The Vociferous Hunger (Closed)

[Oliver]

The Vociferous Hunger (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y_Jf-B1JT88)


2583


Set following the events of Oliver’s exile from Albion.

Closed to Symbiosis.



The ancient city of Radasanth loomed on the horizon like a fortress of possibility. Against the distant blue sky, bright sun, and spiralling cotton clouds it was like a vast citadel of civilisation. Its grandeur, in Oliver Midwinters’ eyes, was trebled against the backdrop of wide open spaces and verdant greenery. The juxtaposition between nature and industry enthralled him so much; the young sorcerer could only drop his jaw to stare as the carriage trundled down the high way towards the city gates.

He could never have imagined that something could be so monstrous yet wondrous at the same time. He had never imagined this would be the place to rid him of his curse, over all the ancient glades and Liviol temples hidden away in the forests of the world.

“Good lord, it is…” he mumbled, too impressed to quite put it to words.

The ageing wagon driver cocked his head. Oliver traced the circle of his straw hat, and could only assume the man was pulling a mocking, confused expression beneath the brim. He was concentrating too much on keeping the reigns of his oxen steady to pay his load too much kindness.

“Aye,” he half roared over the din of trundling wheels.

He had a grizzled look about him that suggested experience stretching many years. He had carried enough young adventurers to the gates of Corone’s capital to have seen similar reactions a thousand times, and likely knew every bump and dip in the road.

“It really is lad, it really is,” he added with a long drawn out sigh.

He was not quite sure what the boy was going to say, or what he was agreeing to, but he had learnt in his long years running the carriage from Underwood to Radasanth that it was better to agree. To enquire further gave rise to a long stream of questions that he believed took the mystery out of discovering the truth about Radasanth for oneself.

“Now settle back down, we will be there soon. The guards will want to see your papers,” he waved a cautionary hand over his shoulder.

Oliver sat with a thump, begrudging not being able to see the city properly. He made do with counting the chickens in the back of the wagon again, until he reached the small cockerel with one leg and lost the will to continue.

The driver chuckled, whipped the oxen into a quicker pace, and continued chewing on his strand of straw. The prospect of finally being rid of his curse, a hot meal, and a warm bed caused the boy’s eyes to sparkle. They shone like emeralds, gleaming with the desire to run through the streets to lap up every new sight, smell, and sound he could.

In those green luminescent orbs, there shone a vociferous hunger for life.

[Symbiosis]

Baxter watched as the carriages passed, the clopping noise of the horses ringing in his ears against the cobblestone paths. When the next one passed he gave a spirited step outwards and strolled through the throng of people, keeping his tailcoat tightly bound to his body as a windy breeze passed by. He looked at the heart of Radansath and shook his head in minor irritation, seeing the large tower of the Citadel in the distance.

The Salvarian pen write was all but done with the island of Corone. He had been in several battles in that accursed temple of chaos and destruction the Ai’Bron’s ran. Not to mention he had been signed up for the Serentei battles and was thoroughly trashed. Then there was the guardian of the bridge deep in Concordia Forest. He snorted recalling the succubus Amaretta and shuddered in quiet disgust. No, Corone was not all the papers had cracked it up to be, and he had a journal filled with a plethora of articles he would publish for the Salvarian Herald in Knife’s Edge upon his return.

Still, when one looked at Baxter Arlington, they would be puzzled that he did indeed perform in such adventures. He was an educated man. That meant he was not even remotely fit, nor did he even have an air around his slightly stalk like physique that spoke of his combat lust. Simply put he looked rather out of place in his fine linens when in those death matches. And on any day, even a good one, Baxter would never deny he did not belong there.

So why did he do such deeds? That was the mystery behind the man. Inside, swirling like a great leviathan of legend was a demon. Not just any demon, for Baxter was sure that out of all of Hadia he received the one that was the most crass, annoying, and rude. Symbiote, as the demon liked to be called, had struck a deal with a very, very drunk Baxter. If he could find the pen write a soul who would be able to mesh with his, a soul mate, then Baxter would agree to take the demon to Corone. When the deal was struck, Baxter awoke to find the parasitic vermin inside him, laughing.

Technically, Symbiote did find him a soul mate. However, it was hardly what Baxter expected, and not even close to what he wanted. But in their trials the two had formed a very reluctant partnership. Striking deals, lending the other’s strengths for the betterment of them both. That usually entailed Symbiote getting Baxter into trouble.

And so it was the two had found themselves in Corone. The demon had been searching for the Wizard who had stolen his soul, and figured the Citadel would provide answers. However, much to both their disappointment, the Wizard was nowhere to be found. For their troubles, Baxter had inherited a fountain pen with a demon bound inside, and the calling card for a severely deprived Succubus. Not a great haul, as Symbiote constantly muttered. Still, it was a start. And as much as Baxter hated his relationship with the demon inside him, he had to admit the stories he had been writing were all first page material.

So he walked, looking fearfully and ruefully at the Citadel’s shadow, preparing to head for Gisela in search of the Wizard. At least, that was what he hoped he would do. But the carriage he had been neglecting the entire time he stared did not seem to want to stop for him.

[Oliver]

They passed through the gates without incident, despite the passage being a long, sluggish journey through the democratic barriers that made entrance into Radasanth as a trader difficult. Oliver’s papers had been inspected only briefly with a courteous glance, and the wagon driver’s with a sort of reverence. The sorcerer assumed this was because the man was well known to the guards, having spent much of his life going back and forth between Corone’s prominent centres of population.

No words were exchanged between the two as they passed through the last courtyard, and entered the muddy thoroughfare that ran through the very heart of the city. You could, or so it was claimed, see all the way to the sea on a clear and sunny day. Oliver rose in the back of the wagon, unable to contain himself much longer. The sights that met his gaze bedazzled him.

“Oh my goodness,” he said, perhaps rather too loudly than he might have liked. The wagon driver cracked the reigns of the oxen and chuckled, his hat rocking back and forth beneath the sorcerer. He did not look up, and as they advanced, he started to whistle.

One of the first things a newcomer to the city of Radasanth might notice is the noise. It is an atmosphere unlike any other. Bustling, hustling, and tumbling; a thousand different echoes struck your ears. The mercantile architecture quickly gave way to rickety red brick houses and slate roofs.

“Excuse me sir, but what…what is that?” Oliver pointed off to the right and leaned over the divide of the wagon. He indicated to a needle thin spire in the distance. Whilst he waited for an answer he picked out strange and busy faces in the streams of people that zipped back and forth up and down the street, and tried to take in forty different things at once.

“That lad is the Ai’bron Citadel. If you fancy yourself a warrior,” he chuckled again, a sound Oliver was growing to take as sarcasm, “that’s the place to go.” The sorcerer grits his teeth, biting back the need to jump into a pithy retort. “Where shall I drop you off laddie, do you know where you’re going?”

Oliver dropped back into the back of the wagon in a flurry of straw and clucking hens. The question but a massive dampener on his buoyant spirits. Now that he was actually here, he could not put a name on what he was here for. He knew that his father, from what his mother had told him as a child, had left the village of Albion for Radasanth a decade ago…where he could be, on the other hand, was quite beyond him.

“Is there anywhere that se-” the words were rocked out of his mouth, cast out of the wagon, and buried in a cloud of flying feathers, dangerous chicken claws and loud shouts from passers-by who were very nearly impaled, crushed and squished in the resulting chaos. There was a momentary sensation of weightlessness, rather like a levitation spell.

Oliver’s chin hit the cobbles of the street as he rolled out of the cart. It had apparently upended quite sharply, tossing its load to the right of the street as it veered out of the way of a careless pedestrian to the left. He half wanted to proclaim how welcoming the city was, but he could only groan, rise slowly to his feet, and rub his dirtied face. When he turned on a heel, he picked up his satchel and limped around the ruins. The wheel spun on its axel with a squeak.

“What the blazes was all that about?” he enquired, hair dishevelled, patterned scarf no longer immaculately wrapped about his neck, and aura no longer calm and excited. He stood on metaphorical end, entirely uncertain about what he was going to find.

[Symbiosis]

Symbiote let out a yelp of surprise, his essence doing circles around the Salvarian native’s chest. There was a clamor of whinnies, the sound of frantic shouting as something turned and crashed, chickens screeching in the air as Baxter fell onto his butt, holding a hand upwards in fear as he looked to mess before him.

“Oh this is bad,” Baxter muttered lowly, sweat forming on his brow as he looked to see the carriage rider lift up, painfully, and turn slowly towards his product and goods with a groan of annoyance and a frustrated growl.

No shit! Symbiote shouted inside his mind, the demon swimming upwards to Baxter’s eyes where he gleaned into the outside world. What the hell were you so distracted with? That carriage should have easily been avoided, you moron! Symbiote turned back down, as Baxter let the demon howl with agitation, his curses and slurs falling on deaf ears as the pen write stood and dusted his coat and pants from the dirt he got on them.

“No no, get back here!” The carriage owner chased a chicken, stooping low before lifting up, grabbing his arm. “Ah shit,” he seethed in pain looking to Baxter with a vile glare. The pen write quickly chased the chicken, grabbing it and bringing it back carefully as the beast’s wings flailed around.

“I am so sorry,” Baxter started. Before he could continue on the driver grabbed the chicken in his one good hand, cradling it with his bad arm. “Oh, dear me, this is so bad. I am so sorry! Are you well?”

“I just overturned ‘ma carriage! I only heard of people doing that, considering what goes into the process ‘ta make it happen!” He took another deep breath, before slowly rotating his arm out. He worked it this and that way, groaning, but he shook it loosely a bit as he looked around his damaged wagon. “I’m okay, looks like I dinged my arm a bit, but ‘nothin time won’t heal. I see you’re fine, lad,” he looked crossly to Baxter, before lifting his arm again in a test run.

