Feathers, fangs, claws, and horns. Not a single Drake in sight, and
certainly not a scaled person of any other variety to be found among
the Magebloods here. Maybe I shouldn’t be spending so much time
looking as I pick my way through progressively grimier alleys and
scraggly little parks. The one blessing is I don’t see too many
people living on the streets; maybe they live in that Wildflower
District, maybe the local churches are helping, and hopefully my
cousin is doing his part.
Whatever the case, I may be the <i>only </i>Drake Mageblood in
Craumont. Gods, I might be the most changed Mageblood of any sort in
Craumont; closest I’ve seen is a burly man with feline ears, slit
pupils, and a long black tail.
Not a very magic-heavy city, clearly, though I’m sure having a
Phoenix for a baker balances out that strange equation somehow.
I know Drakes aren’t common, but I guess the bigger cities have
inflated the numbers in my head. So when I’m walking through the
streets with my scales showing, I know I’m sticking out. Just a few
stares from people that cross my path, a few curious glances at my
tail as it flicks against the stone. None of them think I’m that
one Craumont with the bad reputation, though. Small mercies.
I run a hand through my long, white hair, using a pulse of Wind to
sort out any small tangles. It''s a poor substitute for a comb, but my
travel one had broken a few days ago. The only reason I don''t look
like a tangled mess is the brushes back at the Manor, because tricks
with Wind could only go so far.
Having so much hair is a bit of a handful, honestly.
Heh.
<i>Hand</i>ful. Hands. Wind magic for combing.
I snort. Glad I kept that one inside, it’s just terrible.
The smell of flowers and a touch of genuine Wind drags me to a stop
in a park. It''s not a big one, and it''s in one of the grimier parts
of the city.
Most of these have a scraggly tree or two, a bush, maybe some spotty
moss cover under the shade to help hold water. They helped prevent
flooding, apparently, though I’d never really put much thought to
how. Something about... infiltrated soil? That’s a term I haven’t
thought about since my university days.
This one, though, has flowers. Wildflowers, all stunning messes of
white, yellow, and red, scattered about in the spotty shade of a
youthful Maple tree. There''s even some of that black-purple berry on
the bushes, the sort the Restorers use to dye their robes. And, by
Adamantine, with that Wind swirling around the place like an old
friend, the smell is <i>glorious</i>. There''s a genuine care put into
it, the bushes are too nice and the soil too fresh for it to be an
odd coincidence.
Here, amidst a field of flowers, caught between the rises of stone
and brick, I can''t help but smile. So I do, and I pour a bit of my
own Wind into the place.
"Hello," I whisper, placing a palm against the bark of a
small tree. The tree, of course, has no answer.
I blink, think about what I just did, and laugh.
Taking a long draw of the pleasant, floral air, I wander onward to my
destination.
<hr>
I feel the pull on my magic before I see the Delve portal. It’s
like standing at the top of a cliff, preparing to climb down: half
anticipation, half the subtle pull of gravity as I peer over.
Magecraft has a term for it, something I faintly remembered from
Classical Magecraft, but I’m more of an applied magic kind of girl.
A question for Helena, I decide, with only a twinge of regret.
I honestly might be able to find the portal with my eyes closed, at
this point. To continue the cliff analogy, all I need to do is move
with the pull—
Well, there''s a fair few buildings in the way of a straight line, and
people aren''t so keen on me breaking their exteriors by clambering up
them. Bit too destructive, if I use claws, and bit too illegal. I''m
supposed to be working with the City here, not against it.
I snort, dragging the tip of my tail along the ground. It''s all
absurd, being back here, and it gets stranger the longer I think
about it. So, I stop thinking about it and get going.
And, after weaving through a busy street, dodging a vicious band of
children playing pretend, and slipping down a grimy alley, I''m at my
destination.
It''s a chapel, of some sort, one I don''t remember from a life of
snooping around the city. Peaked roof, colorful windows, an inviting
yet somber atmosphere... the usual stuff, in short. It''s made of
brick and wood, too, so it''s definitely not an old Imperial building.
The mossy lawn and orderly bushes really make the place pop out of
the surroundings, as much as one can in Crawford without painting the
place painful colors.
"Ah, madam?"
My attention snaps to the front of the building, and to the two
armored guards standing outside of it. Looks like they’re not
taking any chances— steel breastplates and alchemical cloth, held
together with what looks to be alchemical brass. A little out of
date, sure, but it’ll do for most things that can creep out of a
new portal.
The guard on the left was the one that spoke, and he holds my gaze
unwaveringly.
"Yeah?"
"I apologize, but this is a dangerous place to be. If you''d like
to pray to the Hero, you''ll have to go to the one downtown, or in the
Wildflower District." He sounds genuinely apologetic, which
takes me a bit off guard.
My tail lashes behind me, and I see both guards flick their eyes to
follow the movement.
When they look back up, they see my full, toothy smile. The one on
the right flinches, just a bit.
"I''ll be fine."
I pause.
"Also, I''m here for the Delve portal. The city hired me for it."
That gets them both to stiffen, and I slap my tail against the ground
in satisfaction. A toothy grin wouldn''t go well here, I think.
