PrologueA Chapter by Irene WillisDesmond stared at the latest publicized breakthrough in Corrian technology, fascinated. It came in the form of an enormous rectangular metal box, the cage on one side of the contraption serving as something of a gate. The strange invention slowly drifted up and down between the three levels of the capital city, carrying passengers, luggage, and goods. He let out a low whistle. One of the security guards glanced his way at that, shooting him a rather annoyed look as she motioned for him to move on. They didn’t much like people loitering around the elevators if they weren’t going to ride, as was plainly stated in bold black letters on the sign just above Desmond’s head. He imagined that had something to do with the fact that the crowds around that area were dense enough as it was. Obediently, he gave the new means of transportation one last wondering look before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning away. He had somewhere to be, after all. He grinned to himself, taking in the atmosphere of the bustling city. Almost all of the buildings gleamed in the near-blinding light of the magicked street lamps, matching metal skeletons practically bulging with wares. The Business District was the only of the three levels to be touched by sunlight, and certainly the only part that visitors typically ever saw. Desmond was one such visitor, having come to the famed City of Steel for the first time that very morning in pursuit of a job opportunity. Precisely where he was headed now. The young man stopped rather abruptly, reaching up to fiddle with the bright golden charm that hung around his neck on a simple black cord. The crowd ignored him, brushing past his stationary form as though they were caught up in some invisible current. He looked up at the building he was expected to enter, suddenly a little nervous to go inside despite the fact that the place didn’t look like much. In fact, it looked the same as just about every other building on the block. The walls were composed of shining steel, and the door was painted to indicate what sort of a business it was. Red for meals; blue for rest. An inn. A sign hung above the obnoxiously colored doorway, swinging in the wind. ‘Dancing Dragon’, it read, the text accompanied by the ridiculous image of a caricatured wyrm that had been expertly etched into the thin metal. Desmond took a deep breath to still his nerves, then pushed open the door. The room was just as crowded as it had been outside, and twice as loud. Large clusters of bar patrons chattered and laughed uproariously amongst themselves, and servers struggled to get to their tables through the throng. The inn was somewhat dim, the only light in the room coming from the three small, bright baubles that drifted seemingly aimlessly through the air near the ceiling. It was a good, fun, carefree atmosphere; if a little too rambunctious for Desmond's liking. He cautiously began making his way over to the bar, but doing so without bumping into a few people very quickly proved to be impossible. He eventually gave up on trying to be polite and resorted to pushing his way through the crowd, eliciting more than a few grunts of indignation and apologizing profusely all the way. The barkeeper raised an eyebrow as the young man approached, amused. "Can I help you, son?" "Um... yes, actually. I'm looking for someone," Desmond replied, placing his hands flat on the smooth glass countertop between himself and the older, burlier man. "Marcus Alastor. Have you seen him?" "I have." Desmond nodded, relieved that he had in fact found the right place. He gestured for the barkeep to continue. "Is he still here, sir?" “Name?” “Uh… Marcus Alas-” His reply was cut short by a sudden loud, bemused snort. “Not him. You.” Desmond flushed slightly, embarrassed. “Oh, right. Of course. My name is Desmond.” "He's in the back, along with the rest of his crew." The big bearded man jerked his head to the side, towards a door that Desmond hadn't seen previously. "In there. I was told to look out for you. Go on in." The young man nodded his thanks and padded over to the door, reaching up to grasp the charm around his neck as he did so. The familiar warm, fizzing feeling he always got when he made direct contact with the scale spread up his arm and into his chest, effectively calming his nerves. Slowly, he turned the doorknob. This room was even dimmer than the last, lit only by a single hovering orb of old yellow light. Its magic hadn’t been replenished in a long while, and the bauble was nearly dead. It barely illuminated the back room’s sparse furniture, and the corners were almost as black as pitch. It was a very plain room, with no decoration so to speak of. There were no windows or doors aside from the one that Desmond had just come through, and the only thing of note was the small rectangular table in the middle of the space, around which three shadowed figures sat. Their faces were difficult to make out in the darkness, but he could see that they were all looking in his direction. Their conversation, which had been little more than a whisper when he’d first walked in, ceased completely as they all turned to stare expectantly up at him. Heavy silence filled the room for a moment, one which seemed to last an eternity to the young newcomer. His grip tightened around the scale hanging from his neck, and the warm, comforting flow of magic from his hand to his heart quickened. Another couple of heartbeats passed in that quiet stillness before anyone spoke. “Desmond D’Amore?” He jumped slightly at the sudden break in the silence, then quickly nodded in acknowledgement of the fact that his name had been spoken. “Um… yes?” The man who had addressed him sat at the head of the table, the place farthest away from where Desmond stood. His voice was low and smooth, and he spoke with a tone suggestive of someone who was used to occupying a position of command. While his features were obscured by the shadows, his strong frame and imposing posture were abundantly apparent. He was in control, and the way that he carried himself reflected and even enforced that innate authority. It would be impossible not to cross paths with this man on the street and instantly identify him as somebody important. "You're the boy that was so highly recommended us?" he said, slowly drumming his fingers on the table before him as he examined the young man still standing uncertainly in front of the door. "I'll be honest... you don't look like much." One of his companions shot him a disapproving glare at that comment, evidently unfazed by his authoritative air. It was a woman, slender of figure and long of hair, with the latter tied loosely at the base of her neck. She turned to Desmond, flashing him a friendly smile that shone clearly even through the darkness veiling her face. "You'll have to excuse him," she apologized, glancing back at the man. "He's insufferably blunt at the best of times, and he lacks all sense of decency. