Nice Weather For Ducks (Solo)

[Oliver]

Prologue

The more time he spent in Radasanth, the deeper Oliver Midwinter questioned his faith. He wandered aimlessly through the streets and strolled pointlessly through the courtyards. Each time he ventured into a new, but long-forgotten nook, he was equally as disappointed. He could not remember. He could not recall. He could not recite.

Albion was becoming a distant memory.

“Even my family,” he sighed remorsefully.

A soft breeze danced through the maze like tunnels of Radasanth, carrying with it the familiar smell of sea, sewer, and silk dye. Though war was still recent in the memories of the island’s populace, its signs were fading from the cityscape. Scaffolding was coming down. Roads opened. Shops were happy to trade long into the night.

“Even my friends…”

He had few of those in the world now. His encounter with the scribe Baxter Arlington (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23922-The-Vociferous-Hunger-(Closed)&highlight=vociferous+hunger) had shattered his confidence. He had difficulty enough opening up to people before his exile, and now it was almost impossible. Save for his mentor, his time passed alone, in thought, and in self-loathing soliloquy. He found sanctuary in abandoned gardens and crumbling temples.

Oliver had searched everywhere. His quest to find his father was proving futile, and no matter how hard he tried, or what information he uncovered about his whereabouts, it never lead anywhere. The name Gideon Midwinter seemed well known amongst the magical community, but perversely, nobody knew the face that went with it. He was a legend, a myth, and perhaps, an illusion.

“Are y’okay, mister?”

Oliver turned to face the intruder. His eyes widened in surprise, but when they saw who was speaking, he relaxed.

“Aye, kid, I’m alright.” He turned back to the cool waters of the ornamental pond, and tossed another stale chunk of his crust at the gaggle of ducks. The boy approached. “I s’pose.”

“Why you doin’ that?” the urchin asked.

Oliver looked quizzically in the direction the boy was pointing. He chuckled.

“I am feeding the ducks.” He stated the obvious with a sudden interest. “It makes ‘em happy.”

The boy walked to the edge of the pond, set a bare foot onto the marble edge, and peered into the water’s below. The pond was sunken, and swallowed up the faded beauty of the courtyard with its still radiant blue bottom. Coins were visible in the depths, obscured by the rippling wake of the frenzied birds.

“Funny things, isn’t they.”

Oliver had to give some thought to the question. He let the idyllic scene steal him away.

“I guess so.”

He had never really thought about ducks in any other way than ‘duck’. Nature, to the sorcerer, was everywhere. It was something to revere, when appropriate, but not to find humorous or mundane. He shrugged, held out his crust to the boy, and cleared his throat. The urchin looked back across his shoulder, and weighed up the offering.

“Is that…for me?” he asked, bright-eyed and bushy tailed.

Oliver shook his head. “You give it to the ducks.” He paused. “Or, you’re supposed to. I guess,” he stood, “you could eat it too, if you’re hungry.”

The boy cocked his head at the bread, as if expecting a trick. There was hesitation, then surprise, and then joy. He snatched it hungrily, and then it dawned on Oliver that the interest in the ducks was a rouse. He smiled.

“What’s your name, kid?” He set his fists onto his hips, stood cocksure, and watched the urchin devour chunks from the bread in a flurry of crumbs.

“Jack,” he said noisily, between scoffs.

[Oliver]

“Where about are you from?”

Jack paused, as if he were about to be run over by a wagon. “I…what’d mean from, sir?” He continued eating gingerly.

Oliver frowned. “Yes, where are you ‘from.’ Where were you born? Where do you live now?”

Jack gestured at the courtyard with arms wide, and then continued eating. Whilst Oliver tried to divine the meaning in his cryptic message, the bread vanished. The ducks quacked boisterously, swarmed at the pond’s edge longingly, and then drifted away disgruntled.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “You’re from Radasanth. Which part?”

