FLUNKOUT ARCANA: A Failed Wizard Quest

[]- Accept: Fuck it.

In ages past, men and women trapped themselves in feuds, tore the flesh of their fellows, and generally put bones to bleach under a pitiless sun for real reasons. Real insults. The stuff of destiny, vast spirals of violence, feuds and counter feuds that cracked the skin of the earth with the passions of heroes. .

You are going to kill someone because you are some couple thousands in debt to the overgrown criminal fraternity called the Oarsmen Guild, and if you don't pay up, they'll recoup their losses. Possibly via the dismemberment and sale of your corpse to your own criminal fraternity, the unnamed gang of freaks, weirdos, and just incredibly odd people, for the use of necromantic rituals. You figure that the Oarsmen can squeeze, let's say, two nomenista, not even enough for rent.

"Fine," you had choked out to Eochuer, who smiled. No 2, thief's special: the conclusion of a successful con. At the very least, your sign on bonuses with the Oarsmen Guild include a free meal.

Eochuer explains in the Last Rat, a sit down bar located near the western gate. Owing to the war, the clientele here are ransomers, traveling bank agents, and wagoners-- the third order of war, the people who make sure that war is always a profitable enterprise for someone. "So, you're aiming for Aimee d'Agevine. Looks like this."

You look at the small painted icon of Aimee d'Agevine. Young. Green eyes, but could just be blue and the painter messed up the color. Freckles. Red hair. White plate, geeze. "What's the story?" you ask.

"Debt," Eochuer shrugs. "Bosses only ever kill for money. I dunno if you keep up with the news, but the Agevines are a big name. Nearly royal, if not for a few twists of fate. She is a bit wild, but whatever, the family thinks, she's got a good claim on some duchies in dispute, we can indulge her. Unfortunately," and here all the friendliness that Eochuer once had drops out of his face like a lead weight thrown into the air, "she insulted our fraternity one too many times. We didn't want to do this, we'd much rather have a going arraignment with the future lady of five fiefs, but it is what it is."

You feel a sudden and involuntary spike of sympathy for Aimee d'Agevine. Maybe you ought to start a debtor's guild with her, however that may work. What would even a masterwork be? A stunning legacy of debt delinquency? Finding the biggest, baddest bank with the strongest employed thugs, take out a loan of ten thousand nomenista, and then vanish?

"What's the dragon like?" You ask.

"Oh, the dragon?" Eochuer drains his mug, and then calls for another. "Why for?"

"Well, if I'm going to sneak into the hunt, I should act like a dragon hunter, shouldn't I?" you point out. "It'd be a sorry fucking end, if I stick out like a sore thumb, this Aimee snaps wise, and slits my throat in the middle of the night."

"Damn," Eochuer nods. A server drops something that's dark and fizzly in front of him and doesn't do it for you. "I didn't think of that. Either that Academie has damn good electives or your kind are still that good at war."

"Thank you." Your voice is dry and so is your throat.

"Well, it's like this…"

---

Dragon hunting is a universal experience. So was dragon worship, but erecting a golden idol to some fire breathing lizard has much worse returns than simply killing and butchering said lizard, so one mode was simply outcompeted. For a good, smashing entry on any prospective hero or founder of a kingdom's curriculum vitae, there's just nothing to beat the act of dragon slaying.

Of course, the days where once could simply walk into a den with a good set of enchantments, provided by a local magus in exchange for the dragon's blood, a nice, sharp axe, and a lot of guts are gone. The dragons that remain are cunning buggers, the survivors of a thousand year war between cthonic lizard an hairless ape. Nowadays, one must bring hunting parties numbering in the hundreds just to pin them down, soon becoming an unwieldy, argumentative, and indecisive beast, which a more noble monster can swoop down with breath hot enough to slag stone to pick apart at its draconic leisure.

The prospective dragon hunters have gathered at a market town some distance away from Fleur to the east, where solid land yields to a depressingly level and treacherous swamp before suddenly rising into a spike backed mountain range. The hunters, as representative a slice of society as you can get, are fulfilling their economic role with aplomb.

No sooner did you step off the wagon, sore and abused, did someone jump out of the crowd and grab your arm. "Hey, brother!" he says, "you here for the dragon?"

"Aye?"

"Well, you ought to join us! We always need your type!" After the last five got got, you imagine. "No? Your loss!"

You shake him off and press forward.

You've been thinking on how to approach this matter. You figure you should finagle yourself into d'Agevine's train. Poisoning's a no go, if you studied Alchemie, you could have simply transmuted her wine into a neurotoxin. Quick and clean, unfortunately, your field of study is as subtle as a royal barrage of cannons.

You blink, nearly walking face first into a veiled procession of blue robed warriors from far Imusay. That wouldn't work, you remind yourself. She's doubtless got something to defend herself against such amateurish attempts…

Needless to say, you head directly to the largest and most lively tavern without even considering anything. Not only do you need to wash the dust off your throat, isn't it traditional to start this sort of thing in a tavern?

This rustic country alehouse is not at all prepared for the crush. What would be more than enough to serve the local dirt grubbing yokels is not at all enough to serve, at a brief survey, the retinues of at least four middling knights, what appears to be a dozen various mercenaries picking their teeth with chicken bones, and four of your own countrymen, who even sitting nearly scrape the roof with their heads. And this is just the core, the fighting men. The butchers, the bank agents-- they're all outside. These sorts of people wouldn't suffer the common salt to dine with them.

You take a deep breath. You (were) are a wizard. You rank higher than these sword swinging morons. "INNKEEPER!" You shout above the crowd.

The cry elicits a single glance from the knights, a more measured study from the mercenaries, and--

"Lout," calls a young, pimply squire. You put him at about… your age, plus or minus some. "Lower your voice! Don't disturb the chivalry at rest."

"What, too loud for your ears? You're in a public space, get used to it!"

He flushes, as the mercenaries laugh. You note with some nervousness that your countrymen are merely watching, as if they were enjoying a dogfight. Confronted with such a loss of honor, the only thing the pimply squire can do is get up into your face about it. With, as it happens, a misericord. "Is that a university stole? Oh, you're a bold thief indeed. After I tan your hide, I'll return the property to the university."

Here's the state of the room. Your countrymen have placed the noble burden of representing the home country, generally in terms of national pride and bravery, on your shoulders. The mercenaries are making bets. The knights have all gone utterly still, and that's the most frightening thing of all. Around a handful of psychotic military nobility, juiced up with hereditary blessings that make them strong enough to punch through stone curtain walls and dash through fireballs at speed, just waiting for you to make a wrong move.

You recall the chivalric literature. You're absolutely, utterly in your rights as a wizard (even in training (even flunked)) to defend your name against this squire's accusations, with force. In fact, preferably with force! But here's the thing: can you really trust them to hold to their traditions when you lay hands on the squire?

"Well? Answer me, you shitty pedlar!"

And counterpoint, you'd really like to shut this twit up.

You Will
[]- Throw Hands: Assert dominance.
[]- Throw Magic: Wait, you're a wizard, you're far above this sort of thing!
[]- Apologize: Do nothing. You're either sensible or you're a coward.