[Warning: Language]
"WANTED
"Adventurers and Heros to Save a Land from Ruin
"Have you ever wanted to be the savior of a remote land? Do risks never daunt you? Do you have experience working in remote mid-level magic lands? Do you want to earn *20,000,000 klikets* without having to wear a suit and tie?
"Come to Media and apply for the position of Champion and the opportunity to purge a land of the evil currently ravaging its people! Magic users and non-magic users welcome! All expenses paid. Full payment rendered upon the completion of the task.
"Fiends need not apply.
"To apply for this position, please report to the RAG STREET CAFE in West Angel City at 3:00 Monday, Tiran 15 (Pooooooooooora 457, Itsarg 2 Milaaka 23, Phlarg 45, Angel City 4.2.33.097). Make a toast to Media."
In a railway station between the Draconiati Terra Mandate and the Nexus proper, a train pulls in. The red paint on the prow of a E90 is merged with several splashes of crushed flesh, and the creak of the rusted wagons is only topped by the objections of the alternator. As a whole, the 2630 to Nexus Unity is a clear rendition of Governor Shra'drakaii's homeland policy: "They're humans, and if I don't have them extinct by 1350, you can have my salary back!"
A headstrong young male dragon steps out of the wagon and storms down the platform, his face buried in the projection of the Gralathabad Guardian-Gargoyle. With a start, he trips on someone's tentacle. He flies across the platform, and his PDA lands two metres in front of him. The projection screen reports:
"To apply for this position, please report to the RAG STREET CAFE in West Angel City at 3:00 Monday, Tiran 15 (Pooooooooooora 457, Itsarg 2 Milaaka 23, Phlarg 45, Angel City 4.2.33.097). Make a toast to Media."
"Twenty million... what is that in real money?", he asks himself. It's been six months since his last job, and social welfare has a problem, namely, that the money loses its value before he can use it. He peeks at the currency-exchange booth and reads a figure from a large digital board. Sixty kopecks coin per klikkit, 300 000 000 roubles paper. Nice.
The dragon walks over to the ticket stall. In the window is a ball of tentacles that hovers 125cm from the floor. He drops a wad of paper on the desk and says "Tiran 15, half". The tentacles are silent. He repeats himself. The tentacles are still silent. He pulls a staff from a strap on his back and points it at the ball. He announces "This is rated to forty thousand bassamack peak output. You'd feed me for a month just fine. Now sell me a ticket to Tiran 15!" The ball squirms and a ticket appears from the dispenser.
Platform 29 is well into the Nexus. The dragon idly notes the Confederate flag on the Santa Fe P32-8BWH's nose, but figures it's the least odd stock here. The wagons are all open-air carraiges, the best for compatibility with a wide range of species.
As the train descends into a mist that cloaks his neighbours, the dragon surveys the people aboard, and theorises about where they came from. "Gravity as 2.0 instead of 6.99", "Planet of Hak Foo clones", and "Laptop with the soul of its owner" make him snicker softly as the consist pulls to a stop.
The warrior waddles out the station and makes his way to the cafe, despite several fun dialect problems that result in his responsibility for six murders.
He pounds the restaurant counter and screams "A cup of human blood!" When it (or a reasonable facsimile) arrives, he yells "To the Media, especially the Voice of Draconiat Survivor: Chornobyl".
He misses the point.
He walks into the cafe, which looks more like a tavern on the inside, wearing a heavy grey cloak with the hood pulled over his face to block the wind. The stranger removes his hood and reveals a sour mustachioed face and a crazed look in his eye. He pulls the cloak around his blade, so as to not draw attention to himself.
"Whad'ya have?" the barkeep asks.
"A mug of your strongest ale."
The bartender continuse, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you have a lot on your mind, newcomer."
The stranger replies, "first, I lose a duel with that prick I used to call a collegue, then my family disowns me for not doing anything afterwards. What a bloody mess I'm in now. What is it worth? We're born, we suffer, we die."
The stranger continues, mockingly, apparently forgetting that the bartender is even there. " 'Magyar, do this. Magyar, why are you a failure? Magyar, what must you do to reclaim yourself?' Bah! I don't need any of this!"
"Barkeep, another ale, for the love of Media! (such worthless help around these parts today; 'tis a wonder anything gets done.) Well, Media, whatever you bring me, I welcome it with open arms. Cheers."