“Perhaps I can pay for some damages! I earned a bit of coin in the Serentei, I could get a blacksmith to make repairs,”

“Or ya could leave me ‘tha hell alone,” he thought loudly. Again there was silence as Baxter stood idly by, watching as a few guards from the city stepped forwards. Baxter shook his head as the driver waved them inwards. “Aye! Help me lift ‘tha wagon up!” Baxter joined them as Symbiote swirled towards Baxter’s arms, his demonic essence starting to pool at his wrists and shoulders. Baxter could feel the muscles slowly rip and tear, a process that felt like a million pin needles sticking into an open wound, but he bit his tongue as the guards called to lift the carriage. In a few moments they all grunted in one cohesive unit, turning the carriage back to its wheels where it flopped once, the audience clapping as the man shook the guards hands and waved them off.

When he turned back to Baxter he had a bit more pleasant face, but still kept a slight hostility to his features. He looked over the entirety of his possession, before he nodded stepping forwards. “Ya got a coin purse?” Baxter nodded quickly pulling it out, feeling the demonic energy in his body deflate like a balloon. It hurt and left strains, but again he merely bit his tongue as he pulled out a helpful chunk of change. The man looked to it and nodded holding his hand out.

“Two cracked wheels, a broken axel, and three bent chicken coops. Two hundred crowns, and I’ll hope to ‘tha Thaynes we never meet again.” Baxter saw the honesty in his proposal, and he pulled out two hundred and fifty.

“A meal on me and a warm bath for you sore muscles. Please,” Baxter insisted. The man looked to the extra cash, and nodded, before he looked behind him. Baxter followed his eyes and saw a young boy, a red mark on his chin and a bright luminescence of green eyes filled with wonder. “He your son?” The man shook his head.

“Nah, just a traveler I picked up. Buy him a warm meal and a place to rest as well.” Baxter looked to the boy, and nodded once. Confrontation was never his strong point and though he was blowing through the meager earnings he got in the Serentei, he knew he was in the wrong. Symbiote hissed, but made no further comment. When the man turned to the boy he gave a friendly nod, and Baxter stepped forward, offering his hand.

“Hello young man, I am Baxter Arlington,” he looked him over, looking to his objects and personal effects. He had a certain air about him that Baxter smiled to. He could tell this one was educated. “I do apologize for that nasty bruise I placed on your chin, perhaps I can buy you a hot dinner, and a free night of rest on me to make up for it?”

It had felt strange that throughout the entire proceeding Symbiote remained relatively quiet, as usually he always offered a crass word or three to try and throw the pen write off his game. Yet instead, he noticed the demon press against his ribs, as if peering through a window, sniffing. It was not good omens the last time the demon had done that, and Baxter decided to take extra care.

[Oliver]

Oliver’s experience of the world beyond the valley of Albion was, to say the least, lacking in body, and certainly in substance. Though he had been taught many of the names of things, and had learnt many customs and alms to earn his passage across the surface of the world, he knew very little about the people.

“Y-yeah-” he stuttered.

There was a knack to understanding how people behaved. There was a knack to know what they wanted from you, what they were trying to trick you into doing, and how to avoid being taken as a fool. He had, over the short years of his life mastered the dichotomy of dealing with his parents, his siblings and his village peers; but they were a world away now.

“I, I would like that very much sir.” His voice was timid, innocent, and without malice. His dishevelled hair, skewed scarf, and strange rural clothing stuck out like a sore thumb. He was clearly new to Radasanth, and woefully impressed with Baxter’s attire, mannerisms, and his generosity.

The melee of people swarming about the carriage crash seemed oblivious to the shattered planks and clucking chickens. If Oliver had not known better, he would have assumed this sort of devastation blocking the road into a major economic hub would at least attract one of two standing observers. He looked around, checking to see if he had dropped anything during his tumble.

“I am afraid I do not know a place to suggest, or what sorts of places are available to one such as me, or indeed you.” He scooped up his satchel, a simple leather affair with a horse hair tie, and settled it on his shoulder. He felt the weight of his meagre possessions press down into his bony structure, and the pain, mingling with the throb in his chin, hip, and ankle gave him a humbling sense of being alive.

This was Oliver’s first step into the real world, and though he was inexperienced, his eyes shone with a light that spoke of dark, unholy memories that would test even the wisest people of the world. Oliver had walked with the dead, and been taunted by the Angels; here, though, in the city of Radasanth, he was surrounded by angels of another nature.

“Lead on good sir, and you can call me Oliver, of the Midwinter Clan.”

[Symbiosis]

Baxter looked to the boy eat as they sat within the confines of the Bell Tower, a multi floored restaurant made in a mockery of the Citadel that loomed in the distance. The inside lighting was dim with low hanging chandeliers made from imported glass refineries from the desert island of Fallien. There was an assortment of patrons within the building, a sort of mini luncheon rush that kept several of the low skirted workers moving in a dance that was near flawless. There was a merry tune being played by a band, a low key afternoon beat to relax weary patrons in the wooden hostel, and the pen write felt a calm come over him as he looked to his steak.

“So you studied, abroad,” Baxter inquired looking to his companion as he lifted his knife and gently stabbed the meat with his fork. The juices contained within leaked to the plate, creating a reddish pink river that flowed to the mashed potatoes and spread around it like an ocean. His knife raked into the flank and with a grin he brought the delicious smelling food to his mouth, taking it and savoring the taste.

“I, much like you, am not from here,” Baxter continued politely, the food chewed in the side of his mouth like a cow. “I am from Salvar, Knife’s Edge…what’s left anyway,” He mumbled. Something made the wood creak behind Baxter and the pen write felt Symbiosis hiss inside his chest, swirling around as he swam upwards in his body to his eyes, looking to the boy as a waitress appeared, lowering a roll of bread and butter. She batted her eyes to Baxter in a sultry way, winked to the boy, and let her hips do the talking as she walked away letting her short skirt ride up to offer a pleasant parting view.

Stare long enough and you’ll go blind, Binky Boy, Symbiote muttered as he continued to peer out of Baxter’s iris. Like a cat on a windowsill he perched looking to the boy. Something is off about him, Baxter felt his nose involuntarily sniff the air, taking in the heated fragrance of the fresh bread and the steak.

Oliver gave him a short glance before going back to his food. Symbiote suddenly growled again, his serpentine like essence drifting back to Baxter’s chest where he paced like a caged animal, rubbing against his ribs and lungs. I smell magic.

If there was one thing Baxter had learned about Symbiote, it was that much like a hunting dog had a nose for tracking; the demon had a nose for magic. He could apparently smell magic upon a person, as every user left their own unique identifiable scent. It was with that means he searched for the wizard and those touched by him. This was how they found the Fateweaver demon bound inside the fountain tipped pen, and learned that Amaretta the Succubus had once consorted with the wizard. Symbiote did not like magic users, but as he made no life threatening demands of Baxter to throttle the boy’s life, he figured it was safe.

“I plan to head back to that land soon,” Baxter said taking another portion of his meal. “It will soon be spring and the snow will thaw out very quickly. You get a nice glow during the spring, one that I am looking forward to see again.” Symbiote gently swirled around his stomach and up again, lazily as he yawned loudly. Annoyed, but getting the hint, Baxter steered the conversation away from him.

“But enough of me,” Baxter faked a gentleman’s laugh. “Please, Oliver, tell me of yourself. Why are you here, where are you going, what in the world do you wish to see?”

[Oliver]

Oliver could only admire the man’s determination to achieve in life. It was warming to the boy to hear another speak fondly of returning to the homestead. It was clear that he was a man of nation, a nation he appeared to love so much Oliver thought he would die to protect it. Whilst the sorcerer felt warmth from the man’s words, he also felt warmth from within.

“Tell me something first, Mr Arlington, before I recant my tale. If you would?” he asked between mouthfuls of soft, peppery bread lathered with salty butter and tarragon. “What makes you think I am not from these lands?”

Whilst on the surface it appeared to be a weight question, meant to contest the man’s intellect, if Oliver was going to survive in the outside world he would have to learn how to blend in. He would have to learn how to become inconspicuous, absent from purview, unattractive to pickpockets, bandits and zeal. Oliver smiled weakly, not quite willing to admit he was afraid. If he looked that much like a stranger, then he had much work to do. He would have to lose the garb he wore as a witch and find himself something more suitable for colder climate and drabber tone of Radasanth city.

Baxter smiled warmly, a debonair grace plastered over his face. He spoke in a friendly manner that was pleasing to Oliver. "Your clothing good sir is...unusual for this climate. You also looked quite lost when you first arrived in the city, along with the cart owner's comments and command to 'take care of the boy'." He chuckled. "You are also far too nice to be a Coronian," he rolled his eyes and slugged his wine.

Oliver could not argue with Baxter’s acute logic.

“You are quite correct of course; I commend you for your observations, as much as I do your kindness.” He poked at the rest of the food on his plate, uncertain about where to start next. Whilst he appeared very young, his manners lathered his tone with an adult, astute, and inner wisdom that belied his age. “I am not entirely sure where to start.”

He could tell him about Albion, its secret world beneath the plains of Scara Brae. He could recount the tale of how, instead of coming of age on his birthday, he had fallen into the divining pool in his house’s grounds, and sealed the fate of his family forever. He could tell the man nothing, and make up some strange and wondrous tale about wanting to devour all the knowledge in the world, and return home a triumphant adventurer; rich, learned, infamous. Lying would only serve to burden his heart further.

“I am an exile,” he whispered. He said it loud enough for Baxter to hear, but soft enough to keep his conversation amongst them. The tavern was a bustling hub of activity for travellers; hungry, rowdy, and boozy souls taking their fill of beer, food and women: if the noise coming from upstairs was anything to go by. Angels could quite literally be anywhere; watching, waiting, and judging. “I guess you might call me a criminal, though the crime I committed was not one that warrants punishment from mortal officers of law.”

He looked up from his plate, and frowned at Baxter’s sour expression.