"You’re not the Mage, she’s shorter. Dame Crawford, then?
Gods, you’re nothing like the prints," The guard on the right
gawps, snapping her jaw shut a little too late.
"Dame Crawford," I agree, gesturing to myself. "In the
flesh. And the scales."
They eye me dubiously, though the one the right seems to be eyeing me
with something else, too. I eye her back, drawing my tail up to brush
off the dirt and moss.
“Riverson, Parks, I spoke to our apprentice Mage on the way over.
It seems she''ll be delayed, but I''ll be sending the carriage back to
wait for her. Can you—"
A familiar voice cuts through the awkward tension, sharp and loud.
Familiar, yes, but who...?
The question answers itself when a man hurries his way around the
side of the chapel, brown eyes peering at me over a pair of
rectangular, brass-wired glasses. Half-curled horns of a ram jut from
a head of reddish-brown hair, and it works pretty damn well with that
buttoned-down brown and black suit. I love those brass buttons—
next time I commission an outfit, I''ll have to get those.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.
"Amelia Crawford, as I live and wonder! Gods preserve, you’ve
grown in so many ways." He grins, closing the distance between
us in quick, elegant strides. "At ease, guards. It appears l
gave you an outdated description."
"Winston Craumont," I reply stiffly, feeling an odd urge to
stand up straighter, tilting my head down to get a good look at him.
Weird to see the top of his head like this, horns and all. "Did
you get shorter? I didn''t know that could happen to Horned
Magebloods."
Winston snorts, sticking his arm out for a greeting. "Not to me,
at least, though you’re walking evidence the opposite is possible.
I simply aged out of those ridiculous platform shoes Mother made me
wear."
Oh, that takes me back, and not in a terrible way for once. I clasp
Winston’s arm, he clasps back, and we make eye contact long enough
to nod. “I remember calling them clogs. They’re popular
somewhere, I’m sure.”
Winston’s lips twitch downward before proper noble propriety
asserts itself, whatever dregs of it he has left. “I cannot believe
Olivia managed to get you in on that, too.”
My heart twinges, and I look away. She always did manage to rope me
in on her crazy ideas.
"She rubbed off on me,” I say instead, shrugging. “Haven’t
started a fistfight once, you know? She wouldn''t have believed it.”
“No scuffles at all? Amelia.”
“Ivy,” I say absently. “I go by Ivy, now.”
“Don’t dodge the question, Ivy.” Winston tilts his head, eyes
gleaming oddly.
I do my best theatrical sigh. Gods, here I am warming up. I blame
nostalgia. “I... may have gotten mugged. Well. They tried.”
“That’s the spirit! We''ve been having trouble with that, lately.”
Winston sighs, turning back to the guards. “In case there was any
doubt— and I must applaud you both for doing your jobs— I can
confirm this is Dame Amelia Ivy Crawford. She is a Drake Mageblood
now, it seems.”
“It seems?” I huff, gesturing to my hair with one hand and
pulling up my tail with the other. “I don’t even have the family
hair color anymore. Come on, Winston. The Delve portal’s inside the
chapel, right? Let’s get a move on.”
"Ah." Winston clears his throat. "There may be a
monster in there. Should you take the point position?"
"Of course there is." I say absently. I inspect the guards
critically, as if I didn''t already know the answer to the question.
I turn towards the main door and go up to it, examining it carefully.
Wood and alchemical brass, from the looks of things; about half again
my height and pretty well reinforced. A gentle push has them swinging
inwards, though, so nobody could actually bar the door effectively
from the inside.
"Winston..." I say slowly.
He sighs, pulling out a loosely bound sheaf of parchment. "Gods.
I''ll have to get those replaced. No, reversed. I knew I''d missed
something when the Aldermen appointed the new building regulator. Do
they at least only swing inward?"
I lean forward and pull. The door, fortunately, stops a few degrees
past flush with the stone around it. "Half bad, then, not
terrible. Probably just need to reverse the hinges."
"Perhaps I should hire you instead? I''m sure the Aldermen would
throw a fit." Winston chuckles. "The pay is rather good,
you know."
Matching Winston''s laugh with my own, I take that moment to step
inside.
My first observation is that it''s a very traditionally laid out
chapel, and it probably looks quite nice when all the prayer benches
aren''t piles of scrap wood. There''s a tiny little front ''room'', where
I am, with doors to my left and right that lead into small side
rooms. Three steps ahead is the main area, a large, rectangular space
lit by high-set windows. A colorful circular window in back probably
casts some amazing colors over the place, at the right time of day.
There''s a few shadowed eaves I can''t quite peer into, unfortunately,
and they''re plenty big enough for a monster.
I''m kind of hoping Winston is right, though. I could use a good
brawl.
Oh, and then there''s the gaping, bleeding wound in the World.
It''s like looking through a cracked pane of glass, peering through
the punched-out center but seeing nothing beyond it. Nothing but a
shimmering golden fog, oozing through ever so slowly widening seams.
"Well, there''s the portal. I''ll take a quick look." I say
loudly, swinging the door closed behind me. The guards were good for
keeping people out, sure, but they''d just get in the way if there was
actually a danger lurking in here.