The young woman sitting on the short brick wall didn't seem to notice as her bus stopped in front of her, let off a few people (well, "people" is a relative term"), and left. She looked like a fairly normal human somewhere between the ages of 20 and 25. Over her dark green eyes she wore a pair of small oval-framed glasses. Her hair was brown and unruly but short. She was wearing faded denim jeans and a black t-shirt with white arcane-looking letters on it. On the front it said, "When you find yourself in the company of a halfling and an ill-tempered dragon, remember you do not have to outrun the dragon..." and the back read, "... you just have to outrun the halfling." Around her waist was a small belt with a multitude of holsters for various pieces of electronic equipment, including one that was attached to a cord that ran up her shirt to a small pair of headphones that were resting around her neck. Sitting beside her on the wall was a dark brown leather jacket and a blue backpack with a multitude of patches on it that proclaimed messages such as "There's no place like 127.0.0.1," "Insufficient Memory," and "Why, oh why didn't I take the blue pill?". She was typing on a laptop that sat in front of her, and this was where her appearance began to differ from that of the average human. She was leaning back with her hands on the wall behind her, typing with her feet, which were not really feet at all. From the bottom of each leg where one might expect to find a foot sprang instead a hand, simian style. Adding to the monkey metaphore was a prehensile tail that was casually wrapped around one of the backpack straps. Like the rest of her body it was furless, except for a small tuft on the end that actually made it look more like a lion's tail than a monkey's.
As the bus sped off, leaving a cloud of blue smoke behind, the woman looked up. She stared at it's exhaust cloud for a moment, then calmly muttered, "Damnit," and looked back down at her laptop. She was looking at a page on the Multinet (one version of the Nexus internet she had discovered) that proclaimed:
"WANTED
"Adventurers and Heros to Save a Land from Ruin
"Have you ever wanted to be the savior of a remote land? Do risks never daunt you? Do you have experience working in remote mid-level magic lands? Do you want to earn *20,000,000 klikets* without having to wear a suit and tie?
"Come to Media and apply for the position of Champion and the opportunity to purge a land of the evil currently ravaging its people! Magic users and non-magic users welcome! All expenses paid. Full payment rendered upon the completion of the task.
"Fiends need not apply.
"To apply for this position, please report to the RAG STREET CAFE in West Angel City at 3:00 Monday, Tiran 15 (Pooooooooooora 457, Itsarg 2 Milaaka 23, Phlarg 45, Angel City 4.2.33.097). Make a toast to Media."
"Well," the woman muttered to herself as she glanced at her watch, "Looks like I'm going to have to take a rickshaw anyway." She snapped the laptop shut with her feet and slid it into her backpack. Hoisting it and her jacket onto her shoulder, she hopped down from the wall. Her walk was unmistakably simian, more of a scamper than a walk really, as she used her empty arm as another leg, but when she stopped at the curb to hail a taxi she stood up as straight as any human, though she barely reached 4'5.
Fifteen minutes later the rickshaw left her off at the Rag Street Cafe. She entered the place cautiously and looked around. Not sure what she was looking for, the little woman made her way to the bar and ordered an iced tea. She shrugged, raised the glass, and said, "To Media!"
A mysteriously figure cloaked in black walks into the cafe and surveys the customers. Putting down a well-worn bag of spell-components, she asks for a glass of water. Silently, she sips from the glass for a few moments, collecting her thoughts. Raising the now-half full glass, she intones, "To Media, may her ruler be just what she needs." She drinks again.
In a quiet, mostly forgotten corner of Angel City, a lone figure flips through the Angel City Chronicle, spread out atop a picnic table in the nearly empty park.
"Damn. This town is a wasteland as far as jobs go," he mutters, absently scratching at the scarred tissue covering much of the left side of his face, a stark contrast to the professional model looks of the other half. "You'd think in a place like the Nexus there'd be a job opening for a professional mercenary."
His eyes stop at one of the larger ads on the page. "Hmm, what have we here...?" he quietly asks the silent park.
"WANTED
"Adventurers and Heros to Save a Land from Ruin
"Have you ever wanted to be the savior of a remote land? Do risks never daunt you? Do you have experience working in remote mid-level magic lands? Do you want to earn *20,000,000 klikets* without having to wear a suit and tie?
"Come to Media and apply for the position of Champion and the opportunity to purge a land of the evil currently ravaging its people! Magic users and non-magic users welcome! All expenses paid. Full payment rendered upon the completion of the task.
"Fiends need not apply.
"To apply for this position, please report to the RAG STREET CAFE in West Angel City at 3:00 Monday, Tiran 15 (Pooooooooooora 457, Itsarg 2 Milaaka 23, Phlarg 45, Angel City 4.2.33.097). Make a toast to Media."
"Let's see, how much is 20 megaklikets in real money," he mumbles as he pulls a simple pocket calculator from the breast pocket of his light gray windbreaker. The resultant figure makes him whistle appreciatively. "Now _that_ is a fair bit of pocket change. Don't even have to portal to get to the place."
