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There exist certain people with the born ability to sense
magic at will; we like to call those people SpellHounds. Traditionally, SpellHounds
are only ever allowed to exist in the service of the Realm. With the potent
talent to track and detect all uses of magic they make the ultimate
investigators of all magical activity. But sometimes a SpellHound exists
outside the service of the Realm. And sometimes, those SpellHounds are less
than friendly about how they use their birthright.
My name is Nathanial Vaen, and I am a SpellHound. But
despite what some might have you believe, I don’t work for the King, Queen or
Country and I certainly don’t play for the morally ambiguous team. Life for a
freelance SpellHound is anything but glamorous, but it is a life with some
measure of freedom. And when someone’s neck is on the line, who would you
really prefer to call? You want someone who can sniff out trouble and loyal
enough to stick by you.
And that someone is me. At least as long as you got the coin
for it. Currently that someone with the coin was a worried and troubled pub
owner who had also decided to take up brewing in his business’s basement. Hence
my personal regret for my many bad judgments in my life – namely my decision to
descend into those foul-smelling depths.
Baylen Herward had been operating Howlers Hall for as long as I can recall and the place typically
stayed busy, especially at the end of a long day. Howlers Hall is a rather no-frills type of establishment –
functional hardwood benches and long broad tables. The floors beneath your feet
crunching softly with the collection of daily debris and a crackle of roaring
fires warmed the room form a large hearth.
Baylen’s tireless frame could often be seen fetching up
casks with practiced ease and pouring drinks behind the bar. Baylen was by no
means an overly large individual, so it always struck me as ironic to watch the
man at work. He was a tall and lean man who rarely stopped moving but always
seemed to welcome every face who entered his establishment.
It was, perhaps, for only that reason that I accepted his
request for aid. Baylen was a good man by my reckoning, and I hated to see him
without those patrons. Alright, the promise of a bit more weight to my purse
didn’t hurt to persuade me either. But Baylen was definitely a man who deserved
a hand, and I could lend him one.
This is why I was starring at stone blocks that formed the
Howlers Hall dependable cellar. The smell of mingled mold and mildew vied for
my attention against those of yeast and fermentation. “Why couldn’t Baylen have
hired me to taste test something instead,” I mused softly to myself.
Standing about complaining wasn’t going to get me paid any
faster, or return me to the plentiful fresh air above. So with a groan I tried
to get my mind back on task and concentrated. Closing my eyes I called up
everything Baylen had been able to tell me. The details were few in number but
it was a place to start, so I had to work from them.
Within the last week or two customers had begun to suddenly leave
disgusted only to not return. Regulars and long time patrons both were not
immune to the growing trend of migration from Howlers Hall. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Baylen had been
brewing his own beverages of late either, so all the puzzled barkeep could
figure is that somehow it was his own self-made wares providing the motivation.
But despite all his efforts to prove where the problem was, he couldn’t find
anything to fault.
So that left me with only a handful of options to
investigate. If someone had managed to find a way to hex his ale in a manner
that eluded him, then that might explain the unhappy exodus. And if it wasn’t
the beverages themselves, then it had to be someone or something influencing
how patrons reacted to them. Either way meant malicious magic was afoot. And I
do hate me some magic misused for nefarious purposes. What could be more
nefarious than fouling the taste of a handcrafted brew, or ruining an honest
man’s business?
Shifting my focus, I sniffed at the air once more and set
myself to sorting out all the scents that had already firmly decided to assault
me. There was quite the myriad array to be frank, but as I tried to key in to
any lingering traces of sinister spellcraft there was naught to be found. Even
a scan of the room once more didn’t avail any clues to my sight. Whatever was
happening here obviously wasn’t taking place down here at the source of
Baylen’s supplies. That meant a welcome return topside and further
investigation.
A long thick braid hung at Baylen’s back, barely bobbing
about as he paced at a much slower speed than his typical busy manner. His
thick dark beard concealed some of his features, but I knew an unhappy demeanor
when I saw one. And when you work this job you’re bound to see them quite
regularly. Busy didn’t seem to be improving and without a single word I think
we both already knew I wasn’t surfacing with good news.
