Private Tales Way Home

[Alistair Wren]

The sun bore down on Alistair's back as he walked across a flat plain in the middle of Amol-Kalit. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat, he fanned himself with his sleeve and trudged through the sand, sweat pouring off his brow. A blue sky, bright as a gem, spanned the horizon, split by the line of the desert as Alistair left it behind. Rocks jutted out of the hills, nestled in shrubbery and dry bushes. Having grown up in Elbion, Alistair was used to the heat, but not like this. He had sold his robes to buy a short tunic and trousers because they had just been too hot.

"That pesky demon, curse him for dragging out into the middle of fucking desert," he cursed to himself.

Raising a hand to his brow, Alistair scanned the horizon for the shrine. One of the mages at the college had accidentally released a demon, which had travelled to Amol-Kalit and was causing problems. A rite needed to be performed at a shrine on the bank of the Baal-Asha river to contain it, so Alistair had been sent to locate the shrine and perform the rite. Stopping in the middle of the plain, he sighed, and looked out for the glow it emitted.

He had walked all the way from Elbion, along the same road he would have taken if he was going home. Most of the travelers he encountered were going to the college, young mages seeking to learn or people from distance lands with arcane affinity who wanted to be properly educated.

Fanning himself, Alistair walked along the plain, which sloped downwards into a hill. At its bank, the dance along what he was looking for, the Baal-Asha river. The water rippled beneath the heat and lured Alistair closer, his throat dry and desperate for water. Eyes wide, he picked up his pace and ran forward, the river appearing closer than what it really was. He brushed past shrubs and ran down the hill, then tripped on his boots and stumbled, keeling right over into a ball. He fell onto his knees, tumbled over and rolled down the hill, then collided into a man who had been kneeling at the river bank. Coughing and sputtering, Alistair picked himself up and jumped back, to see the man staring back at him.

Muscle-bound and scarred, with a good assortment of weapons with him, he looked fierce.

Alistair darted backwards, his hat held to his chest, "uhm, sorry, the river, it looked closer than I thought it was!" He stammered.

While tall, Alistair was thin, and pathetic in comparison to this muscle bound figure. Breathing in, he relaxed his shoulders and took a few steps forward, his eyes as dark as the river. Chest heaving up and down, he beheld the man, who stared back. Alistair's eyes trailed down, and he saw that he was injured. There was a gash across his midsection, not deep, but it could still get infected if it wasn't treated. Eyelids lowering, Alistair pointed and tried to speak, but no words came out. He raised a fist to his mouth, coughed, and cleared his throat, then pointed to the wound in the man's side.

"Would you like me to see to that? I'm a healer," Alistair offered, cheeks dented with dimples as he smiled.

 

[Aratus Seldomus]

Stupidity and arrogance.

It's what lead to this situation.

It's also to what lead Aratus watching an idiot roll down a hill.

The Athallian stood up, dropping the herbs and bandages he was packing into his wound. He drew his sword, an interesting blade- known to his people as the Parus blades. Short, and wide- they were designed for extremely-close range combat, with only a singular edge to their blades, and a long, wide end. Deadly on stabbing, but built for hacking and slashing limbs apart with a swift chopping motion.

Quick ends to fights meant quicker victories.

Aratus stood up, blood from the bandits who tried to kill him still on the blade. He was not a fool, or even trusting of anyone in the lands beyond his own. He was an observer, here, a visitor. And there had been fools who tried to take his life. The man in the skirt and cloak, what a fool, they said. Long hair, like a woman- braided. They went after him with a slash, catching him by surprise.

That was the last surprise they got on him.

They were dead, about twenty feet away from Aratus and the healer.

He spoke in a low growl, standing up and tightening the grip on the sword.

"Conveniently you show when they died."

 

[Alistair Wren]

The man growled and Alistair found himself taking a step back. Eyes shifting, he saw the faint trace of blood on the sand, which lead his eyes to several corpses about twenty feet away from where they stood. Alistair froze. Swallowing, he took a gulp and stammered, lowering his head as he tried to laugh. While he had met his fair share of hardened men, hell, he had even gone on a journey with a dreadlord recently, it always unnerved him to encounter one out in the wilderness.

After all, a skinny mage with a cute face who carried potions around was an easy target. There were plenty of men like the one in front of Alistair who would like to cave his skull in, so he remained on his guard.

"Did they attack you?" He asked, pointing to the corpses, "fuckers," he creased his brow and looked away.

The man was bleeding out of his side, and the wound would need to be treated before it got infected. Waggling a hand in the air, Alistair walked over to him, leaned down and dabbed the wound in his side, "sit down, I'll see to this," nodding, he stood at his full height and grabbed a rag from his belt, which he soaked in in a disinfecting potion.

Pressing the rag against the wound, he lightly took the man's hand and pressed it against it, "hold that there, I'll go and find the herbs I need," he instructed, then took off.

