Shifter
10-08-06, 07:58 PM
“You’re going to do what?!”
Spit flew freely from Yrian Nott’s lips as he yelled at his protégé. The youth had just revealed his plans to aid the Corone Navy in retrieving cargo suspected to have been lost at the hands of saboteurs. Thomas Young had never known his master to be an aggressive man, but there was nothing short of intense anger etched on every crease upon his aged face. The Employment Kiosk had been responsible for his finding out that the armed naval forces of the island continent were hiring for a mission of great importance and proportionate dangers. He had believed it would go down smoother with his mentor that he wished to join them and use their shared powers for a purpose other than training or sustenance.
“It-it’s only a retrieval mission,” Tom stammered.
“I truly hope you’re saying that for my benefit,” Yrian retorted with poison in every syllable, “because I did not raise you to be a fool. Why would the Corone Navy employ mercenaries if it didn’t anticipate their need for the retrieval’s success? Mark my words, there’s more to this than what they’ll tell the hired help.”
Tom couldn’t think of a satisfactory response to this. Even the man at the Employment Kiosk had expressed his suspicion that there was more to it all than met the eye. The official story was that the three ships they were going to salvage had run aground in an archipelago in Corone’s northern waters after a particularly nasty storm. What was not public knowledge were the contents of their shipment. Corone had recently purchased cannons from the drow nation in an effort to better arm themselves. Therefore, this cargo’s misplacement brought with it deep connotations that reverberated to the very foundation of Corone’s government. Someone didn’t want them to get the cannons. The question was, who?
“You’re right,” Tom blurted out, his eyes beginning to glow a violent green. “I do expect more of this. And what’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong with that,” Yrian’s voice rose, “is that I don’t train you so you can become a faceless soldier fighting to satisfy someone else’s agenda!”
“Why do you train me, then?” Tom replied with equal volume as he raised his hands to show the black circles on his palms that were the source of his unique abilities. “What’s the point of the hours of learning to use these if not for practical application?”
Yrian’s eyes blazed magenta in reply and the temperature in the room jumped upward several degrees. They were in the old man’s shop in the Bazaar District, surrounded by weapons and armor he had made himself. The door was closed and only a small square window allowed air to enter. Yrian seemed about to strike the boy in temper. There was no doubt in Thomas’ mind who the victor would be if the two clashed, but he would not back down simply because defeat was inevitable. He was too stubborn for that. Sweat began pouring down his forehead and into his eyes. He could taste the salt as the two transients faced off in silence, but he would not show discomfort before his master’s display of power.
“The kind of application you are talking about is what tore our homeland apart,” Yrian spoke in a forced calm voice after some time, allowing the temperature in the room to drop slightly. “It is such things that your mother sacrificed herself for to keep you from.”
Rather than follow suit and cool off as well, Thomas became enraged that the old man had thought to bring her into it. A single tear joined the many droplets of sweat that had been abiding by gravity’s call upon his face, though he refused to acknowledge it and allowed it to roll down mutely. Without a word, he turned around and opened the shop door outward to a buzzling Radasanthian scene. At the doorway, he paused. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but he wanted to hurt Yrian somehow; to wound him in turn. Frustrated at his inability to utter the perfect comeback, the youth raised his palm to the door. A gust of wind picked up suddenly and slammed it hard behind the boy.
Spit flew freely from Yrian Nott’s lips as he yelled at his protégé. The youth had just revealed his plans to aid the Corone Navy in retrieving cargo suspected to have been lost at the hands of saboteurs. Thomas Young had never known his master to be an aggressive man, but there was nothing short of intense anger etched on every crease upon his aged face. The Employment Kiosk had been responsible for his finding out that the armed naval forces of the island continent were hiring for a mission of great importance and proportionate dangers. He had believed it would go down smoother with his mentor that he wished to join them and use their shared powers for a purpose other than training or sustenance.
“It-it’s only a retrieval mission,” Tom stammered.
“I truly hope you’re saying that for my benefit,” Yrian retorted with poison in every syllable, “because I did not raise you to be a fool. Why would the Corone Navy employ mercenaries if it didn’t anticipate their need for the retrieval’s success? Mark my words, there’s more to this than what they’ll tell the hired help.”
Tom couldn’t think of a satisfactory response to this. Even the man at the Employment Kiosk had expressed his suspicion that there was more to it all than met the eye. The official story was that the three ships they were going to salvage had run aground in an archipelago in Corone’s northern waters after a particularly nasty storm. What was not public knowledge were the contents of their shipment. Corone had recently purchased cannons from the drow nation in an effort to better arm themselves. Therefore, this cargo’s misplacement brought with it deep connotations that reverberated to the very foundation of Corone’s government. Someone didn’t want them to get the cannons. The question was, who?
“You’re right,” Tom blurted out, his eyes beginning to glow a violent green. “I do expect more of this. And what’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong with that,” Yrian’s voice rose, “is that I don’t train you so you can become a faceless soldier fighting to satisfy someone else’s agenda!”
“Why do you train me, then?” Tom replied with equal volume as he raised his hands to show the black circles on his palms that were the source of his unique abilities. “What’s the point of the hours of learning to use these if not for practical application?”
Yrian’s eyes blazed magenta in reply and the temperature in the room jumped upward several degrees. They were in the old man’s shop in the Bazaar District, surrounded by weapons and armor he had made himself. The door was closed and only a small square window allowed air to enter. Yrian seemed about to strike the boy in temper. There was no doubt in Thomas’ mind who the victor would be if the two clashed, but he would not back down simply because defeat was inevitable. He was too stubborn for that. Sweat began pouring down his forehead and into his eyes. He could taste the salt as the two transients faced off in silence, but he would not show discomfort before his master’s display of power.
“The kind of application you are talking about is what tore our homeland apart,” Yrian spoke in a forced calm voice after some time, allowing the temperature in the room to drop slightly. “It is such things that your mother sacrificed herself for to keep you from.”
Rather than follow suit and cool off as well, Thomas became enraged that the old man had thought to bring her into it. A single tear joined the many droplets of sweat that had been abiding by gravity’s call upon his face, though he refused to acknowledge it and allowed it to roll down mutely. Without a word, he turned around and opened the shop door outward to a buzzling Radasanthian scene. At the doorway, he paused. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but he wanted to hurt Yrian somehow; to wound him in turn. Frustrated at his inability to utter the perfect comeback, the youth raised his palm to the door. A gust of wind picked up suddenly and slammed it hard behind the boy.