“Well,” Baylen asked, unable to mask the melancholy from his
tone. His forearms tensed as he set his hands to the habitual ritual of wiping
down the bar before him. But the frustration was clear enough from his stance.
Worry was written all over his brow and every inch of his frame was wound tight
enough it threatened to snap.
I hate it when I don’t have an answer already waiting to
present. Even more so when a client is expecting me to do exactly that, it
makes me look like I don’t know what I am doing. And worse yet; it sets me up
to appear like anything I say next is just me bumbling about for excuses. Never
mind if that is precisely what is happening.
“Apologies, Baylen,” I decided to open with and tried to put
on my best professional expression. “Don’t you worry just yet; I am still on
the case. Everything below checks out; there isn’t any sign of magical
tampering or influence. That just leaves a few other possible angles up here.
Give me a little more time to track your trouble down and I give you my word
that we’ll sort this out.”
It was hard to judge if my words had provided any comfort
since Baylen didn’t look up from his task. This also meant that I had no clue
to whether or not he bought my professional approach or if he was already
rethinking his decision to hire me and had chalked my tactic up to simply
stalling. To be fair, I’m not sure which way I’d have looked at it either.
But Baylen had come to me for help, and that meant that he
was going to get my help – I had given him my word after all. Looking around
the room I couldn’t avoid admitting that he indeed needed my help. Only perhaps
half a dozen or so patrons were still seated around the room, cautiously
nursing their drinks like they might explode. Which is a fairly depressing
sight; anytime you see an empty or nearly empty pub it is a rather sad scene.
By the look of those melancholy few, Howler’s Hall had become a reluctant roost to spend their evening.
Their boots told stories that their silence would not, I had already wagered
most of them either knew one another or were simply wary enough to avoid
socializing. A mixture of powdered stone, mud and sawdust clung to the various
customers while they consumed their beverages. It didn’t take a well trained
eye or keen intellect to deduce that these were labor men by trade, toiling in
their respective crafts by day and enjoying what remained as the sun settled
outside.
My gut told me that I should rule these men out; what could
any hardworking folk have to gain from sabotaging Baylen’s business? It just
didn’t make any sense, so I continued my search for explanations. While I
mulled it over, a serving lass slipped up beside Baylen and sighed slightly as
she surveyed the room. She was young, by my reckoning, barely starting to grow
into her own curves but she carried herself with the casual grace of
experience. Her hair had been cut off short, just long enough to be tucked
behind her ears into an effective style that forwent anything ornate. And in
the warm glow of the firelight it shone like burnished copper.
After a long moment she began to untie the apron that hung
down her front and neatly folded it to store behind the bar. “Lillian is
already here to take over,” the young lady reported, an edge to her timid tone.
Entering the doorway was the working woman’s obvious evening counterpart.
Lillian wasn’t a short woman by any reckoning, easily nearly as tall as most of
the men who frequented the hall. Or, perhaps it was the nearly thigh-high laced
boots she wore that enhanced her legs with highlights only heels could produce.
She stalked her way towards the bar, warm eyes of amber
taking note of the number of few faces seated inside. A rhythmic click marked
her steps and her long dark locks swayed in time showcasing only a hint of
curl. If I had to wager on the fact, I’d place my coin on the knowledge that
while both women had been working this job awhile, Lillian had learned to play
to her feminine strengths. And by the comfortable way she chose to display her
own curves she had become quite used to doing so.
“Evening Abigail, Baylen,” she greeted them neutrally before
she deftly bound her hair back behind her to prepare for duty. Those amber eyes
flicked towards me and an eyebrow arched aloft in response immediately. “And
whom do we have here,” she added with an attempted air of playfulness.
I took the opportunity to allow my own grey eyes meet hers
and studied her reaction carefully. Now, I have to concede that I am far from
anything of note with regard to my appearance or physical features. You’ll
never hear a room full of ladies swoon at my presence or find much jealousy
from any men around me. But one thing I have always been told for as long as I
can recall is that my eyes have this strange quality – they almost seem to
change color. Maybe it has to do with the way different lighting brings out
little details, I couldn’t tell you.
