The Alchemaster's Castle

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Closed to Thorne.


Thirty years ago...



Grand Alchemaster Irillo Caleven was terrified, for only the third time in his 130 years.

Various parts of his castle were on fire, the blazes caused by the rioting peasants that filled the rest of the hallways and rooms. The various security measures he had set up; the summoned hellhounds, poison-dispensing tripwires, possessed suits of armor, blades hidden in walls... They were all ineffective against the never-ending waves of disposable farmhands and traders that were out for his blood.

Decades of invaluable research and knowledge were being lost with each passing moment, and for what? Petty revenge against the alchemaster for the latest plague or monster to escape his halls, decimating the population of the surrounding hamlets in the process? Caleven believed it was a small price to pay for progress.

But the villagers obviously didn't see the big picture.

The alchemaster's footsteps echoed through the dark, stone hallway as the din of destruction slowly grew behind him. In his arms were a collection of books; the six leather-bound tomes that were the culmination of everything he had worked for throughout his life. The wretches could burn the rest, for all he cared. These six were all that mattered. These six would allow him to continue his work, uninterrupted and undisturbed, from the secret chambers he had built deep underneath the castle.

Caleven found himself in one of the spare bedrooms he kept for friendlier visitations. He fumbled around in the dark for a match, lighting it against the wooden frame of the door. The villagers weren't far behind; he would have to make his escape soon. Breathing heavily, the old man dragged himself towards the wardrobe, and toppled it with every ounce of strength he could muster. As it crashed and splintered against the stone floor, he could hear the peasants closing in.

A vicious scowl crossed his lips as he made his way into the secret passage. At the end of the short hall stood an thick obsidian slab covered with innumerable runes. The alchemaster quickly stretched out a wrinkly, crooked finger and dragged it across the portal, activating ten of them in the process. With a terrible grinding noise, the slab rose into the ceiling, revealing another hallway lit with magically-sustained green flames.

A crash of wood erupted behind him, and Caleven turned in time to see a sea of villagers fill the guest room. The obsidian door wouldn't close in time to separate him from the mob, he knew. The old man rummaged through his robes with his free hand, producing his last resort: A small glass vial, containing six ounces of a bright red liquid. Screaming one final obscenity at his pursuers, the alchemaster threw the vial up towards the ceiling of the passageway.

Brilliant red flames erupted from the vial, and a deafening crack shook the very walls of the castle. Screams could be heard as tons of stone collapsed, crushing bodies and sealing off the hallway permanently. The explosion had thrown Caleven to the ground ten feet from where he previously stood mere seconds from his demise. As the dust was settling, the only sound that could be heard was the raspy cackle of an alchemaster who had just narrowly avoided death.

Caleven collected himself and rose to his feet. With a devilish smile on his face, he traced another pattern in a rock in the wall that had several more runes etched into it, which in turn caused the obsidian slab to return to its place. Just in case the villagers are able to move the rubble, he thought. His mind only on his studies once more, he collected the books from the cold, hard floor and began to hobble his way down to his secret laboratory to continue his experiments once more--this time without the interruption of scorned villagers.

It wasn't until he settled in that he noticed that he only had five of his precious tomes with him.




Present day...



Through a series of events far less exciting than those that chronicled how Grand Alchemaster Irillo Caleven lost the sixth book, it sort of... fell into my clutches. I won't bother you with the details of how that happened; as they lacked serious drama and occurred with minimal bloodshed.

But what does matter is that this dusty, tattered book has enlightened me greatly, and I was overcome with a burning desire to find the other five volumes that Caleven penned alongside this one. I made it my highest priority to cover every lead that I could, and read all of the legends and stories about the old alchemaster that I was able to in order to deduce where I could get my mitts on the rest of his collection. All signs pointed directly to the secret chambers within his castle; the chambers that he sealed himself in that fateful night, and as far as I could tell, still remained.

However, it was well-known that Caleven was a paranoid man. His decrepit castle, even after the night the fires took place and the mob overran it (not to mention the 30 years that passed since then, during which numerous others attempted to retrieve the book), still contained several unsprung traps that required a skill set far different than my own to spot and disarm.