“I betrayed the traditions of my upbringing and lost my family, my village and my home. That was quite enough of a punishment. For a witch like me to never practice the Creed again, it is a punishment for a lifetime, an eternal damning of my being…so, I left. I have come out into the world to find a new purpose, away from the Threefold and the archaic coven I once loved…still love.” He fingered a chicken breast, still on the bone and lathered in a honey and almond glaze with tentative fingers.

“I am a sorcerer,” he said, before he stuffed the leg into his mouth and tore off a chunk. With food still chewing in between his lips, he added a further clarification. “Apparently.”

[Symbiosis]

“A sorcerer?” Baxter repeated as he looked down to his chest for a half second. “So that is not the same as a wizard.” Symbiote growled with displeasure, but said nothing as he lazily floated around Baxter’s heart. Oliver merely nodded. They continued to eat in silence as Baxter looked to Oliver, studying the boys habits and before long he lifted his glass.

“An exile though,” Baxter lifted the drink to his lips, feeling the refreshing crisp taste upon his lips as he gingerly sipped at it. A small memory surfaced upon his vision, perhaps something in boy’s innocent youth gave that some spark. “I cannot, nor will I pretend to, understand that feeling of loneliness. I can only sympathize with the hole found in ones heart after such an experience.”

“Have you a tale with that, sir?” Oliver asked kindly. Baxter nodded, though it was lucid feeling as he did so, focusing upon the outside light. He lifted his drink again, and paused before sipping it.

“Indeed I do,” he replied earnestly, swigging a generous portion past his lips with a chuckle. “You see, the joys of life, my boy, is the gift of love. The true, honest to god feeling of heart wrenching connections with another soul. I had thought my own heart had found that, a strong connection joined together by ethereal tendrils of lightening each time our eyes met, each soft graze of her lips. We would spend hours talking, and you know it’s love when you realize you spent that time talking with no purpose.”

“Sounds like you found something wonderful, sir,” Oliver commented. Baxter let out a cruel chuckle, shaking his head.

“Oh, yes I did. I found that, but you see you must be careful to make sure that the feeling is returned,” Baxter warned, but keeping himself reserved as he spoke. “The woman I shared my heart with for so long, her eyes looked to me, but never at me, she spoke to me, but never with me. No, she had a different motive. When we talked, she had a purpose, and there was nothing but pain in the connection she gave to me.”

Oh lay that sad sob story on me, Binky Boy, Symbiote spoke to Baxter’s mind like a preacher in a fiery lecture. What did that she devil do to you!

“She took my heart, my soul,” Baxter breathed. “And she cast it aside and stepped upon it, like a ladder, towards her new lover. I was but a stone in her way to her real goal.” There was an awkward silence as Symbiote swirled around, sighing in boredom.

You know how boring that story gets? Baxter quickly finished his drink ignoring the demon as his face flushed red.

“So, I think it’s time I paid and we be on our way. Do you have a place to stay, Oliver? A plan perhaps? If not, I could always use the company.”

[Oliver]

Oliver was enthralled by every word that came out of Baxter’s mouth. He was enthralled with his mannerisms, his eccentrics, and his charisma. The man spoke of love with as much fondness as Oliver had once discussed the Creed, the laws of magic that governed witch craft. There was something in that to admire.

“I am afraid I am new to Radasanth. I have nowhere to stay, little in the way of money and,” he bit his lip, “not much clue about the way things work.”

Oliver continued to eat the last dregs of his meal whilst he minced his words in his mind. He chewed through the gravy soaked roast potatoes he had saved until last, and relished the soft, fluffy white innards as if they were his final morsels. The tavern continued to heave with life around them. People came and went, slammed doors, and scuffed chairs noisily over the floorboards. There was laughter, arguments, and arias woven together in one wondrous, overwhelming, and intoxicating tapestry.

“My only aim is to find my father.” Where his father was, was an enigma unto itself.

“My mother and he were forbidden to continue their relationship after I reached the age of six or so. The village of Albion, from where I originate, is a predominately matriarchal society. To live in the coven, you must either be a true blood witch with a mother in the circle, or a woman in the circle.” Anyone else was free to live in the valley itself, but could not set foot in the sanctuary of Caroline Haven. “He left,” he set down his knife and fork, finally contented, “when I was seven.”

His mother had never given him anything to go on, because Oliver assumed she had never thought he would want to find him. He had, as any curious boy would, always been intrigued by who his father was. In the throng of the coven, however, his talent with witchcraft had caused him to ignore much of his sorcerous heritage. When the Angels had taken that away, he found himself suddenly wanting. His mother’s journals, which he had red in the final hours of his time in Albion, had given him one small clue.

He was from Corone.

“He is here in Radasanth, of that much I am sure.”

A loud clatter of plates drew his attention to the bar. A waitress was fending off some unscrupulous advances from a drunken patron. Oliver could only stare. This city, from what little he had seen of it in one afternoon, was the last place he imagined his father to be from. It was dank, squalid, and languorous. It was nothing like the natural beauty of the red bricked houses and the thatched cottages of his home.

“Perhaps you could be my guide to the wonders of the city, Baxter?” he asked, turning back to face the so called herald of Salvar. He tried to smile, but his freckles and straw like hair turned his expression into one of meek insecurity.

[Symbiosis]

Baxter looked to the boy’s innocence and nodded softly to him, allowing Oliver to travel with him would be a nice change of pace before he felt a sudden shift in his chest. Symbiote swam upwards in his body as a cold reminder that Baxter’s life was spent searching for things that this boy had no right to be forced into. Still, he would not let the demon control his life as well as his soul. With a resolute look he patted Oliver on the back gently helping him towards the main street.

“I find it best that sometimes,” Baxter began, moving past a waitress and dropping a small substantial amount of gold to pay for the meals and leave a generous tip. “you work towards your goal on your own. While in no means do I intend to just abandon you, I have my own journey to embark upon, a tale of my own to pen to the world.” Oliver gave him a confused look, but Baxter continued onwards.

“If your father is indeed in this town, you will need more than one such as me to help you around. I will take you to find the tools to success but it is your own hunger to find the answers you seek. If indeed your father is in Radansath then perhaps the latest census will bring upon his name. We shall travel to the city hall, and ask to see the paperwork and search for your father’s name.” Oliver’s eyes lit up as he heard the idea, before nodding in understanding.

The pair walked down the last flight of stairs, their steps heavy as the food they were digesting made both feel bloated and happy. As they neared the drunken man who continued to harass the waitress Baxter’s face turned to a scowl. Symbiote perked up as he looked out his chest, before a low chuckle filled his ears.

He’s sending some very vivid memories of your mother’s ra- Baxter shook his head quickly breaking the train of thought and looked on until the waitress at least got freed from his prying paws, a bit of an indignant huff as she moved past Baxter without so much a hello. Oliver watched the little scene unfold before Baxter shook his head again, moving towards the door.

“The world has fallen to madness in the pursuit of what they want,” Baxter hissed irritably. “Remember that well, Oliver. Sometimes, there is a point when you should give up what you want before you do something stupid.” Symbiote lazily floated around Baxter’s heart, caressing it with a cruel, mocking laugh.

“Not that I do not appreciate your words, but what exactly brought that up?” They both exited the tavern and turned walking along the ceilinged edge to the wall of the building. Baxter remained quiet, chewing on his lip in contemplation before he looked back to Oliver and decided if the boy was honest with him, he should be as well. To a point, at least.

“They say every man in life is given a chance to make a deal with the devil,” Baxter said solemnly. Symbiote perked up, and the pen write could feel the demonic leer on his face with bastard smug smile and all. “They say you are given the choice but once, with no option to go back, and no option to ask again later. It is a question that defines ones character. A deal that will last you a lifetime.”

They crossed the dirt road, passing the livery of the streets as Oliver kept pace, looking at Baxter as the Salvarian gave him a polite nod and a weak smile. “I again suspect you speak from experience, sir.” Oliver replied. Baxter nodded his head but once. “May I ask, Baxter, what that was?”

Symbiote now slithered his way up to the pen write’s head, looking to the boy. In the flash of that instant Oliver could see into the soul of Baxter Arlington, the hunger within that drove him to the depths of the choices he made. Yet as he peered closer he could see the shifting lines of the demon behind them, for a fleeting second almost as if it never happened.

“I am afraid that each man will have his own story of that time. A personal reflection of their soul. And it should be kept that way.” The demon bound inside him began to scratch against his mind, a silent reminder of the deal they made, for little poor Baxter Arlington to find a soul that would mesh with his and become one. If Baxter could make it so that this boy never suffered like he did, then this would at least be worth it. There truly was no fate worse than this hell he walked every day.

“Let it be known Oliver,” Baxter said moving back towards city hall again. “I will get you to the city hall, but I am afraid from there I can do no more than escort you to his address. The rest will be in your hands.” He smiled a genuine smile to the boy, lifting his spirits as the sorcerer caught up to him nodding.

[Oliver]

“That would be more than perfect,” the young sorcerer smiled. Even he did not have any clue about what he was going to say if, when, and how he found his father. It was a strange sensation, to be a messenger of grave news such as his.

"Then let us be off,” Baxter clucked, his feet quickening their pace through the higgledy architecture of a border district. The slums of the outer ring of Radasanth slowly faded, and tall, gleaming buildings of white polished marble rose up in their stead. “It is not that far, the hall, but tell me this…” he glanced over his shoulder, his long legs carrying him ahead of his newfound companion. “Have you ever dealt a deal with the devil?”

Oliver raised an eyebrow, took a deep breath, and quickened his own momentum. The sweltering heat of the sun, an alien weather compared to Albion’s magically temperate climate, made his skin broil and his forehead sweat. He had made many a deal with the devil, but only one had ever caused him to regret his actions.

“I think that would be a prime example of this ‘personal story’ you speak so secretively of, Mr Arlington.” He certainly did not have the chance to take it back. There was, as the old adage goes, only one chance to prove you worthy in life. You had to take responsibility for your actions. “Having said that, I do not think I would take it back if I were given the opportunity.” He swallowed his pride as the images of his family’s corpses, scattered on the lawn of his former home, flickered briefly into view.