Lillian might have found the effect of my focused attention
unsettling, or maybe she just had felt a lingering chill from her journey but
whatever the cause a sudden twitch gripped her. The unmistakable signs of
curiosity began to show itself on her face as well. She could really use some
lessons in how to bluff better.
Before I could break the stretching silence, Baylen did it
for me with a voice well accustomed to speaking with a measure of authority. “This
is a hired advisor I have contracted to help improve our situation. A smaller crowd
is no excuse to not be keeping your mind on your job,” he warned her and
pointed towards another waiting apron.
Reluctantly Lillian retrieved the bit of cloth and tied it
on, a short nod acknowledging the point without further talk on the matter. “At
least he isn’t here,” she whispered mostly to herself only to find an elbow
from Abigail nudging her in the side. “Don’t be so quick to speak on that
topic,” she chided before a brief chuckle as she made her own way out the door.
Entering the establishment was a young gentleman clad in a
ragged old coat, eager to immediately settle into an open seat near the room’s
center. He casually called for a glass while I sized him up, a slight tingle
stirring along my spine. Magic had begun to shift, ever so slightly, but as the
ambient flow of its forces changed my body alerted me to the fact.
Goosebumps began to threaten their presence along my arms
and I found myself standing alert, wary for any further signs of impending
sorcery. At my left Lillian snatched up an empty mug and started to fill it
hesitantly. Her mouth opened as if to impart some objection but Baylen’s
experienced eye interjected instantly.
“All coin is welcome here, now more than most; you would do
well to remember that.” Baylen kept one hand firmly planted on her shoulder as
he spoke, his head bent towards her to reinforce his meaning. “And misfortune
is just as regular a companion to an empty purse,” she cursed back at him. To
Baylen’s credit he merely pointed towards the waiting customer and Lillian
bowed to her bosses wishes once more.
Lillian hefted aloft the full mug and begrudgingly began her
walk to deliver the drink. Upon seeing her impending approach, the mysterious
man reached within his battered coat to withdraw something from a vest pocket.
Unlike his tattered outer garment, pristine clothes peeked out from beneath to
draw my interest. Without pause I compared his boots – hardly a single speck of
dirt could be found there as well.
Instinct flared to life along the back of my neck and my gut
warned me that something wasn’t right. He placed his hand palm down as if to
slide his payment forward for the drink, but the only clink to be heard was
that of Lillian’s boots. And I felt it hit the air even before I could see the
threads of shaped spells being crafted.
Just below the table a waiting spell was already nearing
completion, awaiting some trigger by my estimate. It had the dark blue aspect
of a frozen ripple in water, ready to cascade outwards but as yet hadn’t done
so. Whatever that spell was about to accomplish I didn’t want to wait to find
out.
Moving as quickly as I could, I vaulted over the bar and
threw myself into take action. Yet, even as I put myself into motion another
spell started to form, and this time it was not from the table or the man
seated there. Pale threads of green and purple were being shaped by Lillian’s
will, finding the drink held in her hand their home.
“Hold,” I roared confidently towards the both of them. The
sudden command sent a shock through them, causing Lillian to release her grip
on the mug, sending it toppling to the floor. With the spilt contents of the
drink also went the pulsing magic, ruined before it could finish forming.
Scattering as well was the gathered spell, its energy fading back to wherever
it had been drawn from.
“SpellHound,” the man spat, throwing the table forward and
rushing to get his feet beneath him. Lillian’s head whipped around at the
words, naked panic visible at the revelation that they declared. “Impossible,”
she whimpered in reply, but I didn’t have time to provide her an explanation.
Mister mysterious apparently had no intention of surrendering himself
peacefully.
A sloppily slung spell was already spreading down his arm to
explode in a mix of yellow and red as it raced towards me. I recognized it
without issue, aside from the predictable way it looked; like a crude pointed
spear of orange, its smell gave it away. They don’t call them slaughter spells
for no reason. The scent of mingled fresh and dried blood as well as some
rather other unpleasant odors assault your senses making it unmistakable.
