Prologue: Departing from the Past
He sat on a stool, his arm leaning on the wooden balustrade of a second-floor balcony, overlooking the busy tavern below. Held precariously in his gloved hand was a tankard filled with honey sweet mead, a drink he ignored, merely sloshing its contents around inside the metal cup as he kept bored attention on the ground floor. Namely on man with pale strawberry blond hair and tawny skin, who was sitting amongst a group of unsavory looking fellows. Honestly, he stuck out in a place like this, like a pearl on a stye. Khummal was after all a very good-looking man in both dress and appearance. And while A’hote had met pleasant enough looking rogues none of them could compare to Khummal.
From here he couldn’t hear what they were saying, not that he wanted to honestly. That was Khummal’s business. He’d always been the conversationalist between the two of them. Khummal preferred to joust with words rather than swords, though that wasn’t to say he wasn’t adept at both. When it came to negotiations and such A’hote preferred his current position, waiting for the off chance it all went awry. He was no wordsmith like his companion, he was a killer and a thief. He knew his place well.
Idlily, he whirled his tankard back and forth in his grip, swirling its contents around inside. Despite the crowded atmosphere of the tavern, he heard the steps creeping up behind him. With a sigh he lifted his cup to take a sip before he launched himself from the stool, dropping his tankard to catch the man who tackled him from behind. Using the man’s momentum against himself, A’hote thew him over his shoulder and thus over the railing as well. The man smashing through a wooden table on the ground floor below, the tavern going silent. He caught Khummal looking calmly up at him. The hint of a smile on his handsome face. He wasn’t the only one looking at him now, but he had little time to dwell on that. That man he’d just dumped over the railing was not alone. As he turned, he saw two other men, both cautiously sidling up to him to surround him. He watched as the people who had been sitting near him quickly scuttled out of the way as the man drew near. A’hote braced himself by the railing as the men slinked in closer before suddenly charging him. He deftly dodges out of the way of one of the men, leaving him to run into the railing. The wood letting out a creaking groan at the impact. The other man he caught head on, again using his own momentum against him and throwing him into the other man. The two colliding and stumbling into the railing, again the wood creaked, and the railing wobbled. Without another thought A’hote raised his leg and kicked out, snapping the railing under the men sending them tumbling to the ground below.
Peering over the broken railing he caught the glint of steal, a man near Khummal pulling a dagger from its sheath. It seemed their time for diplomacy was over. Wasting little time, he snatched a tankard from a nearby table and whipped the metal cup, catching the man in his hand causing him to drop the blade. He then jumped from the second-floor balcony just as another man stood, reaching toward his belt. A’hote catching him with his weight and knocking the standing man to the ground. He then unsheathed his own blade and parried another man’s knife, knocking his blade to the side before he lashed out with his fist sending the man stumbling back. Khummal remained where he was seated in his chair, reaching out to pick up his cup. He icked it up just as a man was sent sprawling across the table before him. The legs buckling under his weight and crashing to the floor, sending plates and cups rattling across the stone floor. A’hote grunted as he was grabbed from behind, another man running at him. Using the other man’s grip on him to his advantage he lifted both of his legs and kicked out sending the advancing man sailing backwards. He then struggled against the man who had him in his grip. Khummal slowly stood from his seat, cup in hand. With his cup he struck the man holding A’hote in the back of the head with the edge. Knocking the man out, he released his grip as he swayed before falling.
“I suppose the time for talking has come to an end” Khummal drawled. A’hote wrinkling his nose at him in response.
“What was your first clue?” A’hote snorted before hie attention was pulled towards the gaggle of men slowly climbing to their feet. They looked none too pleased. “Let’s clean this up and get out of here” he muttered before he settled into his stance after withdrawing his other blade.
“I suppose this isn’t salvageable” Khummal complained lowly as he adjusted one of the gloves on his hand, devil may care smile on his face. A’hote giving a small grin in return. He supposed this was better than sitting around watching Khummal’s back. He watched as Khummal conjured a barrier of magic before them, their weapons battering fruitlessly against its surface. A’hote recalled the first time he had encountered magic, Khummal’s magic specifically. He remembered it vividly, it had been early spring, just some odd weeks since A’hote had evaded his previous group. He remembered its vermillion glow as it formed a barrier between himself and in incoming bolt from a crossbow, transparent yet it glistened a marid of warm colors, it reminded him of fire opal, a precious gem he had coveted as a child. At the time he wasn’t sure of what had happened, only that if it had not been for the beautiful barrier that bolt would have surely found its mark in his throat. He had heard tales of magic and those that possess arcane abilities. They were known as Magicians. Though he had never seen it until that day. Granted, before that day he had spent the majority of his time on the outskirts of civilizations, surrounded by cutthroats and a brigands, that was until he freed himself. Until then the idea of magic had been purely fantasy.
Khummal brought those fantasies to life. Amongst ordinary men Khummal was a deity, wielding arcane power to shield and smite. He is ethereal and as beautiful as the magic he wielded.
After dancing amongst their enemies, his blades, red with blood, he looked to Khummal who gave him a cavalier grin. The body cooling at their feet. Back then he thought Khummal and the world of magic to be a beautiful and delightful thing. But like most good things, they must come to an end.
Magic. Was a wicked, and vile thing. And the betrayal it brought was sharper than any blade he had ever known.