“You speak as if you don’t quite trust your own words…” Baxter said softly, half questioning, and half re-assuring. His splendid attire seemed to part the crowd as they advance through the border town and made their way through a busy administrative boulevard. Men in top hats carrying sacks of gold and bundles of paperwork criss crossed back and forth between the various glasses fronted accounting offices.

“Maybe I do not,” the boy replied, wistfully adjusting his satchel so that it sat better on his shoulder. After his long, tiring journey, the strap had started to wear away his scarf and rough his skin into a rash. “Sometimes, it takes a man a long time to truly accept what he has done.” There was an element of sadness to his words, which were dampened only by the great planters filled with marigolds, and the tulips that were scattered between the oak trees.

“Would you care to tell? I share your sentiment, but I feel you could benefit from talking about it to someone.” The demon in Baxter’s mind chuckled at his host’s sentiment.

“I ignored the tenets of my art, and because of it, many people died.” He held out a palm, cupped it upright as if holding an apple, and channelled the heat of his soul into his fingertips.

His face erupted into a veil of dancing lights; orange, red, vermillion. The small ball of coruscating flame that appeared in his hand flickered and danced. In the heat, it formed a swirling, minute dragon, which roared in silence and burnt with the boy’s passion.

“Could you forgive me, Baxter? Could you give me forgiveness if I was responsible for killing everyone you knew, simply because you had a vociferous hunger for knowledge, power, and acceptance?” he looked into the man’s eyes, and let the colour of his heart spark embolden his words. The wind swept up through his black hair, still bespeckled with straw, and cast him in a vulnerable view.

[Symbiosis]

Oh look, the little brat killed someone, Symbiote cooed. Baxter looked to the rapid winds whipping the hair of the boy around in a frenzy, the colorful glow of power that emanated from him. Baxter’s eyes looked to the child, seeing the destruction of his tortured soul while he gazed waiting for the answer. His magic reeks.

Symbiote continued to rant and insult Oliver, but Baxter remained calm as he looked to the oy. What he saw in Oliver was a pleading, a yearning for forgiveness to his crimes, but also a vindication of his trials. Someone to tell him no, and prove that the boy was right in taking the power for himself in some sick twisted way of thinking. Baxter saw the boy wanted resolution to his strike, but with a stern look he at last concluded on something.

It was time to teach the boy a lesson.

Symbiote felt the tension in Baxter’s body shift, his muscles tightening, jaw clenching, and eyes narrowing. Oliver’s tortured smile widened as a hint of madness gripped it, but the pen write merely kept his blood going in this contest of wills. At last Baxter turned, walking through the few paces to find a secluded alley way. Oliver followed, his magic never dwindling as it grew a bit. When Baxter walked a few paces forwards the boy stopped, noticing the shift of tension in the air. Separated by seven steps between them Baxter kept his back shown.

“Symbiote,” the Salvarian said just loud enough for Oliver to hear while removing his jacket. “Show him his answer.”

There was a silence as Oliver watched, nothing happening between the two. When he was about to mutter in his direction he heard the soft groaning of pain, followed by a loud snap of bones separating. Baxter dropped to one knee, hand over his face as his right shoulder exploded in size, arm flailing out as his muscles ripped and grew. His coat tore bare threads revealing his flesh, the muscles rippling as a the pen write let out a silent howl. He stood again, chest expanded for greater lungs as his maw widened, jaw distending much like a snake as the few threads left on his body tattered away, his pants more akin to shorts with ripped bottoms. Each tooth elongated to represent the fangs of a terrible beast, and the soul of his eyes turned to a milky white as a tongue slithered out his mouth tasting the air. Drips of saliva followed each tooth as the beast turned to Oliver.

“You seek forgiveness?” Two voices now spoke to the boy. One was Baxter’s deepened and mutated, the other ethereal and demonic in nature. “Let me explain something about forgiveness,” the demon/Baxter chuckled in a painful manner, but also a mocking manner. “You cannot seek the forgiveness of others, because the only one who has to live with your mistakes…”

The demon stood, towering over the boy as Baxter looked through the Milky eyes, his inner turmoil trying to show the sadness within him for the poor choices he made. “…is you.”

[Oliver]

Cowed by terror and fettered by ignorance, Oliver could only fall to his knees. The sheer weight of the creature’s presence before him was enough to rattle his wits, undo his senses, and throw aside all his bravado, severity, and his solemnity. The heart spark, seconds ago bright and buoyant dimmed into a faint whirl of embers in between his shaking, sweating, and aching palms.

“I…” he sputtered, dropping his gaze to Baxter’s feet, “I cannot …”

Forgiveness was not a word in the witch’s vocabulary. He had been brought up to come to accept the responsibility of his actions. The Threefold Law, the very founding tenet not just of his magic, but his people, his family, and his whole way of life was as much a part of his morality as he was now a part of the wider world. To forgive was to break the Law.

“What I did,” he wheezed, “what I saw,” he looked up for just long enough to trace the terrible shape of Baxter’s newfound strength, ferocity, and shape. He shuddered and dropped his eyes back to the cold stone of Radasanth’s grubby backstreets. “I cannot so easily accept it. Maybe…” he mused with his own thoughts for a few moments, drawing on the last, dying, and dwindling warmth of the fading power of his spell for strength. “Maybe talking to someone and asking for help, guidance, and understanding. Maybe then I can forgive myself, or accept what I have done.”

“Whatever you have done it is clearly consuming you from within,” the hallowed voice pierced more than Oliver’s mind. It seemed to come at him from every angle, including from inside his own skull. He tried to fight it, and for a brief moment, the heart spark flickered back to fleeting life. “I fought the creature that sort to consume me,” Baxter’s voice took over for just a brief moment, before the dual cackle resumed, “and armed with that fear, that inner savagery, that past; we became more than a sorrowed man, and more than a mere demon in the dark.”

Oliver could not quite believe what he was hearing. Did Baxter, or whatever the man really was, think that wielding his treachery as a weapon was the answer? He frowned, realising that in being scared, he was being weak. He had stood on the spirit plane, the heart of the Otherworld, and fought with the Angyelis. The Harbingers of Death had been too afraid to kill him, to smite him down. Why should he be afraid of a beast? He looked up into the milky eyes, which glowed with a falsehood against the sunny backdrop that cast Baxter’s hulking form in a silhouette.

“No!” he said, not quite confident enough to shout his protestation. A whip of wind rushed up from behind him and ruffled his hair. A primordial power, older than witch craft, and older than demons grew in his chest. It was the power of sorcery; untethered, untrained, and unmeasured by Law.

Baxter cocked his head.

“Then you will be consumed by your fear.”

“ NO !” Oliver screamed. He brought his right knee up and used it to gain leverage so that he could rise, despite the weight of the demon’s imposing presence on his feeble, well-travelled body. “I will find a way to redeem myself, to free myself, to embolden myself; despite what I am destined to do!”

There was a weight to his words now, one that tussled and pressed against the dual form of a once kind and gentle Baxter Arlington. “Forgive others for what they have done, but always remember the consequences of your actions!” with a press of his palms together, he pushed forwards against an invisible force. Unused to maintaining the spell for so long, he felt exasperated the very second the fireball erupted forwards, upwards, and directly towards Baxter’s face.

The golden glow illuminated the sorcerer’s expression of surprise at his own recklessness. A scent of sulphur filled the air, and of blood, bile, and belligerence. The fireball represented the boy’s heart in every way possible, and it swirled with the wrath of a gryphon towards its target.

[Symbiosis]

Can’t trust magi these days, Symbiote passively commented as the fireball came. Baxter looked to the incoming mess with a frightened look. This was the exact opposite of the lesson, damn it all! Nobody was supposed to see the other’s blood on the ground! How silly Baxter felt now. Still, the projectile that was incoming was more than enough to leave a mark, and even his enhanced armor wouldn’t see him through such an attack if hit true.

With a whimper of fear the demon host turned himself so he showed his shoulder to the incoming projectile, covering is face in both demonic hands to put as much padding as he could in the event of the blast. Symbiote let out a shocked scream, filled with rage and confusion. The bolt of magic struck the pair in his exposed shoulder, and the first thing he felt was the gripping pain of the heat searing his flesh. The impact itself caused his muscles to ripple and tear as if he was hit by a high speed ball, and the following inertia caused the demon to spin in a very ungraceful pirouette. His mutated maw let out a shriek of shock as he began to fall, arms spreading out and grasping the air fruitlessly.

He bounced on the cobble stone for a second time that day, shoulder landing awkwardly as he rolled on his broad shoulders before coming down in a roll before lying prostrate on the ground, breathing heavily as the demon’s essence swirled around him like a pinball on a tilt board slamming everywhere. When the two souls slowly came back to their senses the demon roared with hatred, the noise echoing in the tunnel like alleyway and causing brids to launch. Baxter could feel his essence swim quickly to the fore of his mind.

“You fucking idiot coward!” Symbiote hissed. “You fucking spineless wretch! I am amazed in all your years of playing chicken you never thought to fucking duck!!” The demon roared some more as it vented it’s frustrations in an animalistic howl as he gently moved his way back to the pen write’s chest. Baxter shook his head before he tested his wounded arm. It hurt like hell, but nothing a few hours of healing couldn’t fix. He supposed at least the demon was good for that.

With an exhausted grunt he turned to his one good shoulder, and braced his hands on the ground, standing tall once again and turning to the boy. Symbiote seethed with hate and rage towards Oliver, muttering about killing all magic users in the whole of the world, but Baxter shushed him as he began to steadily move closer.

“Did you find your forgiveness, Oliver?” Baxter said in a calm manner, a wince of pain in his demonic boom. He could feel his bones start to snap as his transformation began to shift away. Sighing he waited before the pain began to intensify and his muscles began to shrink. He dropped to his knees as the pain became too much, and despite trying to use his one good arm to brace himself he still collapsed in a heap on the floor.