I take a careful step forward past the entrance area, loosening my
stance and keeping my head on a swivel. It pays to be a bit paranoid,
in this profession.
A second examination of the room tells me the nature of the chapel:
it''s a Chapel of the Hero. One of the guards mentioned that in
passing, I think, but I hadn''t thought much of it at the time.
There’s even a beautiful mural, high up on the back wall: the Hero
in her tarnished armor, stabbing the Emperor while getting impaled in
return. Guess this artist decided that Gods bleed gold, and also
wasn’t too worried about scaring little kids.
Of course, that bleeding wound in the world would probably spook them
off first. Or not, now that I think about it; I distinctly remember
poking a stick through one when I was, what, ten?
Stupid idea, of course. Monsters aren’t common, but they really can
slip out of Delve portals at any time— at least this one was in a
room that was convenient to lock up. I scratch my chin, scanning the
room and squinting at darkened corners. Hopefully...
Something moves in the corner of my vision. One of the piles of scrap
wood shifts, sloughing parts, and I take a moment to brace myself.
Let’s see what this Delve has to offer.
A mass of wood and rivets bursts from the scrap pile, ramming into my
gut and forcing the air from my lungs. A heartbeat later I’m
against the door, fingers— no, claws— scrabbling for purchase on
the jagged, bark-coated hide of a monster. It pushes, and strains,
and gnashes against me, a wolfish maw of rusted iron held back by my
claws on its haunches.
Something cracks behind me. We fall to the ground in a pile of
splinters and twisted brass reinforcement, the monster slides and
stumbles as I slip away—
It blurs again, pouncing as I rise from the ground. I meet it halfway
in a ramming punch to the snout, sending bark flying and dropping the
monster to the mossy soil.
Winston’s saying something. I ignore it. I’d bought myself time
with that move, time enough to breathe and collect myself, but only
barely. I really should have...
The monster howls, a throaty, aching sound broken branches and
tearing metal.
An eager snarl rips its way out of me, answering the monster''s fury
with my own. I pace to the side, tail swishing eagerly, and it
matches me— circling, waiting.
One step. Two. Wind curls through my claws, shimmering across my
body. The monster tenses, legs bent, metal teeth bared, bark creeping
back across its snout.
Now.
I lunge forward with a toothy grin, moving into the monster’s next
step and meeting it with an angled forearm. It snaps its jaw shut,
clamping and straining against my scales, its body tilted upward to
score at my chest with its forepaws. The cold burn of metal blooms
across my arm, and I can feel the barest hints of blood trickling
beneath my clothes.
I''ll need to end this quickly. I don’t have the time to look for
weak spots on this thing, though. They’re not animals, not built
like them on the inside—
Brute force it is, then.
So, yanking up, grimacing as the fangs dig deeper, I ram a
Wind-infused punch directly into its lower jaw. And then another, and
another, opening and widening a crack where the neck meets the head.
Its jaw loosens, wiggling and pulling back for another bite. It won’t
have a chance to finish that.
I shove my arm further forward into its jaw, wrapping my hand around
the side of its head. The other digs into the crack I’d opened in
its neck, and I—
<i>Pull.</i>
It strains. It creaks, yowling and scratching against my chest, and
breaks. The monster’s head twists one way, and half of its neck
goes the other.
And then, beautiful quiet, as the thrill and joy of a good fight
fades away. Just the song of my heart and breath to mark the passage
of time, slowly fading as I calm myself down.
Shoulders back. Chin up. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
I run a hand through my messy hair, using a touch of Wind to bring it
to a semblance of order.
"Right!" I say as brightly as possible, tossing the wooden
monster to the ground. I keep my teeth hidden, push my voice up a
note, and do my best to be nonthreatening. "Portal."
Winston steps forward, picking his way through the splinters. "Are
you quite alright, Am— Ivy? That was..."
I look down at myself, at the torn blouse and the tiny cuts beneath.
My arm is, on close inspection, fine, but that''s definitely going to
bruise later. It''s not a great look, but I did dress for breakfast
rather than fighting. My mistake.
If only...
Oh, Gods damn it all. Benny was right about the day pack. Looks like
I tossed it to the side at some point, not that I remember.
"I''m fine." I say, striding over to the pack and decidedly
not looking at anyone. Oh, excellent, there''s a blouse. I''ll just
turn around and switch those out. "Just a bit surprised. I''m
going to need support from your guards if it happens again while I''m
sealing the portal."
Someone behind me is muttering, but I can''t quite pick up what
they''re saying. Probably just something about impropriety, or
whatever.
I flick my tail in irritation, buttoning up my collar and turning
around to face a mildly surprised looking Winston.
"Winston, I know you''re a Mageblood of some sort, and I can’t
imagine you being a novice. I''ll want you supporting from afar, if
you can. You''ve got, what. Wind, Water...”
"Just the two for archetypes, and I am proficient with both."
Winston confirms, giving a nod to Guard One and Guard Two. "Riverson,
Park, you heard Dame Crawford. It is time to get to work, I believe."
I grin as the guards flinch, and spread my hands. "Don''t worry.
You''re in good hands."