Need to catch-up? Here's the link to the full collection.
Chapter 11
Part 1
The shadows in the city proper provided perfect cover for Dezan. He skulked around the streets looking for information, information pertaining to the location of an artifact of immense importance. Human cities were never one of his ideal places to be, but they were the perfect place to gather intelligence. Intelligence he could use to persuade powerful people to do as he wished.
Three weeks had passed since Fendrick had closed the Well and the eastern continent spread into a panic. Fenerra had planned the perfect follow-up strike to paralyse the Inarellians, one which Dezan had a hand in moulding himself. The atmospheric magic would be thinning out fast, and the magical races would require a new supply of magic to maintain their… composition. The things that made them magic, different to the humans. In ages past, the magical races were blessed with long lifespans, hardy bodies, and a penchant for certain kinds of magic. Elves had long been masters of the druidic arts; their magic was especially adept at manipulation of living matter. Dwarves had the ability to imbue gemstones with magical properties, gnomes the ability to infuse their magical essence into inanimate objects, creating unusual and wondrous mechanical constructions. The trolls had an acute link with the elements and could control the very primordial essence of the world with ease: fire, earth, wind, and lightning. Countless other magical races had sprung up across the world, granted magic by their Gods to best suit their environments. Humans were those left behind; the race with no one God or Gods that watched over them. Polytheistic and fickle, the leftover humans were vagrants and nomads – moving from place to place and never amassing a large enough faith to earn a particular God’s favour. Fenerra sought to take advantage of these differences and used the power of the corrupted child of the forest to produce a pure magical source that would malign the magical races and twist them into feral, mindless creatures. Tainted arcanum, is what Dezan learnt the Inarellians had begun calling it.
Uncorking a bottle of arcanum, Dezan gulped it down greedily. His form shifted as the magic coursed through his body. Limbs bulging and skin bubbling he collapsed on the floor, holding himself up on his hands and knees. A few more seconds of excruciating pain overcame Dezan as his body slowly settled. Looking into the murky puddle beneath his body, Dezan could see his spell had taken place. Staring into his visage, he could see the hazel human eyes and well-kept windswept brown hair of his disguise. Smirking to himself, he struggled off of the floor, wiping away the dirt from his leather slacks. Dezan stepped out into the city streets, out of the darkness of the alley, and walked towards a large timber frame building stood alone at the edge of a quiet road. Well-built with the tell-tale terracotta brickwork of human cities, the building stood tall and wide, the occasional scream echoing out of its barred windows.
Dezan pushed the front door open and stepped inside. Stepping up to a window, he smiled at the tired, plump face of the uniformed worker sat behind it.
“I’m here to visit Orothar, Orothar Redgrave.”
“Name and address?” The woman’s voice was haggard as she reached for the visitor book.
“Rhys ap Llywelyn, 54 Gwynedd Road, Trefynnon.” The lies flitted off of Dezan’s tongue with ease, as he continued smiling gaudily.
“Do you have any weapons, spell scrolls, potions, or any other contraband you need to declare?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Please step through those doors,” she gestured with two fingers to the blue door at the end of the hallway, “you’ll be patted down and then you can take a seat in the visitor’s centre and wait for Mr. Redgrave.”
“Thank you.” Dezan bowed lightly to the glass and headed towards the blue door, pulling it open and stepping into another narrow hallway. Standing at the end were two large men, a goliath and a human – who could almost be mistaken for a second goliath with his extraordinary height and bulk. Carrying batons and dressed in a uniform consisting of black shirt and black slacks, the men waved Dezan over.
Dezan stepped toward them confidently, flashing another smile their way as he lifted his arms to a T. The two men patted him down and searched his being for contraband, stopping on his jacket.
“What you got in there?”
“Just some arcanum. To keep off the sweats.” Dezan pulled a vial from his inside pocket slowly, revealing it to the guard. “I’m a half-elf, you see.”
The goliath shared a glance with the human, before adjusting Dezan’s jacket with his massive hands. “You got any to spare?”
Clearing his throat, Dezan understood the situation implicitly, “Of course.” Pulling a second vial out of his jacket, Dezan handed it to the guard, “Are we done?”
“Through those double doors and on your first right. Don’t dawdle, and don’t go exploring.” The goliath stared stone faced at Dezan as his Cheshire grin returned.
“Not a problem, thank you for your assistance.”
Dezan placed the other vial back into his jacket and walked through the door, making his way to the visitor’s centre. Down the other corridors he could hear the shouts of the inmates echoing weakly through the building. Dried blood and fluids were encrusted on the floor leading to a series of small drains, eliciting a smirk from Dezan. Humans really know how to treat their prisoners, he thought to himself. Two guards poked an inmate in the back with their batons as Dezan stepped further into the building.
“Sir, please, they’re torturing me, I don’t belong here!” Dezan could see the sunken eyes of the prisoner as he stepped past him. One of the guards grabbed him by the top of his striped shirt and jerked him against the wall.
“Shut your mouth.” The guard turned to Dezan, “Sorry, sir. Please, step on through. He won’t bother you any further.”
“Oh, he’s not a bother, don’t worry yourself.” Dezan nodded lightly towards the prisoner and the guard and continued towards the visitor’s centre.
Rattling open a barred door, another prison guard silently ushered Dezan into the visitor’s centre. Stepping into the room, Dezan could see a variety of tables, all empty, dotted around its space. Across the way, he could make out another barred door leading to another section of the prison, guarded by a prison officer either side. Taking a seat on the well-worn wooden bench of the table in the centre of the room, Dezan clasped his fingers together as he waited for his guest.
A few minutes later the door on the other side of the room jangled open, and a dwarf in prison fatigues stepped through. His hands were bound with a set of chains, tightly wound around his thick, hairy forearms. His face was grey and tired, his scraggly beard and tangled, unshorn hair betraying his lack of personal hygiene. As he stepped towards Dezan, he snarled at the grin plastered on the man’s face. The dwarf sat opposite Dezan and the prison officer wrapped the chains around an iron bar on the table, locking it tight with a wrought, black iron padlock.
“You’ve got half an hour. Don’t make any trouble for us.” The officer stepped back from the table, the keys at his hip clinking and rattling.
The dwarf grunted back at him, his hands resting on the table between himself and Dezan.
Shaking his head, the officer walked back to the door out of the visitor’s centre, closing it back up and standing to attention.
“Could we have a bit of privacy?” Dezan called to the guard.
“I can step on the other side of these bars. That’s as much privacy as you’re going to get.”
“That should be fine. Thank you.”
The guard re-opened the doors and stepped outside, and the silence in the room was deafening. The dwarf broke it with a phlegmy cough, trying and failing to cover his mouth with his bound hands.
“Orothar.” Dezan broke his grin, lowering it to a faint smile.