When the transformation was complete and Baxter was human again in tattered clothing he rolled to his back and looked to Oliver with a miserable smile. “Have you found the way to live with your sins, and yourself? Or are you still afraid of the damage you can cause?” Baxter let out a cough of pain as his arm stung like a million bees all decided to sting him repeatedly in the same spot before death.

“Regardless of the path you choose, Oliver, be it the deal with the demon, or ignoring his temptations forever, the trick is not in the forgiveness of others. You must find your inner strength in your own path, and live with those consequences. Or in shorter, easier words.” Baxter winced again as he tried to give a more genuine smile to the boy. “Forgive yourself.”

[Oliver]

Oliver was exasperated, devastated, and utterly riddled with guilt. He dropped his jaw, gasped for breath, and listened to Baxter’s words as if he were a member of a divine congregation. He hung on to every word, each syllable empowering him to rise from his slumped position.

“I am so sorry, Baxter. I…I should not have lost control.” He waved his palms back and forth, and made several cautious steps forwards. His nerves for the better of him, and he retreated. A taste covered his tongue, vomit, almonds, and decadence. He was trying to forgive himself, but every time the thought crossed his mind, he felt weak.

“I can forgive myself, but it would have to come at a price.” The stale air of the alleyway started to quash all of Oliver’s confidence. Despite the bustling ambiance of the cityscape that crept in between the two tall and crumbling walls of their environment, there was an awkward silence smothering sorcerer and sceptic alike.

“What sort of a price?” Baxter asked, cradling his wounds, but still impeccably well mannered. Oliver saw a strength in the man that had guided him through the warren-esque streets that he could only ever dream of wielding; dedication, conviction, and clarity of forethought.

“Servitude to trying to find a way to right my wrongs, and to trying to do everything, everything in my power to be something other than what I am destined to be.” His words seemed pained, as if it were he that had taken a fiery bolt to the torso. Even without the injuries he had inflicted on Baxter, he felt sympathy of burning in his chest – whatever consumed Baxter, was not unlike the demon in his own heart consuming him.

Baxter chuckled.

“Escaping one’s destiny is a difficult thing indeed,” he slowly raised, the pain finally bested by the merit of Symbiote’s strange synthesis of magic and sinew and muscle regrowth. “But…what destiny do you speak of?” he added, swaddling his injury and dusting himself down with elegant and regal flicks of his fingers. He tried very much to not seem like he was on tenterhooks to hear more about the strange, lost, and confused child he had taken under his wing. “So I can crush it from you…” Symbiosis added, though in the recesses of the journalist’s mind.

Using his limited speech craft, Oliver drew on all he had learnt in his short life to try, desperately, to tell his tale with brevity in mind. His recent history could take an entire evening by fire light, mead, and melody; he was not sure Baxter’s patience, though saintly, could weather that sort of storm. He ruffled his hair with a coy smile.

“I fell into the Diving Pool, and saw a future that, if legend is worth its weight in gold, is going to pass as truth.” In the Divining Pool there was an ancient sorceress, by the name of Morgelain. She was known in many different cultures on Althanas, but most called her the Lady in the Lake. Her pre-cognition shattered realities, and rewove the fabric of life with a thought. “The image I saw was of my family, souls plucked from them, and life extinguished by my actions. Then,” he waved his hands wide, as if gesturing to the world, “I saw myself brandishing a Liviol stave as old as the world, atop a mountain peak, shattering the heart of Corone herself.”

Symbiosis smiled.

“Maybe not this wizard…” he mused.

“That sounds harrowing…” Baxter whispered. “If fighting that destiny will make you repent and forgive yourself, then I encourage it wholeheartedly.”

Oliver stared at Mr Arlington for several languishing seconds, trying, in his innocence, to find the words to thank the gentlemen with. There was something strange about his twisted form, half-hearted enthusiasm about the world, and his vibrant desire to help, that made the young sorcerer want to know more.

“Then I guess, in answer to your question Mr Arlington…I guess I can start down the path of forgiveness, and it is no thanks to you.” He smiled warmly, and stepped forwards, battered leather boots scuffing over the shit stained cobbles. “Won’t you join me on that open road to nowhere?” he cocked his head, and waited for the gentlemen to accept his thanks with a firm tug.

[Symbiosis]

Baxter looked to the boy, seeing a bit of warmth in those innocent, but pained eyes. With a nod his hand lifted up and the two struggled for the pen write to stand. The Salvarian gave a pained rub to his posterior and gave a chuckling once over to his clothing. Oliver glanced to his chest and he too played a bit shrugging as he batted a ripped shred aside that was caught in the wind.

“I think I should have at least taken off the coat,” Baxter joked. “No matter. I can buy one of those fancy robed cloaks that are all the rage. Though hopefully they will have a nicer color than black. I don’t want to seem like a brooding man of mystery.”

“He’s not coming on our journey! I have a strict fuck magic policy!” Symbiote shouted loudly so that Oliver’s eyes widened. With a heavy sigh the demon host looked to his chest. “He did try to kill us,” Symbiote said rather childishly as Baxter shook his head in disbelief.

“Oliver, I suppose now is as good a time as any, since we both sort of, opened up to each other,” Baxter chuckled. “that you meet Symbiote. The demon possessing me. He’s in search of a nameless Wizard fellow who in a manner sucked the demon’s soul in to the Rubric of Alaskar. Long story short he’s searching for the Wizard who outthought the demon and reclaim his lost soul. I made my demon’s deal with him to find true love, a soul mate. More than I bargained for, I admit,” Baxter sighed again, trying to stifle his emotions with a chuckle that came out wrong.

“Tell the whole fucking world,” Symbiore muttered angrily. “Just keep burn boy away when shit hits the fence.” The demon’s essence receded back to the pen write’s lungs, where it rested between the two windbags angrily. Baxter nodded placing a guiding hand on Oliver’s shoulders as he stretched, wincing, and moving them onwards. Oliver stared at Baxter’s chest with a gaped mouth, but the pen write merely lifted a hand to push the boy’s face back forwards.

The two headed into the market district, looking for the nearest clothing and tailor shop. The two split for a moment in the mass of the crowd, flowing through the throng of nobles who looked to Baxter like he was a freak, and to Oliver like a tourist who was beneath recognition. Baxter pulled out a cloak, a very bright brown color that fit his bill, and when he turned he found Oliver lifting a few cloaks his size. Not sure of the weather on Scara Brae, but knowing it did get rather cold in the night, he looked to his already dwindling gold coins. His prize money would be emptied after this last shopping trip, but the newly found friend in Oliver was worth the coinage.

He lifted the red trimmed black cloak out of his hands with a smile, and found a nice coattail jacket that was a magenta and gold colored ensemble that with a bit of tweaking could really look elegant. Just the thing the Salvarian would wear back at home. He picked it up and ordered the seamstress to sew his cloak so that the shoulder’s would be more accommodating to his sudden transformations. It took a few minutes, but the end result emptied his bag and saw both men out on the road.

“So redemption,” Baxter said shuffling the cloak around his waist so it hid his tattered pants. He jiggled to get the feel right and smiled to Baxter. “A road less travelled by people like us, I’d say.”

“That is for sure, Mr Arlington,” Oliver chirped. “Regardless of which road we take, the way will always lead to my father. I must find him, it’s very important to me.” Oliver looked to the fast approaching building as Baxter gave him a reassuring pat on the back.

“Then let us not dally any longer,” the Salvarian said evenly. We have a date with destiny, do we not?”

[Oliver]

Oliver clucked, “We have a date with a man who would like to think he is my destiny.” From the boy’s expression, Baxter assumed that his father was quite the imposing figure. “When you look,” he pointed at Baxter’s new attire, “quite as spectacular as you now do, I think we will make quite the impression at that!”

“Oh, well, thank you Mr Midwinter,” Baxter chuckled. Oliver glanced up at the pen hand, trying to work out if the demon Mr Arlington had spoken of had any sort of presence, control, or diction over its host. “Is your father important, then?” the man raised a curious eyebrow, back arched, a regal glamour plastered over every inch of his figure.

The sorcerer pursed his lips as the pair continued through the long, spindly streets. They turned several corners, littered with boxes, barrels, and drunken vagabonds before he found quite the right words to put across his point. His father, at least from what his mother had told him, was a wizard.

“He is part of an order of magic wielders who seek to further the study of the properties of Liviol wood.” In Oliver’s mind, this was not so much a lie, but a half-formed and twisted skein of the truth. He continued, wistfully, but not letting up his youthful smile. “Amongst the academics of Scara Brae’s Molyneux University, he was, perhaps still is, quite well respected.”

“Molyneux? As in,” Baxter looked down at the boy, his stride dipping his shoulders with every advance across the cobbles, “the rebel, the Arc Light King?”

Oliver shrugged. His grasp of the history of his own island was immensely naive, to say the least. “Maybe,” he hazarded. “I do not know anything about the city of Scara Brae, except of course, that it is the capital of the island.”

“Oh, my dear boy, how can you live in such seclusion?” Baxter threw his arms wide, and Oliver flinched. It took several steps for the pen hand to realise he was walking alone. He turned on a debonair heel, took a deep, lemon scented breath, and cocked his head.

“I am sorry, Baxter. You startled me…” Oliver pressed his fingers together, a nervous tell if ever there was one.

“Startled? Oh Oliver, what on earth for?” the combination of new clothing, a venomous, silken tongue, and of course, his erudite ways made Oliver feel immensely guilty for his actions.

“I…I should not have succumbed to anger. Here I am, asking so much of you, only to repay you in the end with a sphere of flame to the face…” the boy hung his head, which swung with nerves, mimicking the motions of the hanging baskets that covered every available strut that supported the tall, crooked buildings of Radasanth’s merchant district. The green, yellow, and navy blooms nestled in well watered soil gave the red brick and stagnant air a vibrant life.

“He’s a fucking miserable piece of shit, isn’t he?” Symbiote’s gluttonous roar cackled at the back of the Salvarian gentleman’s mind. Baxter wrinkled his lips, flicked his hair from his eyes, and then sighed.