Jack frowned. He brushed himself down, removing the crumbs from his grubby, formerly white shirt. “I live on the streets, so I am sort of from all of it.”

Oliver felt guilty. He should have realised.

“Oh, Jack. I am sorry. I just thought…” He trailed off hesitantly.

“S’allright, people do it all the time,” Jack replied with a warming smile.

Standing opposite one another, Oliver took a moment to inspect his newfound friend. Jack was just a little shorter than he was, and thinner. He wore a white shirt, brown slacks, and no shoes. His hair was black, greasy, and unkempt. His face, though bright and cheerful, was grubby with what Oliver hoped was coal dust and day-to-day city grime. He carried himself with guile, arced feet, and a bounce. Whatever circumstances afflicted Jack with bad luck and homelessness, it did not appear to be getting him down.

“You don’t mind them thinking that?”

“They believe what believers aught.”

Oliver furrowed his brow. The boy’s thick accent, strange colloquialism, and heavy mannerisms were becoming difficult to translate. He had picked up one or two turns of phrases since his arrival a year ago, but the city was a melting pot of interaction, personality, and culture. He doubted if he would ever consider it home.

“It’s not right. You can’t help where you live.”

“I like it,” he clucked.

Oliver shrugged. He guessed that if a man was happy with his lot, he was in no place to judge him for it.

“Say…,” he mused. He rubbed his chin. “Do you know anything about wizards?”

“More than you know about ducks,” Jack replied, sharp as a knife.

“Well then…,” Oliver erred. He looked the boy up and down once more. “How about you and I help each other?”

Jack scrutinised Oliver in return, and puckered his lips. He dropped his hands to his sides, breadless.

“Why shu’ I ‘elp you?”

“I really don’t know anything about ducks?” Oliver changed his line of questioning; upon realising Jack was not your everyday street urchin. He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Jack shook his head. “They don’t like bread,” he stated.

“They don’t?”

Jack pointed to the water. “White bread bloats ‘em, and they can die if they eat much. They’re just too stupid t’realise…you know,” he made a gesture that mimicked a large man, “too late.”

Oliver chuckled. “Well, I guess I owe those ducks an apology.” He walked to the edge of the pond, regal attire dancing in the limelight, and cyan hair wavering in the soft breeze that broke into the courtyard through the myriad alleyways, which lead into and out of the long-forgotten sanctuary. “Sorry ducks, I didn’t know!” he heckled.

The ducks turned cautiously. They quacked. They turned away, and continued their chaotic glide over the water. They retained a sense of direction, managing to avoid one another, but did not seem interested in anything other than pecking furtively at the floating bugs and leaves.

“Now…I’ll feed, clothe, and maybe employ you…,” he said, turning back to Jack. He rested his hands on his hips. He peered over the rim of his spectacles. “If you help me find someone I’ll make it worth your while.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, sniffled, and remained silent. It was a sure sign for Oliver to continue, that he was still interested, but not pledged to anything.

[Oliver]

“You live in this city. You’ve probably heard and seen things I could only dream of.” Oliver was certain some of those dreams were nightmares, but he did not want to press the boy for any more harrowing tales of his misfortunes. Life was what life was. “So what do you know about a man called Gideon Midwinter?”

Almost immodestly, Jack’s eyes lit up like candlewicks. He beamed a smile, and let out a laugh that sounded far too rumbustious and mature for his diminutive stature.

“That old goat?” he asked incredulously. “He lives on the northern edge of the city, in a battered old tower.” He danced on his tiptoes, mocking a noble born man, “wearing his haughty taught robes and preaching clandestine mysteries to the orphans, in nit’ wrong, to lord it up like that caus’ ‘e got a beard?”

Oliver remained stoic, expressionless, and reserved.

“Wait…why?” Jack stopped his dance, and fell still.

“Gideon Midwinter is my father, Jack. My name is Oliver Midwinter.”

Jack derived a conclusion.

“I dun’ believe it…!” the urchin exclaimed, gob smacked.