With a deceptively casual ease, he folds the paper, and stands to stretch. Any random observer would see a relatively tall human, a little over six feet tall, and more athletic than most but not the bulky muscles of a weightlifter. With the help of a comb extracted from another pocket, he tries -- mostly in vain, with the gusting wind blowing through the clearing -- to tame his short, crimson hair, finally admitting defeat and putting the comb away.
The newspaper drops into the nearest trash receptacle as he strolls towards the nearest taxi stand, whistling a tune that vaguely resembles an Irish folk tune from more than a few realities.
Ten minutes and a hectic cab ride later, he steps into the Rag Street Cafe, and looks around at the crowd, as if surveying it for possible threats. The cloaked woman, the simian, and the male with the crazed eyes all get passing inspections. By whatever the standards, they are apparently deemed to not be threats.
The dragon, on the other hand, earns a brief scowl for his existence, before the man's neutral "business face" drops back into place. I know who not to let behind me, he thinks crossly, weaving through the tables and their occupants to the bar, and orders an ice water.
The glass rises above his head as he says "To Media, the creators of this stupid recognition phrase," his raspy voice loud enough to be heard in the farthest corners of the room, but still well short of a yell.
Having fulfilled the instructions in the ad, he finds a table near the wall but not too far from the middle of the room, and drops into a chair to watch the room, leaning his chair back against the wall out of habit.
The five heros-to-be both eye each other and avoid looking at each other, waiting. A dirty clock on the ceiling above the bar ticks eerily. The café is nearly empty aside from the adventurers and, as time passes, the silence grows.
Three o'clock comes. And goes.
A few seconds later, the adventurers find themselves in another bar. Dirty, dark, and dank, it has the air of long disuse. Dust stirs up into the air whenever the adventurers move. There is no one else, and the two lit lamps are the only indication that they are expected.
Then a small, thin, pallid man stepped slowly through the only doorway. His hands were wringing each other and, as he saw the five newcomers he started nodding.
"Um, H-hello. I'm Tharles. Um, welcome to Media!" He says, pronouncing it "me-DEE-ah." His nodding head is a slight distraction and, if anything, his hands are wringing each other even more desperately than before.
The simian woman sneezes and wipes some stray dust off of her jacket before jumping down from her barstool and scampering up to Tharles. "Name's Lindy Kobeck, but everyone calls me Tech," she says, extending a hand. "Hacker, technologist, electrician, and general handywoman at your service."
Now that she is close enough to see clearly, Tech sees that Tharles' face is pinched, the nose a little too long, and the cheekbones showing. He accepts her hand with his own, warm and sticky with sweat. He replies, "Um, nice to- to meet you, um, Miss Tech."
"Just 'Tech,' please," Tech says, giving her friendliest smile to Tharles.
The cloaked figure takes his hand off his sword after regaining his orientation. "Ah yes, lovely. Just as I thought I couldn't stoop to a lower position, here I am, Magyar the fencer, Magyar the thinker and riddle-solver, stuck in a bloody shack."
After a minute of looking around and ruminating on his past, Magyar strokes his goatee and says, "Greetings, Tharles. My name has been Magyar for as far back as I can imagine, but given the way things are going now, I may as well leave that name behind me. I take it you are either not from around here or you have some trickery for us to solve? Perhaps both?"
Tharles winces at the comment about the "bloody shack," but replies, "Yes, yes, um, yes." The handshake with Tech completed, he returns to wringing his hands.
The merc blinks at the teleportation, then shrugs, finishing off the glass of water that was in his hand. He sits quietly in his (now) exceedingly uncomfortable chair, waiting for the others to introduce themselves, frowning a moment at Magyar's introduction.
Just great, the merc crossly thinks to himself, silent while Magyar speaks. Another fucking idiot newbie. I'm getting tired of these rank amateur sons of bitches with chips the size of planets on their shoulders.
The woman doesn't look half-bad, in spite of being part chimp, though, he adds after a moment's thought. A mental chuckle follows the addition. Not that humans are that far removed from chimps, genetically, he reminds himself.
The man rises from his seat, empty glass left on the dusty table. While walking closer, he idly dusts off some of the splotches of dirt from the tavern.
"Patrick O'Donnell," the merc offers, along with an abbreviated but polite nod of the head towards Tharles. Matching to the name and color of hair is his accent, a soft, subtle Irish brogue underlying the clipped English with which he speaks. "General ne'er-do-well, with assorted skills in various things. Oh, and a general contractor -- what some would call a mercenary -- for seven years."
Apparently having said all that he wishes to say, Patrick falls silent, simply waiting for the other introductions and instructions from their employer.