“Oh, Oliver. Please, please, please don’t think so lowly of yourself. You are but a mortal child, witnessing the horrors of the world with a weight pressing down on his shoulders.” He looked over his shoulder at the distant courtyard, a fountain lined boardwalk that served as a converging point for several thorough fares. A large, grey stone building rose up over the horizon on the far side. “I hasten to add that you have a lot to deal with, stepping out into the throng of Althanas. You’re entitled,” he thought for a moment, “to…emotions.” He looked back to the shy shrew of a boy and chuckled. “Come on, we’re nearly there,” he did not wait for Oliver to follow. His footsteps rang hallowed sounds in the labyrinth of Radasanth.

The sorcerer of the Midwinter Clan took a deep breath, relished in the manure tainted scent, then followed in the man’s stead.

He had so much to learn, and not just about his new battleground.

His lesson on his own identity was just beginning. He could not think of a better tutor in all the worlds than Baxter Arlington.

[Symbiosis]

Baxter looked to the City Hall with an appreciative eye, the white stoned building shaped like an overgrown fountain. There were several birds that chirped along the trees of the building, adding a sense of the forest to this vast domain and he clicked his fingers as he thought of the great things he could accomplish in the main library while Oliver searched for his father’s name.

Two heavy doors made from the same trees found in the Concordian forest stood before them, the etchings of mighty heroes upon the lion head handle made of pure brass that turned a sickly teal in the passage of time. A weight seemed to build up in Oliver’s shoulders and the pen write merely stood behind him, placing a gentle resting hand on his shoulder. He was reminded of an old adage about the walks of life, and with a chuckle he stepped forwards so the boy could look to him.

“Every Journey, Oliver, begins with but a single step.” Baxter opened the door and held it for Oliver to peek inside. With a gulp he nodded, taking that first step with determination before he went back to a normal routine. He followed the sorcerer into the marbled hallway, looking at the white statues lining the walls like sentinels, a heavy stone planter box growing bushes within them to add a spark of green to the atmosphere. The two walked shoulder to shoulder as they studied their surroundings, Symbiote even taking a moment to poke his essence up to Baxter’s eyes and peering through the lenses of Baxter’s mortal husk.

They reached a large round desk with a short line where some of the more noble people of Radansath waited like their time was the most precious commodity. Two men worked the counter dressed in city robes that were a stark contrast to the white surroundings. The line moved at a decent pace and soon the two found themselves at the front desk. The worker glanced to them, nodded his head in greeting, and pulled out paper as he prepped the nib of his quill.

“What can I do for you today?”

“We’d both like access to the library, as well as a scribe to pull the latest census log for the past,” Baxter lingered a moment looking to the youth, who gave him an appreciative nod.

“Two years,” Oliver piped up. “Please!” he added quickly.

“City fee for census logs and scribe time will come to a total of ten gold coins, is there anything else you need?” Baxter nodded as he looked to his chest for a moment.

“I need to know if anyone as of late happened to have requested books on demonology and alchemy,” he pulled out his satchel and removed the bindings, quickly pulling out his Salvarian passport. “I am a journalist for the Salvarian Herald, and I am doing an investigative report on Wizards.”

Symbiote chuckled as he nestled under Baxter’s diaphragm.

“Well…any books lent out would still be in the returns bin, I can add a search fee for ten more gold.” Baxter nodded lifting out his personal funds and counting the coins in rapid succession. The man took the coins, inspected them for counterfeit, and nodded lifting his pen and scribbling quickly on a few papers before handing one to Oliver, and one to Baxter. Before they could swipe them he lifted a large round iron, dipping it inside thick ink and slamming it on a square box showing the symbol of the Royal Imperial Council’s stamp of approval. “Head down the hall to the left. Big chestnut doors. There will be a side room, hand these requests to the scribes and they’ll instruct you to take a seat. Shortly thereafter they will bring you the items you requested.”

“Should we have need to dig deeper?” Oliver asked, his eyes hinting with curiosity. The man shrugged.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Happy hunting, gentlemen.” He pushed the papers off the desk so they had to scramble to catch them in their aerial flight, but once they had them in hand they looked to each other, grins on their faces as they nodded and moved to the library.

[Oliver]

Oliver was overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the council chambers. Every time they passed an open door, he had to stop to peek inside, and take in the sights that awaited his eager curiosity. They traipsed past dusty reading rooms, debating chamber, and green velveteen counters riddled with old men, women, and scholars of every species imaginable. This, Oliver guessed, was a centre of study, learning, and self-discovery.

“Good lord, Baxter, this place is immense!” he proclaimed. His eyes were as wide as dinner plates, his heart beat a thousand times a minute, and his fingers tensed and loosened back and forth with wiry, jittery, and maddened motions. The pen wright chuckled as the sorcerer craned his neck round yet another door frame, and took a deep draft of the stale air.

“That, my boy, is the smell of history.” From what the boy could gather with every breath, this was the same smell as a dusty cellar, an old man’s larder, and a pile of long abandoned papers. He guessed they all amounted to the same thing; an acknowledged observance of the passage of time.

They advanced along the marble accented corridor and took two lefts, many more steps than the clerk had told them about. They looked at one another with hesitation when they finally came to a large double door of carved chestnut and golden spirals of framework. Oliver had been so ensconced in his exploration and learning, they could easily have gotten lost in the cavernous expanse of Radasanth’s vast repository of births, deaths, and marriages.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Baxter rolled his eyes and gestured to the door. Oliver, bouncing to duty, rushed towards them and turned the handles. They moved apart with a creek, but clicked, and rushed outwards with ease. The sorcerer and the playwright rushed back, to avoid an awkward encounter with the beeswax polished panels, and stared at what awaited them beyond.

The repository desk was a sixteen foot long mahogany and veneer panel that separated the small cube waiting room from the hangar like expanse of the main archives. A cubby hole of sorts was lined with green velvet seats on the left, right, and back wall; the desk had only one passage through it, which would no doubt be locked beneath the rising fold of the wood. Beyond, sun streamed down through the massive glass and iron frame dome onto the two hundred feet stacks that went back as far as the eye could see, and no doubt much further.

“Good god.” Oliver muttered. He advanced through the door hesitantly. Baxter, only too happy to see his young charge revelling in the wonders of the world he considered to be quite mundane, followed him with a debonair swagger. “No, good gods.” The sorcerer amended. One god did not quite encapsulate the enormity of what he was seeing.
There was a clatter from out of sight, then a shuffling sound, and then a grand entrance. From behind the edge of the right wall, a tall scribe appeared with a quill in one hand and a glass of sherry in the other. Oliver, though not accustomed to liquor or wine, knew it well from his mother’s casual evening tipple.

“Hello, hello, hello,” he said with a posh accent that practically drowned in ignorance. He came to a stop at the dead centre of the counter, immediately behind a large ledger and inkpot, and started to run his index finger along the most recent entries.

"Afternoon," Baxter and Oliver retorted in unison.

“Who, might I care to ask, do we have here?” he peered down the rim of his nose, through the glassless spectacle frames he wore as a poor attempt to increase his appearance of academia, and analysed the newcomers expectantly.

[Oliver]

“My name is Baxter Arlington, we made a request a short while ago to access the census for the city dating back two years.” The pen write took the opportunity to advance in style across the thirty or so feet of carpeted floor to the front of the counter, one hand cocked flamboyantly to his side, and the brim of his hat cocked like a gentlemen departing a particularly engrossing opera.

“Very well,” the clerk looked up briefly at the second client.

“This,” he waved his hand towards Oliver, who was still gawking on the borderline, “is the concerned petitioner.”

The clerk bobbed his head back and forth. “Yes, Mr Arlington, I see your name has already been recorded. Two years you said?” the clerk did not wait for a response, and waved over one of the scuttling, mouse like, and obviously nervous apprentices that streamed back and forth between the stacks laden with piles of papers, ledgers, and chronicles of long dead families. “Argyle is it?” the apprentice nodded; “Good, fetch the census for the last cycle, would you?” he waved the youth away.

“I like this guy already…” Symbiote’s voice croaked in the cavernous expanse of Baxter’s mind. The pen write, unthawed, leant against the counter.

“He can explain the exact details of our intent on his own,” he said smarmily. He waved to Oliver, who, after a hesitant shake of his head, scuttled up to the counter. Half the height of his companion, he did not seem quite at ease leaning against it, so settled for folding his arms over his chest and peering up at the clerk.

“Well, boy, what are you bothering me for on a day like today?” there was some colloquial concern in the man’s voice that neither Baxter nor Oliver grasped. The clerk was taking out his personal issues on the staff that worked beneath him. Symbiote drove the idea into Baxter’s mind that he was very much a slave driver in a circus of impressionable young men. “It had better be important…” he added. He did not once look up at Oliver from the lines of immaculate ink on the ledger.

“I…I am looking for the movements or whereabouts of a man called Gideon Midwinter, sir.” Oliver’s voice possessed a little quiver to it, half fear, and half excitement. He really did not expect to be brought to the door of discovery so soon after arriving in the city. He did not expect to have made a friend, nearly shorn off his face with fire, and crashed to earth so unceremoniously from a wagon, either.

The clerk coughed to clear his throat. “Gideon…Midwinter?” he raised an eyebrow and finally looked up at his clients. “The…sorcerer?”

Oliver nodded excitedly. “Yes the very same!”

The clerk shook his head. “Wait one moment on the provided chairs both of you; I will have the clerks provide any relevant entries on this individual.” The wiry man departed their presence with double the speed he had appeared, his glass emptying as he fled, his heart racing, and clearly, from what Oliver could tell, ideas sparking in his mind.

“Oh…” he mouthed. He leant against the counter to try and gain leverage and insight into what rested beyond the corner of the wall, but found it fruitless to try.

Baxter frowned. “Your father is,” he curled his lip, “famous, then?”