It also made this foe easy to identify; he had to be a
Butcher by the way he immediately resorted to such crude combat magic.
Butchers, for the most part, are little more than brute thugs among the
magically talented community. Hence the straightforward panic-fire approach of
flinging the first spell that came to mind.
The clumsily cast spell flew in my direction, more or less,
but I don’t think it had the impact that it was intended to. In a single fluid
motion that capitalized on my surging momentum I had already drawn the sword
that hung at my side. There was no sound of scraping metal, instead the blade
parted freely as if slipping through water. Its short length of steel rose up
before me and immediately falling into a defensive position.
Making contact with the magical attack was not the waiting
flesh it sought, but instead a blade of spellforged steel. Its energy crackled
along the blades short length and dissipated harmlessly into nothing. Every
SpellHound in service to the throne is issued such a weapon to wield. It is
equal part a badge of authority and a tool to be used in their duty. Not all
SpellHound’s carry the same kind of sword however, mine is barely two feet long
but the blade itself is as wide as three fingers. This makes it quite handy to
bring to bear on the move, and quick to do so as well. But one thing they all
have in common is a marking of interlocking rings along the blade. They all are
crafted with the ability to ground away hostile magic if used correctly, or
negate it if the need arises in the hands of a skilled wielder.
Apparently Butcher-boy wasn’t familiar with that fact, which
meant his next move would likely be another bad decision. So I tried to offer a
little friendly advice. “If I was you, mister, I would consider real careful
what I was about to do next,” I recommended coldly. But even as the words left
my lips a voice was already whispering to me; he is going to run, it predicted.
I hate it when I am right, because he did exactly that. Like
I said, Butchers aren’t known for brains and trying to run from SpellHound has
to be one of the less thought-though options available. Especially if you’re a
talented Interceptor like I was, with a gift for running whatever prey had been
designated down. Someone should really have a talk with these people.
Lillian fell to the floor with a gasp as the fleeing foe
collided into her in an effort to make his escape. Bolting through the door he
jerked to his right and angled his way up the streets, probably trying to make
for some of the scattered carts and side streets that in theory could buy him
time to elude a pursuer. But unfortunately for him my heart was already
pounding with the excitement of promised sport.
Everything else around me decreased in importance, and a
grin of enjoyment spread across my face. In a blur I launched myself into a
sprint that carried me straight out the door and dug my feet in as I pounded
into a pace that promised to bear me onto his trail. Flashing alongside me were
passing people and an assortment of stumbling hazards that I dodged in between
by sheer reflex.
Fear began to work its way into my quarry, as it often does
and he hesitated, stealing from his steps the few precious seconds of a lead he
had possessed. He wasn’t about to surrender himself into my custody, I had
already witnessed that. And if I allowed him to continue running he was likely
to start slinging more wild magic hurting people.
Long ago I made the choice to avoid unnecessary bloodshed,
even though I can accept that in some situations it is required. To that end I
blunted the edges of my blade, leaving only its tip as its only sharpened part.
But that didn’t mean it couldn’t cause lasting harm – far from it. That just
meant that I had to intentionally choose to use it to spill blood, and that I
could use it in less than life taking ways as well.
I had no desire to kill this thick-skulled thug but I
desperately needed to cut his flight short. So, seizing on his confusion I
increased my stride passing just behind him. Using all the added power my
pursuit had provided me I brought the blunted edge of my blade down hard into
the back of his knees. The crack of impact told anyone witnessing the event
that medical expertise wasn’t required. Only the intervention of a miracle
could have prevented even a single bone from being shattered by the blow. And I
didn’t see any miracles moving to act on his behalf.
Fresh howling screams of torment ripped up into the sky from
my formerly fleeing friend. He might not appreciate the fact, but had it been
any other SpellHound besides myself he wouldn’t still be drawing breath. Small
consolation for the pain currently wracking its way through him, but at least
it helped me sleep at night.
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