I would need help.

I put out feelers in the circles I used to move around in, and settled upon one person that could be able to help me.

A master thief known to most only as Thorne.

[Thorne]

There was one thing Thorne had always loved about Radasanth.

It wasn't the temperate climate, or the beautiful coastal views the island nation offered. It wasn't the advanced culture, and breathtaking tourist attractions. It wasn't the pleasant villages, or the booming market trade or any of the other thousand things Radasanth offered the vast majority of its denizens.

It was the sheer greed of the people who lived there. Everyone coveted the possessions of their neighbours, or their betters, or the random strangers they happened upon in the city. People like that kept the thief in work, almost as much as his own thefts. There was always someone out there willing to pay Thorne's fees, just to get their paws on someone else's property. Now, not to be mistaken, he didn't look down on these people- his profession was "redistributing wealth" in this way. In fact, it was one of these very people he was meeting tonight. Slipping soundlessly through the side-streets and back-alleys of Radasanth, the thief moved with a liquid grace, his black-swathed frame seeming to melt from one shadow to the next, his feet making no sound.

Word had reached him through the usual channels- whispered rumours, scrawled glyphs on walls, notes left with various fences, and the assorted murmurings of the city's underworld. This was hardly uncommon, and normally Thorne would follow up on a few of them (the ones rich enough to meet his fees).. but this particular call stood out from the rest. This person had asked for him by name.

Thorne had checked up with a few of his contacts, to make sure the job seemed legit. Well, legit by our standards, he mused, as he wandered nearer his destination.

By all accounts, it was a 'she'. Again, this wasn't out of the ordinary; in fact, women were every bit as avaricious as the city's men, usually more so. Thorne tended to avoid woman employers, especially of noble lineage and high birth. Those cold-hearted snakes were as likely to murder you after receiving their item, as to pay you- at least the men deluded themselves enough to think they had honour. It wasn't until he heard tell that the woman wanting to hire his services had been an assassin in her time, that he changed his mind and followed the lead up. Anyone who had been in the same sort of work as Thorne generally knew enough to keep to their end of the bargain- after all, if there was anyone who could pay you back in a very nasty way if you reneged, it would be one of your own kind. Common sense was one of the prime factors in many criminal enterprises, and any who wanted to live long enough to retire followed their gut when it offered its opinion.

So, he had sent his reply. Thorne liked to leave a good first impression with any potential "employer" (the word and it's connotations always brought that wry grin to the thief's face), so he delivered his message in person. A note had been left in the woman's home, sitting tucked on her table under a candle earlier in the evening, with a time and location on it. The note bore only a small glyph as signature- anyone who had decent dealings with the criminal element of the world picked up the symbology quite quickly, and the semi-secret language was handy for outsmarting law enforcement. It was signed simply "thief".

Thorne finally arrived at the small courtyard specified in the note, almost exactly on the stroke of midnight. Cliché? Yes. But for some of the more simple-minded people who hired him, the theatrics fit with how they thought a deal with a master thief should go. He slipped out of the shadows onto the gravelled pathway, circling a central statue plinth. His padded boots, and years of practice allowed him to move over it as softly as if he walked on cotton wool. The girl was there, on time, waiting for him. He didn't alert her to his presence right away, his eyes darting over her in an instant; slim, but toned, dark hair, pale skin, relatively tall for one of their race... in all, she resembled him more than a little. He could see by the way she stood that she'd been a hired knife- that sort of grace was an easy marker for those who knew to recognise it. His hand rested at the small of his back, on the hilt of his dagger, wary of any sudden movements; the thief had been hunted by assassins before, so he was always... wary, in their presence. Still, it wasn't paranoia, he told himself, just more common sense. Assassins were paid to murder, after all- he sincerely doubted there were any among them who didn't enjoy their work at least a little.

"I hear you've been asking questions about where to find me," the thief said, barely breaking the silence with his soft voice. He stepped into the dim light shining on the courtyard, his footfalls still deathly silent. He lifted his head, the barest glimmer of light reflecting from his right eye under his heavy hood. "Well here I am. Now, what do you want?"