Oliver shook his head. “I have no idea…” he sighed, stepped away from the counter, and turned about to face the row of chairs to the left of the chestnut doors. “Come on, let’s wait. I fancy a rest,” he trudged with heavy feet towards the uncomfortable looking chair. “I hope you’re keeping a tally of all this gold you’re spending; I am determined to pay you in kind for the altruism you’ve shown me today, Baxter Arlington.” There was a genuine truth in the boy’s words, the sort that sowed the seeds of hope in lesser man, and broke the hearts of unruly women keen to tempt him astray.

Baxter chuckled.

“Oh Oliver…”

“No, really, how can I ever repay you?” he flopped onto the hard velvet cushion, and despite the coarse, rickety frame of the ancient furniture affording him no comfort, he slumped with relish at finally being able to sit. “How could I possibly repay you?” he stared at his companion with the sort of fiery conviction that could have scattered grand armies, slain demons, and made brave men cower in fear.

[Symbiosis]

We could bash his head in, that’s all the thanks I need, Symbiote thought as he went for a spin around Baxter’s intestines. The feeling made him rather nauseous as he sat on the dead weighted cushion chairs. The support they once had was squished out of them by far heavier people than these two, and they waited patiently as Baxter looked to Oliver who still waited for an earnest answer.

“I suppose in a way you already have,” the man answered finally. “Seeing you reminds me of my youth, as well the predicament I’m in. Naturally, helping you is only helping myself. I am not very good with numbers either, so forget recalling any debt. I’m sure in time you will find a way to repay me if that’s what your heart is set on.”

“It is,” Oliver insisted. Baxter gave him a soft pat on the head, before a worker of the library wheeled a large wooden trolley over. Upon it were a few dusty tomes, and a stack of papers bound by three large rings attached to a wood plank to anchor them in place. With a polite nod, the worker left and Baxter patted his thighs as he lifted himself upwards, grabbing the first Census sheet for Oliver to read. The boy took the weight with a grimace, but a hearty smile as he gently placed it on the table, and began to scan the names with his finger lining each word.

“I never once thought to ask if you could read,” Baxter said loudly with a whimsical smile. “But I suppose it was implied.”

“I’m not very fast, at least until I understand the font. Considering this looks like it was penned by several men, it will take awhile.” Oliver let out a soft laugh as his robes fell back to reveal more of his arm, the boy getting more into his work. Baxter lifted a large volume of his own up, a records book dating seventeen years back of those who accessed sensitive information, information he was currently searching for on who could have possibly been the one to imprison Symbiote’s soul.

“Hey!” a voice broke the silence; small and incredibly hard to hear at first. “Moron, down here!” Oliver lifted his head and scanned the area as did Baxter, until they both looked to the Salvarian’s bag. “There ‘ya go, you idiots! Did you forget me?” Baxter lowered his hand, trying to recall why the voice was so familiar, but one chuckle from Symbiote was all he needed to recall who the voice belonged to.

Fateweaver. A demon bound within a fountain tip pen by the same Wizard who bound Symbiote. She was a spunky one, asked if she could join Baxter and Symbiote on the condition that the human didn’t rape her. Not that it was hard to achieve, as he had no care, nor desires, to frolic with her. He had left her at the bottom of his bag for months. He had just forgotten about her, which was fine with her.

“Oh yeah, she’s here too,” Symbiote muttered loudly for all to hear. Oliver, still not used to Symbiote actually talking aloud gave a nervous glance to Baxter, who shrugged. He mentally winced to himself realizing these not so common things were far to common that he was actually getting used to them.

“Yes I am, bozo’s,” she snapped. “And I can smell that parchment even under your stinky, three week old underwear. Get your shit washed, bud, it stinks.” Baxter’s face flushed red. “Let me peek, please! I ‘wanna read too!”

“You…are a bag,” Oliver said cautiously.

“No, I’m a pen in the bag, you imbecile,” Fateweaver replied callously, her tone dark and uninviting. Oliver looked to Baxter and let out a sheepish grin.

“You have interesting stories, Baxter.” Oliver joked. The pen write only shook his head, lowering his hand and lifting up his bag to grab the pen. He removed the case from the bag and dropped it, opening it gently as he set the pen on the table. The red fountain tipped pen had crimson ink over the black surface that swirled and moved, and from the tip a blank ink began to pour out into a pool.

“I’ll read the new stuff, you guys go back in time and see if you find anything. Drop the book right in the puddle, I’ll take care of the rest!” The demon spoke like an excited child, and Baxter obliged by dropping the book with a slam on the puddle, eliciting a chuckle from Symbiote as Fateweaver growled, but went to absorb the pages. Her ink trailed over the lines and bled in, making the script fade away, then reappear slowly as she worked, and Baxter opened an older volume and began to read the list of names.

[Symbiosis]

Hours had passed as the two worked, removing their robes, stretching, and feeding Fateweaver more books as they all worked diligently. Oliver went to grab water for the two as Baxter ordered in some food with permission from the strict supervisor. Even with Fateweaver’s help, they found nothing as time rolled on, and Oliver returned for more requests digging deeper as Fateweaver read and read. They continued on and on like this, tolling away until Baxter’s eyes grew heavy, and even Oliver’s face looked grim as he found no records.

“Bingo!” Fateweaver shouted. Oliver and Baxter jumped, startled by the sudden exclamation. “Gideon Midwinter, lives in the fourth district. I think that’s by Concordia, if the map is worth a damn,” Fateweaver mumbled. Oliver’s eyes perked up as he grabbed the paper and looked to it, reading the address and confirming the name as his father’s. Baxter looked at the date, and found the volume matched the year he was found, and grabbed the last book on the pile, which the most recent years notation book. He opened it, but was pulled away as Oliver grabbed his sleeve and tugged.

“It is him! It is! This census is his tax payment for a house he purchased! He owns that land! Chances are he still will! Baxter, oh Baxter this is wonderful news!”

“Yeah, no sweat, did my best work out there, not that I need a reward or anything,” Fateweaver mumbled. Oliver gave the inky goo a startled glance, before he earnestly nodded to it.

“I thank you, uh…demon…thing….for erm..helping me,” Oliver bowed his head respectfully. The ink dripped upwards in reverse time back into the pen, before the housing cackled like vents in a volcano.

“I want to ride with the less smelly one, Symbiote,” Fateweaver declared. Baxter looked to Oliver, who looked confused. The pen write looked to the pen, lifted it carefully, and lowered it into the case before handing it to Oliver. The boy stared at it, for a long time, before with hesitant fingers he lifted his hand to refuse it. “Hey, take me, you idiot! I don’t want ot be crammed in the back of his stained underpants. I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me! Deal?”

“Demon’s and their deals you must be careful with, Oliver,” Baxter said seriously, but then he smiled genuinely. “However this is a solid deal. If only Symbiote would agree to it.”

“Never Binky boy!” Symbiote huffed as he floated to Baxter’s eyes, looking out into the world. Oliver looked down to the pen case, and nodded his head, grasping it and placing it in his robes. He expected Fateweaver to say something, but found she was rather silent. It seemed she kept her word for the moment.

“Let’s get an inn and rest, it’s nearing the end of day,” Baxter offered. Oliver nodded with a yawn and stepped out, watching as someone came to gather their books and return them. Before Baxter left he felt his blood freeze, and he held himself in place, slowly turning his head as Symbiote hissed. He glanced down at what would set the demon off, and even his heart lurched as he read the name scripted upon a man who was loaned out a book on demonology, and a book on ancient artifacts, and another book about soul magic and the artifacts that wielded them. He looked to the name, then back to Oliver who thanked the worker and decided to keep it a secret for now, shutting the book, but the name imprinted in his mind like a light in a dark room.

Gideon Midwinter

[Oliver]

Fate had a funny way of playing with people who least deserved it. It had an even crueller way about how it rejected those who sought to fulfil the prophecies and destinies she set out. As they stepped out into the sun, still warm, tingling, and radiant, Oliver leant his sheltered intellect against the walls of the question at hand. He pressed harder. Who was Baxter Arlington?

“As it’s already well into the afternoon,” he pointed up at the sun, which was smouldering overhead, “I think I’ll leave finding my father to another day.” Oliver glanced over his shoulder, and caught the rejected look on the playwright’s face. It was an expression he had seen many times since they had crossed paths. Each time was shortly after he mentioned sorcery, or indeed, before he mentioned his father. He made a mental note to keep guard.

“That is quite wise, Oliver, quite wise.” There was a sullen softness to the man’s voice. It reminded Oliver of his siblings, who were always quick to be sarcastic when he was dumb, but also, was keen to commend him when he showed wisdom beyond his years. He set his feet together, took a deep breath of the summer air, and then set off away from the council building.

“I have my moments, though they are few and far between,” he chuckled. As the sun instantly covered his brow with a thin layer of moisture, he continued to take deep breaths to abate the heat of the sun. The inside of the archives were cooled by elaborate glass domes, marble and onyx tiles, and under floor water flow if he felt the magic in the rock correctly.

“Shall we lay our burdens down in the inn we took respite in upon our meeting?” the playwright raised his eyebrow churlishly. Given Oliver’s lack of knowledge about Radasanth, he doubted the boy would have a better recommendation to make as to their evening accommodation.

“As long as we don’t order that same dish, I don’t think my stomach can handle it for a second time.” He rubbed his tummy as he continued to walk across the courtyard. He smiled a grin that spoke of innocence, and trotted on with Baxter in quick pursuit. They had a lot of city to cover, and the sun was coming to start its descent. At this time of year, it would be dusk soon enough, and even Oliver knew that darkness brought with it a new motley crew of danger.

“I tell you what,” Baxter half shouted, his debonair cloth flapping in the breeze that whipped about them both. “I’ll introduce you to one of Radasanth’s traditional delicacies.” Symbiote chuckled in the recesses of the man’s mind. Apparently, the demon had witnessed Baxter’s previous reaction to tasting the so called luxury. Half of it had hungrily ended up in the bathtub. “You will love it!” he proclaimed.