Oliver blinked. “You know about me?”

“I’ve been lookin’ for you for weeks!” The ducks quacked ominously.

Oliver struggled with the information he faced. Circumstances often went against the sorcerer, not along with him. He had been searching for his father for so long now he had started to give up hope, and yet, here Jack was, supposedly with all the answers.

“You’re going to have to forgive me…” he said, matter-of-fact. “I have been trying to find Gideon for a year.”

Jack straightened up, rested his hands on his hips, and beamed a broad, welcoming smile.

“Then its good ya found me!” he half-roared.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t looking for you Jack. You found me, if anything.”

Jack smiled. “I was sent.”

“Wait…” Oliver lurched. “What?”

The courtyard and pond teemed with suspense. The ancient, cracked brickwork of the surrounding buildings seemed to degrade further. The slither of sky visible between the rooftops and the washing line maze danced with the distant promise of sunlight. Somewhere in the beyond, a market place bustled on the fringe of the senses.

Jack tried to sound sincere. “When you put yourself on the roster in the Citadel, One-Eyed Eyre saw the surname.” The boy shrugged. He pointed to a southerly exit. He knew it ventured out onto the frontier boardwalk that connected the Emperor’s palace with the Citadel in question. “Things sort of…came to a head.”

Oliver folded his arms across his chest. His cyan hair danced with a flourish. He felt his tendrils of power reach out for anything to stir to life. He wanted to throw the leaves into the air, throw stones into the pond, and tear fragments off his clothing. He wanted to do anything to vent his anger.

“Take me to him,” he demanded.

“Hey, don’t get snappy with me. You’re the one feeding ducks white bread and moping in the shadows.”

“This is just like him, thinking of himself when he has left everyone in the dark,” Oliver pouted. His restraint failed, and the leaves at his feet began to spiral about his person. When they reached chest height, they eviscerated.

Jack rolled his eyes. “You’re as immature as he said, but alright.” He pointed a second time, as if to make the gesture obvious. “That way, we’ve got a good distance to travel, so get a move on…”

Oliver did not bother to argue further. He turned on a heel, stomped in the indicated direction, and quickened his pace. His head was spinning with incredulity, and his heart pounded in its cage, a rattling rhythm of curiosity mixed with fear. If Pastel’s wise words about his destiny were worth the man’s reputation, then not only was Oliver about to reunite with his father…but come sundown…one of the Midwinter men would be dead.

"At least the ducks got something out of this...," he grumbled.

[Oliver]

Nice Weather For Ducks (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ioudby-xooc)

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DOMzaRxLq3k/UcnUyrKloqI/AAAAAAAAF_8/EtQY5V_4BdM/s1600/Nice+weather+for+ducks.jpg

[Oliver]

Gideon Midwinter’s tower looked like it had once been resplendent. Its buttress and peaked roof were now crooked, and the windows smashed, but here and there, Oliver picked out faded décor and elaborate, yet crumbled statues.

“Well…,” he mumbled. He covered his eyes as he looked up its length one last time.

“Yes, yes,” Jack sighed. He pointed at the thick, dark oak door at the bottom, atop three slate steps. “It is a ‘marvel’, a wonder of Radasanth,” he said sarcastically. “Come on, we’ve done wasted enough time with ya silly country bumpkin distractions.”

The journey from the courtyard across the city was supposed to take half an hour. Every time they ducked in and out of an alleyway and ran out into a new part of Radasanth, Oliver found it difficult not to stand, take the time, and stare. He had to try each new delicacy, browse each new street corner stall, and stop to listen to folk singers, troubadours, and sooth Sayers and doom speakers.

“Hey,” Oliver said sharply. He held out a hand, so that when Jack turned with a sour expression, he knew to wait. “Look…,” he trailed off.

“If you need time, take it.” Jack rested his hands on his hips, and tapped his toes on the moist cobbles. Oliver knew that it was not likely to be dew or rain. “I’ll be inside.”

