when in a crowd.

And then he felt himself being pulled back into his own body. Jerking his eyes opened, he swallowed and looked back to see the man leaving with the tresserym’s cage in hand.

“Sir?”

Blinking, Acthaiyne looked back to the man of the Kaliore family. “Hm?”

“… I asked you if you were interested in our sponsorship,” said the man in a slow tone.

“Ah yes,” Acthayine replied. “Perhaps if you were to give me your contact information, such as your guild hall our House manor, I could return to you with a carefully-contemplated decision?”

Finally, the man smiled. “Of course.”

After the man told of the location of the manor, he departed, and Acthaiyne was instantly off of the crates. He moved rapidly through the crowd, toward the street down which the buyer had walked. When he got to the street, he looked about, but saw no sign of the man. Then, the idea came to him; he ducked into a small alley and leaned against the wall, shutting his eyes tightly. He tried to concentrate on the feeling of the tresserym being present, sharing his consciousness. For a few minutes, he simply stood there, until finally, the world began to grow distant.

He opened his eyes, and saw the thin steel bars of a cage. The city scenery outside was swaying as the man carrying the cage walked. Looking around the area, he instantly began committing the scene to memory and noting its landmarks. Glancing to the front, he saw the steps as his carrier climbed them, approaching the door of a large building. Then, darkness.

As his eyes opened, he saw that he was back in the alley. Breaking into a sprint, he began following the scenery as he remembered it while it was still fresh in his mind. He essentially crossed the landmarks from his mental list as he passed them, and after a few minutes found himself staring at the distant door of the building.

And now to consider my course of action.