“I am at your beck and call, Baxter, beck and call!” Oliver was quite happy for the first time in many a month, and started to skip and bound down the alleyway. When they broke out into a busy cart laden street on the far side, the vibrant motion gave him the dexterity and alertness he needed to avoid a repeat of his earlier encounter with a toppling oak cart.

“When are you going to tell him?” Symbiote enquired with a rattling and cacophonous tone. “I want to find this bastard, now.” Baxter furrowed his brow, deep in thought, and clearly trying to hide the fact that the creature within was testing him to his very limits. Baxter’s brown eyes examined Oliver’s prancing form as he joined him in the street. Out in the exposed air of the street, amidst the throng of the people of Radasanth’s capital, the playwright felt horribly aware that their meeting was not a chance encounter.

This was the Salvar born man’s opportunity…

If he could satisfy Oliver Midwinter’s Vociferous Hunger…

Then he could finally be free of Symbiote.

[Symbiosis]

Baxter and Oliver entered into the two bed apartment that the pen write rented at the inn they ate at earlier, the room service promising to bring them their meals later in the evening. With a stretch and some yawns they both disrobed to more comfortable evening attire. Oliver rested on his bed, his cloak hanging off the edge of a chair he dragged over that he placed a book upon, his smile never fading.

Baxter had taken his coat and placed it upon the coat rack, patting it down of the dust that had accumulated in the dusty streets as he felt the rug’s softness beneath his now bare feet. He let out a content sigh wiggled his toes, happy to be free of the confining boots he wore all day. He waltzed to the table and sat down, feeling the weight of his burdens sag his shoulders as he concentrated on the boy.

A thousand and one questions stirred in Baxter’s mind, mostly about how he should handle the news he had. Symbiote was impatiently swirling circles around his heart like a hungry shark and that made the Salvarian rather uncomfortable in his predicament. How long had he yearned for this day; a chance to be free of the demon forever! Yet such cruel, sick fate had positioned the small, frail and sheltered boy in harm’s way. There was no doubt in his mind that Symbiote would never allow the man to live. So he looked to Oliver as he read his book, and contemplated the fate of both men in silence.

The sun was casting red shadows in their room as it set, elongating the shadow of the curtain to cover half of the pen write’s face. The wind whipped a branch against the wall to their room, making Oliver look up in a bemused smile to the offending noise, chuckling as he looked back to Baxter. “What is wrong, Baxter?” Oliver asked, his joviality never dropping a beat.

“Nothing,” Baxter lied. “Well, nothing serious that is,” he mused rubbing his arm with a soft laugh. “I just have started realizing something. You remind me of a younger me; what with your search for knowledge and things that other’s would find folly!” Oliver looked down to his chest with a grin, his cheeks redder than the resting sun’s glow.

“If you were to be the model of what I’d grow up to be in the future, I’d say my life isn’t so bleak.” Those words hit a knife in the man’s heart as he gripped his arm tightly. “I have you to thank, Baxter. Again, and a million times more, thank you!” Oliver reached into his jacket and pulled out the Fateweaver pen, twirling it between each of his digits making the demon within it giggle like a school girl.

“Ouu, that’s fun! Don’t stop!” she cooed. Oliver laughed at the demonesses oddity, but continued to do so.

“I have you to thank as well,” Oliver whispered. Baxter stood up, approaching the boy and sitting on the side of his bed, the comforter slipping as he lowered his bottom.

“Do you think,” Baxter said before biting his lip and thinking of his words carefully. He waited several seconds before he concluded on a set of words. “Do you think that perhaps, you may be let down sometimes? By the ones you admire or seek out?”

“I suppose in some way that I have thought of disappointment,” Oliver replied with consideration, leaning back on his pillow and letting out a soft moan of pleasure as he adjusted, still twirling the giggling pen. “But is that not a part of life?” he laughed.

“It is, Oliver,” Baxter said, feigning a smile. “But sometimes…I just care, my boy.” Baxter stood up and slapped the boy’s thigh. “Rest up, I’ll bring dinner back in a bit.”

“Where are you going?” Oliver’s curiosity reached his ears and Baxter did all he could not to shiver.

“I want to pick something up at the bazaar, it’s a present for you, and I will not have you snooping around while I grab it! So promise me, you’ll stay here?” Baxter turned to him, a pleading look in his eyes. Oliver’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he nodded, be it slowly, to Baxter.

“Of course, Baxter,” the boy mumbled. Baxter nodded to him, a smile on his face as he reached for the boots and placed them one at a time on his feet, lacing the threads quickly and slapping his knees as he stood, making a clap sound as he walked out the door with his jacket.

Symbiote swirled around Baxter’s ribs, moving in and out of each ring with a hunter’s grace before swimming up to his mind, a haunting chuckle echoing within the caverns of his psyche. “You’re going after him without the boy…you think we’ll take him out, and lie to the boy…say he was never there!” The demon did a quick lap around his skull laughing. “And I’m the asshole.”

“It’d be better if Oliver didn’t know about his father’s crimes. He’s been through enough,” Baxter said weakly. “He’s searched long and hard for this man, and the simplicity in finding him came at the cost of learning he either is or has worked with the nameless Wizard you’ve been seeking. I do not want him to witness the pain of knowing the man is corrupt. I’d rather…”

“Kill the prick and have Oliver think of you as a father?” Symbiote hissed with delight. Baxter closed his eyes, muttering a prayer to the gods to forgive him for the sins he was about to commit.

“Sometimes,” Baxter whispered. “It’d be better to go hungry in the pursuit of what you want.”

[Oliver]

Promises were only easy to keep when the man you made them to was not a stranger. No sooner than Baxter had slipped out of the crooked nook into the streets beyond, Oliver was on his feet, dancing across the dusty floorboard, and darting behind the playwright with ears pricking and heart racing. He, like most young souls, found it irresistible when suspense, surprise, and potential were dancing in the air. The youth of today quite simple had no patience.

Mortified at what he heard the playwright speak of, he could only stand in the street behind him, arms wide, and legs deadpanned and heavy against the cobbles, and eyes moistening with tears of betrayal.

“Baxter!” he roared. He flexed his fingers and rolled his neck, to loosen his cartilage, muscles, and nerves.

The playwright turned with such speed the boy would be forgiven for mistaking he was made of water. Their eyes met, locked together, and fell apart with the fickle twists of fate that brought them together, and as Oliver turned to run, tore them apart. The sorcerer did not wait to hear an explanation about what he had heard. The notion of his father, a good man in his eyes, being a wrong doer, a criminal, a charlatan as not something he would entertain from the people he met on the open road.

His booted feet padded against the shit, piss, and blood stained stone of Radasanth.

Tears ran down his face, illuminating a sorrow even Oliver did not know he had been carrying. It stained, salty streaks down pallid stone, and left the boy feeling weak as he fled the scene of the playwright’s crimes. Every step he took hammered out a rhythm that matched the heavy, pleading, and thunderous shaking of his heart. His aorta, ventricle, sinew and soul all heaved under the pressure instilled in his bones by the strange turn of events. He felt foolish for following him, and cursed his own curiosity, and how much he knew felt like a well struck cat.

“Oliver!” the playwright’s voice pleaded, but fell on increasingly distant ears as the sorcerer turned the corner at the end of the road, and vanished out of sight. He left his meagre bundle of clean clothing in his chamber, for the wraith like chambermaids to pick up with disdain when the morrow came. He left his rising hopes behind, for the demon Symbiote to feast upon. He left his dreams of finding his father quite as easily as Baxter had leaded him to believe over his shoulder like spilt salt.

Sometimes, if you were hungry, it was better to wait for the main course. As Oliver padded away into the night, mind racing, chest pounding, limbs aching, he thought of only one thing.

How he wished he had not been so trusting, foolish, and foolhardy. His eyes blurred, his vision balked, his memories shattered. As he ran on, desperate to find his father to find out the truth, he thought of only one thing in the solitude of loneliness.

Please let this desire to feed on possibility be worth all of this…he hoped Baxter was nothing more than a liar, and that his father, wherever he was, was the saint, angel, and paragon his mother had made him out to be. Somebody in the world had to be good, or Oliver wanted no part in it.

He would rather The Angels tear his soul in two.

To be continued.

[Revenant]

Plot: 18

Storytelling (6) – This was a pretty straightforward thread but the meeting between your characters was seemed somewhat fortuitous.

Setting (6) – Both of you did a good job of setting the scene when scene changes occurred. To score higher in this category, you should draw out your interactions with the setting throughout the story rather than front loading the descriptions during the initial portion of the scene.

Pacing (6) – The beginning of this thread had great pacing, but the pacing definitely changed as the two of you had your ‘feeling out’ period with each other, becoming very crunched. The City Hall scene maintained a decent pace, as did the end.

Character: 17

Communication (7) – Communication really drove this thread. Given the relationship between Baxter and Symbiote, I could understand the casual manner of communication between them, but Symbiote didn’t speak with the menace that I would have expected from a demon.

Action (5) – The confrontation between Oliver and Baxter/Symbiote in the middle of the thread was somewhat surprising with how quickly it both began and ended. The execution took more out of the thread than it added.

Persona (5) – I was somewhat surprised both with how willing the characters were to spill their secrets to one another and also with how readily they were to accept one another. Baxter gave off a much friendlier and open tone than I would have expected from someone wrestling with the problems that he claimed to have. Oliver’s willingness to accept and join with then belied no real sense of apprehension or danger from the demon possession.

Prose: 19

Mechanics (7) – Good job focusing on keeping the thread’s spelling and grammar clean.

Clarity (6) – Overall the thread was clearly written, but the scene in City Hall didn’t have the same succinctness to it, and I had to double check the end to figure out exactly where Oliver overheard Baxter’s betrayal.

Technique (6) – Well put together but nothing jumped out from the thread to catch my attention.

Wildcard: 5

TOTAL: 59

Oliver Midwinter gains 1055 exp and 155 gp.
Symbiosis gains 975 exp and 145 gp.

[Letho]

EXP/GP added.