In a deliberately loud voice, Irkan responds, "What say I blast you back to Saratov Yards, hairless monkey, and take the twenty million now?" The comment is intended at Thrames, and as a general insult to humanforms. He hadn't even noticed the ape-woman as an oddity. He supposes there are places in Europe with twelve-armed humans, as far as he knows.
The simian woman turns quickly to the Draconiati, face angry and mouth open as if to say something, but when she sees that he is talking to Tharles her expression turns to confusion. Then she seems to realize what happened and begins chuckling. She scampers back to a barstool and perches on it, leaning against the bar.
Realizing that his approach was not the most diplomatic-- a planned move to enhance his appearance of valour, he announces himself.
"Irkan Gralath. Communications and Mass Murder. Solely here because Commander Bloodlust in Gralathabad no longer believes an infrastructure is worthwhile", he snarls, assault to his own politics. What value was a year of study in network construct theory when the last live network link on the planet was some jerk's 802.11k hotspot?
The cloaked figure takes his hand off his sword after regaining his orientation. "Ah yes, lovely. Just as I thought I couldn't stoop to a lower position, here I am, Magyar the fencer, Magyar the thinker and riddle-solver, stuck in a bloody shack."
After a minute of looking around and ruminating on his past, Magyar strokes his goatee and says, "Greetings, Tharles. My name has been Magyar for as far back as I can imagine, but given the way things are going now, I may as well leave that name behind me. I take it you are either not from around here or you have some trickery for us to solve? Perhaps both?"
Tharles' mouth hangs open and for a moment it is debatable which of his knees or his hands--now wringing themselves more desperately than ever--will give out first. As a man whose sole purpose and existence up until recently had been focused on making candles out of animal products, he is far out of his field of expertise. Considering the limited access Media has to Nexus and the little need Nexans have for Median products (none), Tharles has very likely never set eyes on a non-humanoid intelligent creature until now.
The mysteriously cloaked woman opens her mouth to introduce herself... after having regained her hearing from the draconite's attempt at diplomacy.
Just when it seems that his eyes will pop out of his head before his knees or hands give way, a form moves in the shadows and speaks in a deep, silky voice, "Perhaps, Tharles, you should take them to the regent."
Irkan snorts with hilarity. No wonder these people hired mercenaries. These people would run from a Black Front First Level (political indoctrination preschool field trip).
The Draconiati clatters with the rest of the party, and seems somewhat disappointed when there is no view of a leader in the fortress. Ma'graialen the Dark would never hide.
The mage keeps her garments close to her in an effort to keep them from being blown this way and that. Perhaps ahead the true details of this quest would be revealed...she can determine if it is worth her effort and then introduce herself...
The mercenary's eyes narrow slightly, as he peers into the darkness that spawned the shadowy form. Finally, someone with at least a hint of a clue, he thinks with a mental snort at Tharles' apparent lack of spine.
Tharles jerks and stares at the man like a rat jerking to watch a piece of bread that just fell to the ground several feet away. "Oh, um, yes, of course, sir. Um, this way. If you thank--I mean please." He gives pitiful half bows, his eyes darting to look at the man in the shadows, and gestures unceremoniously toward the door.
It leads into what looks like the lower halls of a castle. As with all structures of its magnitude, there is a significant draft and the torches set in the walls blow wildly one way, then the other. There is no significant odor except for the most sensitive of noses, which pick up a scent of decay.
Walking slowly to follow, O'Donnell falls towards the rear of the procession, head turning from side to side, his measuring gaze taking in the surroundings. Beats listening to the bullhorn wrapped in an over-glorified luggage set, he comments to himself.
Magyar lets out a slightly disgusted grunt at Tharles' obvious nervousness.
"Is our friend in the shadows going to join us on this jaunt to the regent?" he asks, anxious to move on out of this dark, dusty dusthole. While he has relaxed his guard some, Magyar keeps a careful watch about the place, especially after he missed the knowing shadowy figure. He gets a sinking feeling in his gut, but resolves to follow Tharles and find out what future lays in store for him.
There is little left for him at home; no job, no family, no honour. "Perhaps I can start anew in Media," he thinks. "Whatever happens cannot be worse than what has brought me to now. If I get through this job alive, then I am rich, nothing to worry about for a long while...perhaps I could even open a tavern of my own. If I die, I die. No one will miss me except me. What the hell."
Tech walks on all fours slowly into the hall, looking at the torches. "This is gonna be a low-tech trip, isn't it?" she says, a hint of disappointment in her voice.
Irkan validates Tech's assumption by softly working a few buttons on his PDA. An angry, but muffled sound from his pouch announces "Service level error machine words per cycle" Cruft.
