— PHAEDRUS —
a town outside Zantaric...
The town of Essetofte had a problem.
"...He's been missing for days, see," a harried woman explained, wringing her hands as Phaedrus frowned and took a sip of wine. She stared at him, her blue eyes misty through sheafs of black hair.
Shadows lengthened across the floor of the inn's tavern; the sinking sun tinged the slats of light orange, tinting the woman's shining cheeks. "And there's been strange things abouts -- strange -- howling and --- creatures--"
"Creatures?" One fiery brow rose.
"Yes--like--soundin' like wolves but--oh, I dinnae -- just find him, please, use your magics. You can, can't you?" Her knuckles jumped, fingers wringing her handkerchief. Tears budded in her eyes. "He's not the only one missing, neither..."
He stared at her blandly as she explained how a search party had gone into the mountains, twirling his goblet round and round. As it went, a number of disappearances had whittled the already small town into desperate numbers.
Each villager had thrown together their savings, promising it to whoever brought them back—the old innkeep, a huntress, and the two young men that set off to investigate. It was clear that the woman he was talking to--the mother of one of the boys--could not accept the possibility her son might be dead, nor the possibility that if four people had gone missing, then he stood a poor chance.
Magic or not.Well, a job was a job. His pockets felt lighter than he liked; a poor thing whilst travelling.
Besides, staying away from Zantaric is good for the soul, the sorcerer reasoned, tapping his nail on the rough-hewn table. The woman across from him buried her face into her handkerchief and hiccuped, her watery eyes peering up at him with desperation.
"Very well," Phaedrus sighed, pushing his wine away and leaning back into the chair. He adjusted his hat, eyes suddenly weary. "Tell me of it."
—
He wasn't the only one to hear the clink of gold.
The next day, another stranger had appeared in the inn; as the sorcerer picked his way down the stairs and sauntered into the tavern, he saw a figure surrounded by a buzz of people.
"--can you help us--"
"--a dragon-rider, blimey--"
"--girl, we're in desperate need--"
Something between relief and annoyance flipped his guts;
hadn't he just volunteered for the bloody job? They looked a fair part more enthusiastic about this one: where there had been desperation for his help after admitting the fact he was a sorcerer, it had been reluctant... but one might think this woman a local hero.
Well, he wasn't about to let someone steal his coin entirely..."
Hm." His small cough went unnoticed, to his further annoyance; instead the sorcerer sidled up to the crowd, slipping like a serpent between the tangle of elbows. Immediately, he saw the reason for the buzz: the woman looked sun-kissed and strong, her rich curls tumbling around a resolute face. Something fiery lived in her: he could sense a magic like a dormant coal in her, and the annoyance in his breast mounted higher.
"...Oh," the woman from yesterday broke, gaze hopping between them. "...Miss, you wouldn't be alone for the job, you see... this one has volunteered as well."
Of a sudden he found himself the unwanted center of attention. By the way faces fell, it was clear they thought him less than impressive: pasty, sneerish, with a form that suggested he was better suited to reading and eating apple pasties rather than charging off on some rescue mission.
A look, on the whole, he was used to.
"Good morning," the sorcerer chimed, folding his arms and leaning his weight to one leg. His yellow eyes fixed on the Adelan, bow-lips quirking. "Quite the reception. I am Phaedrus. And you are...?"