The urchin did not wait for further comment. He skitter leaped over the street, up the steps, and turned the lion’s head handle that was set into the wood. He slipped into the darkness revealed by the opening of the portal, and left Oliver behind.

“Okay…,” Oliver mumbled. He stared at the cobbles for a few minutes, to gather his thoughts.

Now that he was here, after such a long and harrowing journey, his grandiose and pious speech left his memory. All the things he wanted to say to the man he had hated for so many years became distant echoes, half-formulated shouts and cries, and stabs in the dark. He looked up at the door, gingerly biting his lip, and glanced left and right down the street. The crumbling walls that lined the boulevard and the ivy trellis barely held the avenue together.

Everything was falling apart.

He stepped forwards, soles slapping against cold stone, and made his way to the foot of the tower. As he approached, its heights began to cast shade across the youth, until the humidity of the last light of day faded, and a cool, mysterious air fell over him. When Jack had said it was crumbling, he had not been lying. Whatever purpose it served in the past, it had long since outgrown it. The stonework was decaying, the metalwork rusty, and the once sturdy and erect structure looked as if a strong wind could bring it crashing down.

“No turning back now,” he re-assured himself.

He reached out for the handle as he arrived, turned it, and stepped into the smoky beyond.

[Oliver]

The interior of Gideon Midwinter’s residence was everything Oliver did not expect. Instead of clean, glistening, academic bliss, he found dusty squalor and abandonment. Beyond the door, there was a narrow hallway, leading off into the dark.

“Hello?” he shouted meekly.

When no reply came, he set his loose items down on the table to his left, and hung his demi-cloak on the hat stand, noticeably missing any hats. The antiquated nature of the exterior continued to the interior, and the lack of care unnerved Oliver deeply.

“In here!” a voice shouted from the beyond. It was faint, indicating it was a long way off in the catacombs below.

Oliver shrugged. He had come too far to back down now. He trudged forwards, cautiously, and picked out the detail of the corridor in the gloom cast by the bracketed torches that lined the crumbling plaster walls. There were faded murals on either side, depicting great battles between what appeared to be mages, demons, and darker things still. The art was so faded; it was hard to make detail out. Oliver doubted wherever or not he would recognise their significance anyway.

He liked to look forwards these days, not back.

The corridor sloped downwards, to the extent that Oliver wondered if Gideon inhabited the tower at all. It became cool, and despite the claustrophobic atmosphere, the air remained clear and fresh. Oliver’s tailored suit began to feel, despite the tepid nature of the room, like entirely too much. His forehead beaded with sweat, though perhaps more through nerves than discomfort.

Gingerly, he reached out to the wall, and ran his fingers delicately along the rough plaster. He felt outwardly, his senses tingling, picking up every heartbeat unseen, and every sound unheard that gave the tower’s depths vibrancy and an air of mystery. Something about it suggested it was alive. Something about it reminded him of the Creed – the threefold law that bound man with nature, and nature with the foolish whims of man.

The corridor finally ended, and an archway set with a thick, ironbound door barred Oliver’s path. It was slightly ajar, but etitquite and good upbringing prevented him from simply pushing it aside and walking brazenly into the beyond.

“Excuse me?” he enquired, tapping on the frame above the door handle as if his life depended on it.

The handle, he noted, was styled similarly to the front door. The lion was life-like, formed from steel, and glistened with what Oliver could clearly see was a magical aura. He assumed a ward of some sort, and thought better than to turn it uninvited.

“Come in," a cold, disinterested voice replied. Oliver was not sure if the speaker was half-asleep, or the door was thicker than he imagined.

He turned the handle. It did not object.

“Raw!” it went, consenting to the intrusion, and swinging inwards on its bestial hinges.

Oliver blinked.

“I…,” he mumbled.

There was an awkward pause. The handle looked up at the newcomer with scrutiny.

“Well?” it began, in a baritone voice, “are you coming in or not?”