In an attempt to buy a little more tolerance from his "comrades", he offers the toy to Tech. "Here. " He himself liked technical toys, and if he got the promised million raven, he'd be stopping at Sim Lim Square as soon as the local authority could find a 7E7 that the governor had NOT rammed into the Statue of Liberty.
"Not working?" Tech asks, accepting the PDA. She examines it, poking buttons.
O'Donnell looks on curiously as the simian girl examines the dragon's PDA. "Low-tech world, hmm?" he mutters to himself. "Good thing I left the railgun behind. Thing's a bitch to carry anyhow," he concludes with a chuckle, subconsciously checking the pistol in the shoulder holster under his windbreaker. Hope the physical laws here aren't screwy as well, he thinks. Having a nuclear explosion in one's hand would rather suck.
"Well, there's only so much you can do without a network connection. The position-satelite probably is about... 750 years from launch.", the drake chuckles.
As Tech operates the PDA, it pops to life offering images that look like 1999's Palm Pilots. In a fearsome testament to Irkan's clutter mindset, he has yet to clear out "11-Gir-1298, 1600 cycles: Final exam" Irkan keeps his face bent into a hideous Draconiati smirk. The projection screen is projecting the startup display onto Tech's head. It says "Property of Irkan Gralath, 115 Akal Protari Road, Phoenix 35.
Tech shrugged. She had stood up on her back two hands so she could use the other two hands to play with the PDA, and was slowly walking up the stairs in a more-or-less human fashion. "Well, if the lack of a network's your problem then there's not much I can do about it," she said, handing the electronic device back. Apparently she misunderstood the gesture and thought Irkan wanted her to fix it.
Irkan refuses the device. "I don't need it-- perhaps you'd find some bemusement in it. It's got several farads of capacitors in it..." he states, almost musically. "That freak realtor leaves a new one every year on the doorstep with his emblem on it..."
Tharles leads the group to a series of staircases and takes them up three flights. On the final level they find the inhabited level of the castle. Slits cut in the walls allow for small amounts of morning light to shine through--apparently Nexus café time is not the same as Media time--and more frequent lit torches help allow their eyes relax in their attempts to see clearly. The walls are made of some rough-cut stone of no special variety and, despite some of the castles the adventurers might have seen or heard of, completely bare of tapestries or other decorations.
The unnamed man from the shadows follows at the rear, well behind the last adventurer. He clearly has no intentions of engaging in their conversation, but is obviously following them to their destination.
"Oh, all right," Tech says, glancing at the PDA again. "If you're sure you don't want it." She reaches over her shoulder and unzips a pouch on her backpack, slipping the PDA inside. All four hands free again (she had put on her jacket in the drafty hallway), she proceeds to scamper backwards down the line of prospective adventurers until she sees the mysterious man who had spoken to Tharles from the shadows earlier. She walks on all fours besides him. "Hello," she says to him. "I don't believe I've caught your name..."
The man is just taller than medium height and wears a black cloak, which accounts for the ease with which he had hidden in the shadows. His face is scarred as if it had once been attacked with chicken or small pox and his expression is firmly controlled. He gives the impression of a man completely in control of himself and his environment.
He glances down at Tech, then replies in his silky voice, "Name's Simon. An advisor to the regent."
Tharles leads them around a corner and into view of a maid, who scurries away through a door after half a curtsy and with a worried expression on her face.
"Pleasure to meet you, Simon," Tech says, standing up on her back legs and offering Simon a hand to shake, putting on her most pleasant smile.
Simon glances at the hand and, after an instant of hesitation, takes it. "The pleasure's all mine," he responds unexpectedly. A smile flashes across his face. "Not all of us are un-technically oriented. Your skills may come in very useful," he assesses. That silkiness still pervades his voice, providing an eerie contrast to his words.
"Well that's good to hear," Tech says. "I thought all this stuff was gonna go to waste," she says, hefting her bag. There's a sound of metal and plastic objects clunking around inside. "Well, I guess it's not like I just bought it all for this job. A girl's gotta have her hobbies. But it's still good to hear."
O'Donnell's head twitches upon hearing Simon's words, his mental attention turning to focus more on the shadowy advisor, although his eyes continue their sweep of the path leading towards their meeting with the regent.
This promises to be... interesting, O'Donnell says silently to himself. Good thing my life insurance is paid up and I thought to get that 'adventurer clause' added.
Simon simply continues walking, the slightest smile on his face.
They arrive in a much more lively hall--tapestries, musicians, dancers, servants scurrying with food trays, tall but not so wide windows with thick panes that scatter the morning light across the hall. The sunlight mingles with the torchlights and fires in hearths down the length of the hall, aided by the brilliant gold and red decorations. The noise is almost cacophonous, but at the same time much more pleasant to the music-loving ears than the silence they had left.
