Hargeon.
A bustling port city, filled to the brim with tourists and locals in search of the open-air markets, the allure of foreign imported goods, and the fresh sea air. And that was on a quiet day – which this was anything but. The docks were packed to the proverbial rafters with people on this particular morning, a fact that gave Garlim pause as he approached. Like the others, he too had picked up a flyer for a very special event.
For the first time in centuries, Fiore was opening its borders to outsiders. The Magic Council, in their eternal wisdom, were allowing Fiore’s mages to travel across Earthland to assist those that could afford it and were needy – or just those that could afford it. But morality wasn’t the flavour of the day, and Garlim tended to stray towards the central grey area anyway. This was partially from habit, but mostly because he had little care for the worries of the world around him.
He reached into the top pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small cardboard box. With deft fingers and a practiced motion he flicked open the lid and pulled a cigarette out, positioning one end in his mouth while his other hand rummaged around in his trouser pocket for a small lighter. Flint clicked as he wound the wheel to create flame, and within seconds the acrid smell of burning tobacco filled the air around him. He breathed it in deeply – the sea air had never been his favourite.
With a deep breath, he stepped into the throng of people. Most around him seemed to be simply civilians gawking at the gathered officials, but every now and then he passed a mage as he made his way through the crowded port. One of them rolled a coin across his fingers, displaying an impressive collection of magical rings that Garlim instantly recognised as some basic buffing magics. Weak mages were drawn to these rings for obvious reasons – but they could never stand up to true magic power.
And, as if the thought of magic power summoned a mage to him, another stepped right into his path. This one was considerably more impressive, his long black hair resting almost patiently upon his hugely muscled shoulders. Imprinted onto the back of his left shoulder was a blood red tattoo, one that Garlim could make out anywhere – Sabertooth.
Garlim was, unlike most mages, not a member of a guild. Guild life seemed to him like a waste of time and energy – why work to help others when you could help yourself? Likewise, the Dark Guilds never drew his attention either. They concentrated too much on making others’ lives miserable rather than enhancing their own – no, his ideal scenario was by himself.
Lost in thought, he barely even realised when he reached the front of the crowd. One of the officials looked him up and down before handing him a leather-bound book. ”Magic?”
Garlim grinned, spinning his hand around. A bolt of lightning leapt between his fingers before jumping into the air and disappearing. ”With a certainty.”
Words: 517
A bustling port city, filled to the brim with tourists and locals in search of the open-air markets, the allure of foreign imported goods, and the fresh sea air. And that was on a quiet day – which this was anything but. The docks were packed to the proverbial rafters with people on this particular morning, a fact that gave Garlim pause as he approached. Like the others, he too had picked up a flyer for a very special event.
For the first time in centuries, Fiore was opening its borders to outsiders. The Magic Council, in their eternal wisdom, were allowing Fiore’s mages to travel across Earthland to assist those that could afford it and were needy – or just those that could afford it. But morality wasn’t the flavour of the day, and Garlim tended to stray towards the central grey area anyway. This was partially from habit, but mostly because he had little care for the worries of the world around him.
He reached into the top pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small cardboard box. With deft fingers and a practiced motion he flicked open the lid and pulled a cigarette out, positioning one end in his mouth while his other hand rummaged around in his trouser pocket for a small lighter. Flint clicked as he wound the wheel to create flame, and within seconds the acrid smell of burning tobacco filled the air around him. He breathed it in deeply – the sea air had never been his favourite.
With a deep breath, he stepped into the throng of people. Most around him seemed to be simply civilians gawking at the gathered officials, but every now and then he passed a mage as he made his way through the crowded port. One of them rolled a coin across his fingers, displaying an impressive collection of magical rings that Garlim instantly recognised as some basic buffing magics. Weak mages were drawn to these rings for obvious reasons – but they could never stand up to true magic power.
And, as if the thought of magic power summoned a mage to him, another stepped right into his path. This one was considerably more impressive, his long black hair resting almost patiently upon his hugely muscled shoulders. Imprinted onto the back of his left shoulder was a blood red tattoo, one that Garlim could make out anywhere – Sabertooth.
Garlim was, unlike most mages, not a member of a guild. Guild life seemed to him like a waste of time and energy – why work to help others when you could help yourself? Likewise, the Dark Guilds never drew his attention either. They concentrated too much on making others’ lives miserable rather than enhancing their own – no, his ideal scenario was by himself.
Lost in thought, he barely even realised when he reached the front of the crowd. One of the officials looked him up and down before handing him a leather-bound book. ”Magic?”
Garlim grinned, spinning his hand around. A bolt of lightning leapt between his fingers before jumping into the air and disappearing. ”With a certainty.”
Words: 517