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Desmond. My name is Cade, and this," she gestured to the third and final person in the room; a lean, middle-aged man in a hood, "is Walker. He doesn't speak, so I wouldn't bother attempting conversation if I were you. The uncultured barbarian there is Marcus." “Oh, I wouldn't say that he’s a barbarian, but… hello.” Desmond tried a smile, beginning to feel comfortable enough to slowly ease his grip on the scale. Cade laughed, likely amused by his awkward attempt at being polite. "Yes, hello. Why don't you go ahead and sit down? We may as well get acquainted, if we're going to be working together." After a moment's hesitation the young man obliged, pulling out the only chair yet unoccupied in the room. He sat somewhat stiffly at first, but then quickly relaxed. The young woman's mannerisms suggested that there was nothing at all to be worried about, so why should he worry? She spoke as though he were already a part of the team. One look at Marcus, however, and Desmond's confidence evaporated. "You're getting ahead of yourself, Cade," he said, eyeing the mage in a manner similar to how a predator would eye its prey. "We still don't know what this boy can actually do. I need to see for myself that he is truly deserving of the generous praise the Academy gives him before I even think about allowing him to travel with us." “I understand.” Desmond took a shaky breath, reaching back up again to grasp the scale hanging from his neck. "In that case, please allow me to show you what I can do." Marcus leaned back in his seat but said nothing in response, examining the newcomer with a critical eye as he waited for the younger man’s next move. Walker, too, watched silently, expression unreadable in the shadows cast upon his strong, weathered face. The young mage’s gaze slid to Cade, who had her elbows propped up on the table with her chin resting atop laced fingers. She smiled at him encouragingly. He nodded and stood up, reaching down with his free hand to place it flat on the rough wooden surface of the table. There were a few moments of tense silence as everyone waited, leaning forward slightly in their seats and holding their breaths in anticipation. Then it happened. Cade jerked her elbows away from the table in surprise as it slowly began to morph. First it drained of color, the faded walnut hue seeping away until the entire structure was bleached a stark, dead white. Then the flat ivory planks started to bend and twist, growing thinner and rounder, curving so that they formed shallow, uneven arches and long, brittle legs of a curious shape. Desmond removed his hand and took a step back, eyeing his handiwork and looking up to analyze the crew’s reactions. The table had been turned to bone. “Marcus, this is incredible,” Cade enthused, reaching out to touch the table with an air of zealous fascination. She poked and prodded at the smooth, dry bone with probing fingers, not at all disturbed by the somewhat grim appearance of the new piece of furniture. Desmond was quite proud of his work. The craftsmanship was very nearly flawless, and the construction surprisingly sturdy considering the relatively primitive nature of the new material. But transforming the table alone would not be enough. Reaching into his coat pocket, the young mage drew out an apple and moved to place it on the floor in the far corner of the room. He paused a brief moment, smiling to himself as he heard the wooden legs of chairs scraping on the floors behind him, and promptly set to work on his second spell. The apple twitched and jerked violently at his touch before it too began to change, the stem stretching and growing rapidly, twigs bursting out from beneath the skin before fusing together and shooting upwards, where they separated again to form sturdy, twisting branches that crawled along the walls and ceiling above the heads of the room’s stunned occupants. Desmond held his breath upon completing the transformation, confidence wavering slightly as he awaited the response of his audience. Marcus’s expression was indecipherable. He remained reclined in his chair, head tilted ever so slightly to the side as he examined the miniature leafless oak in a manner reminiscent of a time when Corria was still ruled by kings. The man was so daunting, so… regal. Desmond couldn’t help but to feel intimidated by his presence. He fiddled subconsciously with the edge of his coat as the older man’s gaze burned into him, analyzing his reactions, judging his worth. The young mage forced himself to return the stare as steadily as he was able, the seconds passing by in that expectant silence agonizingly slow. At long last Marcus spoke, cool voice cutting through the silence as a hot knife cuts through butter. “Desmond.” Desmond jumped again at the sudden mentioning of his name, then silently cursed himself for it. Acting the nervous wreck like this wasn't going to earn him any points in Marcus’s book, and every point counted. “Er… yes?” A ghost of a smile flickered upon the older man’s lips for a moment before disappearing, there and gone so fast that Desmond wasn't so certain it had ever been there in the first place. Marcus tossed something his way, and the young mage quickly forgot about the momentary change of expression as he scrambled to catch it. Curious, he cautiously uncurled his fingers to examine the small metal object now resting in his palm. It appeared to be a room key. “Rest up. We depart tomorrow morning at first light."© 2016 Irene WillisAuthor's Note
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Added on August 14, 2016 Last Updated on August 14, 2016 Tags: magic, technology, adventure, fantasy |