Irkan's ears do not love the music of a crowd that could easily contain a concealed knife. He heads for the centre of the party, a strive to keep away from harm.
For some, however, the noise is less welcome than silence. O'Donnell mostly manages to hide his dislike of the large crowd, but not completely. There could be at least half a dozen assassins in here, the mercenary judges after looking around at the crowd, and no one would know till the knife slips in. All you need is a blade and a Cause. An arrow or bullet will suffice in a pinch.
Tharles is wringing his hands again, glancing with an obvious self-consciousness right, left, right. As they approach, the adventurers can see the guards lined up across the hall at the far end, blocking the entertainers from the steps leading to the throne. Tharles wrings his hands, sweats, and practically tiptoes past the guards. They make no move to stop him or the adventurers, but their eyes follow with obvious worry and suspicion.
"Interesting," Patrick mutters, ignoring any queries as to what drew his attention. Cannon fodder, he adds silently, with a mental snort of contempt for the guards.
Simon, however, melts away into the crowd nearby.
There are two thrones of gold in the gold- and red-colored hall. One is occupied by a white-haired boy, barely a teenager if that. His face is alert and his regal demeaner almost masks his youth.
The other is occupied by a stinking heap covered with a soiled cloak. His head is down so that his matted pepper-gray hair falls down over his face. He appears to either be asleep or so sick that he has no energy to lift himself up. The boy's repeated worried glances in his direction imply that the latter is true.
Tharles manages to make it up the steps without tripping and stops five paces from the pair. He bows, first to the boy, then to the sick heap. "Th-Th-Tharles, s-sir, with the a-adventurers. Y-Your Majesty. Majesties," he stutters out. Then he steps aside, obviously careful to keep from turning his back on the royalty, and still trying wrench his hands from his arms.
The dragon evaluates these two for a moment. "Is the old man an icon whose role has been coopted by the youth, or a master supporter of the trueblood ruler.", he muses. He stands to look between the thrones, and dips. "Honours."
Uncertain of court protocol, O'Donnell stands still, almost looking as if a soldier standing at attention.
Tech, standing "properly" on two feet/hands, steps up towards the thrones and bows to the boy and the sick man, following Tharles' example. "Lindy Kobeck, at your service. Hacker, technologist, electrician, and general handywoman at your service. Call me Tech." Almost as an afterthought, she adds, "Your Majesties."
The boy acknowledges their statements and presence with a slight nod, then glances again at the sick man beside him. The older man does not move and the boy seems to make a decision. "Simon," he says, making the name sound like an order.
Any magic user can sense what happens next: a magic wall moves between the guards and the remainder of the hall. Once it is in place, it materializes into real stone, preventing anyone outside from watching or eavesdropping on the insiders. It also abruptly cuts off the cacophony of the main hall. From the non-reactions of everyone but the adventurers, it is obvious that this is a common practice to provide privacy for the rulers without the rulers having to move.
"That's... interesting," O'Donnell mutters, glancing briefly around at the barrier before returning to the two thrones.
Irkan scans the room with a distinct look of panic on his maw. There is no magic in Draconiat, so this can only be an attempt to trap him!
The boy looks down on the adventurers a few steps below him--his head is actually even with the tallest of them, but he has already gained the nobles' ability to look down on those taller than he. "Welcome to Media," he begins. "I am the king Prete. This," he indicates the man beside him, "is the regent until I am of age to carry the crown. I would first like to thank you for coming to this land's aid. It will need all of your talents," he adds with a glance at Tech, "and will probably be best accomplished if you work together."
Catch Number One, Patrick thinks sarcastically.
Tech remains looking at the king as he glances at her, making brief eye contact and probably defying some custom, but she doesn't seem to realize.
King Prete takes a breath and glances again at the regent beside him. "The regent felt that he would be best suited to introduce you to Media's troubles, but first allow me to give you a small introduction to our country. It is small, surrounded by neighbors more interested in warring with each other than in attacking it, bordered by mountains and a swampy coast to the east. It is from the east that the problems come. First there was a rise in crime. Fighting, stealing, murdering. Then some people became possessed. They fled the afflicted farms and towns, but the affliction spread. Then came the disease."
Irkan remembers his repair instruction. "What was done just before this whole mess." Some half-milliwatt LED probably decided to play with bioweapons. This is pretty much what happened in New Orleans. Of course, the timespan was less than a week.
The young king snaps his fingers at his side and an attendant comes out from behind the regent's throne. "At first it was only the crops and trees that were rotting, but then some of the refugees began to get rashes, turn black, and rot from the inside." He snaps his fingers again. The attendant lifts up the regent's head.