Muttering aloud to himself, Alistair sifted through the shrubs in search of the herbs he needed to heal the man. He snatched one, tasted it, and nodded, then pulled out a bunch. The herbs under his arms, he walked back to the river bank where the man was sitting and grabbed a stick. Snapping his fingers, he created a small flame, which he used to light the end with. The stick in hand, Alistair leaned over the man, waving the end near his wound.

"Hold still," he warned, then seared the wound with the flames. Holding his hand above it, he poured in tendrils of blue energy, speaking through the flames and feeding their healing properties into the man's flesh, "light of the sun and the force by which turns it around the earth, sew what is torn," he sang.

Eyelids closing, Alistair weaved the flames into the wound and cleansed it of infection. The blue energy seeped into the man's flesh, mending it. Alistair withdrew his hand and threw the stick in the river, then grabbed the herbs and found two rocks, then started to grind them up. Kneeling in the sand, he crushed the herbs on one of the rocks and looked up to face the man.

"So what are you doing out here? You don't exactly look like you're headed to the college," he asked, an eyebrow raised.

 

[Aratus Seldomus]

Aratus looked back at the dead men- lying where they fell. He went along with the young, squabbling mage's request, and briefly let him treat him, before Aratus narrowed his brow. He could be attempting to poison him as easily as any other. So, after a moment of his wound being treated- Aratus gently pushed the mage off of him, refusing his treatment any further.

The magic caused him enough suspicion as it was. Alltharians were naturally distrusting of magic, and mages in general. Aratus was normally on edge, but the kid put him more on edge rather than relaxing him. The wound being fixed was all well and good, but Aratus trusted no one outside of his city's docks. They all seemed suspicious and conniving to him, an ulterior motive around every corner.

"I have business."

For an Alltharian's answer, that was fairly forthcoming and important- many of his people would have told him to fuck off and go somewhere else. But Aratus, even for an Alltharian- was fairly talkative and friendly. Aratus rose to a stand, and walked to the waters edge, and began to wash his sword, even while his body was dirty and could do with a washing. But that was the way Alltharians were made- the weapon became before the body. The weapon defended the city, the person wielding it was merely a link in the chain.

He turned back to the kid, while scrubbing the bits of blood and... people off of his blade.

"Are you a college man?"

 

[Alistair Wren]

Gently dabbing the man's wound, Alistair sung his dreamy incantation as the man eyed him apprehensively. Before he was finished, however, the man jerked back, not allowing him to treat him any further. The rag in his hand, Alistair took a few steps back and looked up at him plainly, surprised by his refusal, but after thinking about it for a minute it made sense.

"Hey, it's alright, I'm not trying to poison you, I promise," he laughed slightly, his cheeks dented with dimples as he smiled, "I'm not that kind of mage."

Alistair narrowed his eyes, beholding the man from the side, "you're an Alltharian aren't you?" He asked, throwing the rag over his hand. The man looked it, and Alistair recognized his features from when he had traveled through the area, it would also explain his distrust of him using magic.

"Well you don't need to worry, I never use magic to cause harm," Alistair shook his head.

Upon asking the man what he was doing in the middle of the desert, he received only a grunt in return. He was blunt, and not one for words, which caused the chipper young mage to crease his brow in annoyance. He hadn't asked what the business was, so there was no need to be rude about it. Pursing his lips, Alistair rinsed out his rag and set his herbs down, then waved a hand, drawing the power of the sun to him as he prepared to cast an empathetic spell. He knew the man didn't want to be treated, but he didn't care. It wouldn't do for him to catch a fever halfway across the desert.

"Alright then! I was just trying to make conversation, but if you want to mope, be my guest," he shrugged.

A pause followed. Finally, the man said something, something Alistair could respond to.

Perking up, he smiled, his cheeks tinted red, "yes, I am! I double major in healing and conjuring at Elbion, is that where you're headed?" He asked, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

His empathetic senses flared, telling him the man was more interested in the college than his demeanour suggested.

 

[Aratus Seldomus]

Aratus gave the mage a scowl and drew the sword halfway out of it's sheath.

"No magic."

He said gruffly, matter-of-factly even. Athallians were above all else, distrusting and somewhat disliking of the arcane arts. Aratus was no different, in fact, Aratus didn't trust any mage out of sword's reach. He said a lot of things with those two words. That he didn't trust him, that he didn't like magic, and that he would also probably do the same thing he did to the raiders to him if he kept on pushing for him to be treated with his magical sparkly fingers.

Aratus rose to a stand, gathering his things, hoisting the pack back over his back. He began to walk along the river's edge, away from the man. He was in fact, heading to the direction of Elbion. But he didn't bother answer the kid.

But truth be told, the College was going to be a visit from Aratus.

Aratus had business at the business end of a sword in Elbion.