O'Donnell flinches at the sight, a brief flash of a plagued city from a previous job bubbling to the surface of his thoughts. Good Lord...
The mercenary forces himself to focus on the young king as the regent's head is lowered, O'Donnell's face a mask of stone.
A few strands of the regent's hair fall away as his head rises. His face is patched with a sickly pale white and a sickening brown-black. His eyes are swollen shut, his lips cracked and bleeding, his skin peeling layer after layer. Only the movement of his chest and a slight rasping sound indicate that this body still holds life. The attendant gently lowers the regent's head.
King Prete continues, "This is why the regent wanted to tell you himself about Media's troubles. The infection, the attack, has come as far as the inside of this castle. The doctors have been unable to find a cause, but all the troubles seem to come from the east. Not everyone becomes ill. Outsiders, from the Nexus, seem to be immune. However, every person sent to investigate the cause of this evil has failed. Many have never returned. We do not intend to fool you. Your task is dangerous, therefore the reward we offer is great."
After a brief pause he asks, "Do you have any questions before I ask you to accept this task?"
The simian woman says nothing, but simply listens to the others ask questions, staring at the regent with a look of worry on her face.
"Your majesty, with all due respect," O'Donnell's tone suggesting he thought little respect was actually due, "you have given us little on which to base a decision. It's true that I have, on occasion, taken jobs with less information than that, but I at least was familiar with the 'rules' of the area of operations. I have little knowledge the details of this land, and when death is a possible issue ignorance can be fatal. That probably wouldn't help the mission any," he concludes dryly.
"A valid concern. I will arrange for you to be given copies of our most detailed maps and a guide. The guide will supply you with whatever other you need," the boy responds. "Any other questions?"
"Are there any affected specimens to analyze?" [Irkan asks.]
The boy blinks at the unfamiliar terminology, then replies, "What kind of specimens do you need, specifically? There are many affected people and animals in this city."
Irkan answers "I would warrant that they don't want me removing slices of their flesh to examine at maginfication. A tainted crop or corpse is probably better." He wonders if there is the technical level here to supply a lens for magnification.
After a slight pause, the young king answers, "Yes. We have created a morgue specifically for those who had the plague. You could obtain your... specimen... there."
"Many thanks. I hope there are modern research supplies..."
Tech gives a little laugh. "You understand how little that term 'modern' means in the Nexus, right?"
The regent gives out a sudden grunt that sounds like a cross between a cough and a vomit. His body and hair shakes a little but he does not raise his head.
The cloaked mage pushes her hood back, revealing a plain face and already greying long hair. "I have need to know what the magical limits and sources of this reality are. It must be great to allow such as your privacy attempts on a regular basis." She studies the regent in front of them, looking intensely for any auras indicating curse or magical taints. "Have you any ideas as to how this plague is spread? It must not be easily if your people would allow your regent to stay near you even in this state..."
Irkan interjects. "This form of disease is likely spread in the air or by a parasite-beast. Were it spread by blood or tainted food, it would not have the same rapid path. It would be wise to quarentine Easterners and the infected."
King Prete nods. "It is even more difficult to spread than that. So far, not one person who has not traveled to the east has contracted the illness. Even the nurses, doctors, and families of the infected people do not contract it. The regent," he again glances at the heap of a man beside him, "traveled to the east four weeks ago to hunt down the cause of the evils spreading across our nation. The magic-users and finest cavalry and infantry were possessed--that is the only word we have to call it; perhaps they only went mad--and turned on the rest. The regent barely returned with his life, and a week later the plague took its hold."
"Strange", Irkan murmurs. "The soil perhaps..."
"Did he say anything before he fell ill," Tech asks, motioning towards the regent. "Anything about what he saw in the east that might give us a hint as to what we're dealing with? Anything strange he handled or saw? And do you have any enemies in the east? This sounds more like magic than any mundane disease I've heard of, especially because it only infects people who have been to the east. It doesn't sound like it can be spread from person to person but by something else. Something they touched or ate perhaps."
"We have found no cause, yet. The farther east he traveled, the more barren and rotten the landscape. Nothing unusual happened, outside the possessions I described. And the horses. They fell ill, too," King Prete adds.
"Did they bring food with them," Tech asked, "or did they eat what they found there?"
"According to the regent, they ate only what they brought with them," King Prete responds. He looks carefully at all of the adventurers before him.
"It is interesting that such a plague would attack horses as well..." The mage taps her cheek thoughtfully. "Perhaps to prevent escape."
"I would like to remind you that the plague is not the only danger threatening Media," King Prete continues. "According to the accounts of refugees and the regent, something or someone is possessing other living things and forcing them to turn on each other. The rise in crime must have some cause as well. I believe the plague is only one symptom of the true disease. It must be stopped before this land and its neighbors are overrun."
"Causaulity is a bear, of course. If we can silence the symptoms, it is the first object. It is possible that a form of the disease does develop into madness. Koaral's disease turns men against their clan and country-- or it did before it was eradicated. Frequently, brain damage-- encephalitis, or even an outright mould-- could supply the same."
"My liege," Magyar asks, "do you have any clues as to where we could begin our search for the cause of this plague?"
"My best and only real clue is to search to the east. The news I hear from the west, north, and south is still positive, for now. I do not know how long that will last," the boy replies.
"It'll last as long as you make it last, my boy. Relationships take work!" The regent raises his head and practically shouts his advice now that he has regained consciousness. Only after King Prete responds with a calm "Yes, uncle" and continues to look at the adventurers does the regent seem to notice their presence. "Who're you?" he demands.
"They are the adventurers you called for, uncle. From the Nexus," the boy replies.
"No, no, let them talk, boy. Who are you?" the regent interjects with a wave of his hand. The young king simply nods and seats himself. The regent leans forward in eagerness and attentiveness. His eyes seeming to bulge out of his rotting head as he commands the visitors to introduce themselves.
Biting back a sarcastic reply, the mercenary takes a step forward. "I am Patrick O'Donnell," he says, hiding his discomfort at the regent's appearance behind his neutral "business face". "A general-work mercenary, with skills in various hand weaponry, tracking, and demolitions, along with other assorted minor things."
O'Donnell takes a step back to his previous position, gesturing to the next adventurer.
"Chancellor", Irkan says, using the highest rank of Draconiati federal government because he believes it connotes more respect than a 'Regent', which sounds like a paper-pusher at a school, "I am known as Irkan Gralath. My skills are in the construction of infrastructure, but the defensive approaches required in this field have made me expert with direct-energy weaponry."
Tech bows and again gives her spiel. "Lindy Kobeck, at your service. Hacker, technologist, electrician, and general handywoman. Call me Tech." She avoids looking at the regent, though it seems to have less to do with respect than with squeasmishness.
"Your majesty, I am Magyar, philosopher and master swordsman. But please, do not worry yourself with this, I'm sure that my... companions... and I will get to the bottom of this, despite any dangers to ourselves."
"And I am called Scoire in my homeland. I am a mage in my reality, interested in the unusual and unique as it crosses my path. I can feel the paths of magic that cross through your land and I believe that I should prove to be beneficial in your plight." Scoire folds her hands into the flowing sleeves of her cloak and bows.
The regent snorts. "I see. Simon will see to providing you with what you need." The sentence is a dismissal as effectively as a careless wave of the hand. There is nothing careless, however, about the regent's eyes. He watches O'Donnell and Tech almost to the exclusion of any of the other adventurers until the wall between themselves and the hall disappears and Simon leads them away with a bow to their majesties.
If the mercenary is aware of the extra attention, he shows no sign of it.
The noise in the hall is more subdued now that the audience is over. There are fewer entertainers and fewer nobles, but there is still a wealthy mass of sound present to indulge the adventurers' aural senses.
Simon leads them out of the main hall and down a long corridor. "I will take you to the storerooms," he tells them as they walk, "to get what you need. Try to make your lists on the way; we in Media are pressed for time."
"Feh!" Magyar grumbles to himself in a mixture of Hungarian, Czech and Wendish, this kingdom looks like it is already on its last legs. Wouldn't surprise me in the least if people would drop dead right in front of us." Magyar continues to grumble to himself, seemingly unintelligible to the others and looks with contempt upon Simon. "That king certainly did not look too friendly to me towards the end, and I wouldn't trust his little monkey over here any farther than I can throw him."
Past servants in red and gold livery, past empty, looming doors, and just beyond a closed door hiding the seemingly misplaced sound of a strong gale lies the door Simon is seeking. "We keep the storeroom under guard," he explains, "in case someone tries to steal or sabotage the supplies." He opens the door to reveal a small guardroom.
It is a small room, containing a table along one end, a chair for each of the guards, and two men dressed in light armor.
They are on the floor.
So are their teeth, eyes, and hair.
It doesn't take long for O'Donnell's windbreaker to open, and his pistol, familiar to many realities as a Colt .45, to appear in his hand. As long as it takes for the door to stop moving, to be exact.
"Looks like someone not only tried, but succeeded," Patrick dryly comments as his eyes sweep the room, weapon held at the ready.
Magyar reaches for his rapier and mutters "bloody hell" as he takes in the situation. "Now I _really_ don't like the looks of things. Blast it all." He looks to O' Donnel and Tech and Simon, hoping to find that they were as shocked and alarmed by this as he."
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