"There must be some sort of mistake. It does not seem that there is a disciple named Edwards registered here."
The sallow, bearded man said while looking up from the brim of his spectacles. A thick and paged tome of some sort sat on his desk, littered with names and dates, all from the top to the bottom. He put down his magnifying glass and spectacles.
"It's Wyndward, ser. Wyndward with a Y." Spoke the lady, with a smile.
"Ah !" The old man seemed alarmed, and quickly shuffled to the last few pages of the tome. "You'll have to excuse me, age has… not been kind."
He smiled back briefly, and continued browsing through the lines with his left index finger.
"Woolidge… Wuntrip... Ah. Wyndward. Yes yes. Indeed one of ours. Row 38, section B…"
The old man sat up, paced towards a corner of the what seems to be a shelf full of archives. Each shelf labeled and sorted meticulously. He touches a specific row and mutters some words under his breath. A faint glow of purple dissipates from the shelf, and not long after, the old man produces a book, which seems to be a journal of some sort.
"I believe this is the youth you are looking for ?" The elderly holds up a picture out of one page of said journal. It was an image of a young, half elf male with wavy, shoulder length hair. Angular chin, straight nose, and bony cheeks. The colouring of the image is limited, although one could easily point out that the half elf had blonde hair and blue eyes.
"I have heard so much about the scribes here at the Citadel, and it does seem to me now that they are as skilled as the rumours say they are." The lady commented.
The elderly then cracked a smile and seemed very pleased. "Such kind words ! Not my best work yet, I'm afraid. I should show you my recent replication of the Tymorean sacred murals, it's right here to your left, and might I note how the dyes were very difficult to produce at this time of the year. A specific fromage of Needleberries and…"
"Another time, perhaps ser." The lady leaned forward, interrupting the elderly's momentum, sensing that it would definitely have no end if left unchallenged.
"Ah, of course. So, Wyndward." He then flips through the journal while he reads and quotes several of its' pages. "The boy enrolled to the Citadel at about 6 years old, payment made in full to the Treasury for a full course of a complete education in Law & Order. Interesting, it says here that the boy was sponsored by the Grand Arbiter himself. That's quite the rare occurrence, as far as I am concerned."
The elderly briefly adjusted his desk light and continued.
"The small merchant town of Karnait. A trade hub in between Waterdeep and the rest of the Sword Coast, surrounded by stormy weather, but makes up for it with hot springs and and excellent tea. Amazing place to stop by and spend the evening, if I do say so myself."
A slight chuckle was made by the elderly, but he quickly cleared his throat, seeing that the lady was smiling even more fervently than usual.
---
Samuel Wyndward always wanted a stable life for his only son. He was then travelling to spread the Lady of Air's gospel. They arrived at Karnait to wait out a storm, but after spending a few nights and exploring the locale, the place quickly grew on them. The locals were welcoming of the Lady of Air, since storms were noisy neighbours. It was then Samuel decided to build a place of worship, which would then be the home of the Wyndwards. It was small, but it was a fresh start.
Also based in Karnait was a trading guild by the name of Eight Moons. They were powerful, influential, and they were the local authority. The only patch of land available to build upon, belonged to them. Samuel would then approach them to rent the plot. The guild then agreed to grant him rights, provided he signed a legally binding contract agreement.
Now Samuel was no fool, but he had no knowledge of how legalities worked. Seeing that this was a very good chance to finally give his son the life he deserved, he asked very few questions and was very quick to sign.
Months flew by and the temple was doing well. They had a sizeable following, that only grew overnight. Father Wyndward gained respect and popularity very, very quickly, rivalling the Eight Moons.
One day the guild came to collect the rent, but Father Wyndward was surprised to see that the men came for triple the usual amount. And of course he had no such gold. They led simple lives, donations were given back to the public in service, and only kept enough to pay the normal rent. The men then wanted to take little Wyndward as an advance, and Father Wyndward refused. He had his son flee the scene, a fight ensued, and Father Wyndward would then breathe his last.
The word that would eventually go around town was that Father Wyndward has been caught being involved in a slave trading cartel and has also sold off his own son for money. The Guild arrived just in time to catch him in the act and attempted to arrest, but he then assaulted one of the guild's sellswords and was responded to in kind.
---
Life then went on. A few years after that event, Grand Arbiter Syrus Bunderson Chorvald, who was an Inquisitor then, was visiting Karnait with his two associates. Night had fallen and the entourage stopped at an inn to spend the night. After a round of food and drink, Inquisitor Chorvald stepped outside for a brisk stroll. He put on a rugged, leather cloak, and started pacing outside the quiet streets.
It had been a long trip, and he was glad to have found lodging. But the pub was packed with regulars who were drinking away their worries of the week, and the Inquisitor was not very much of a party person. He liked to have his thoughts to himself at this hour, preferring the fresh, cool air of the countryside to the rowdy noises of the pub's customers. He was walking through a public garden when he heard rustling. The sound of the Inquisitor's boots alone should have been the only thing breaking the silence of the night. He looked around, but his sight proved to be of no avail.
"Show yourself !" while reaching for his longsword.
Inquisitors are trained to know when they're being watched or followed. He could tell from the rustling that it couldn't have been an animal or other creature. He then faced the foliage from which the sound was produced. And from the shadows, it appared. It, however, was just a boy.
"You could use a boot shine, milord." Said the boy.
The Inquisitor took his grip off the handle of his sword, and loosened up. He can't help but wonder what little boys like this one, no more than six or seven years old, would be doing out of bed at this hour. He had a bucket of water, and a small stool with him, and he was correct. The fine leather that laced the Inquisitor's boots had been all covered in muck and grime. The muddy roads were apparently to blame.
"Why yes of course." He proceeded to sit down at a nearby bench. "If you promise to go home after. Your parents must be worried."
The boy silently set down the stool, and the Inquisitor put his right boot on to it. The boy wasted little time, his grabbed the front parts of his cloak like an apron made washcloth, and started shining away. It made for a strange visage. A bootshine boy, in the darkest night.
"What's the military doing in this backwater town." Said the boy, without looking at the man.
"We have business of a confidential matter to conduct here. And I'm not military, I work for the Supreme Court." The Inquisitor explained. He could also swear that he heard the boy scoff under his breath.
"So, where were people like you when my father got swindled and murdered by the Eight Moons?" said the boy with a hint of anger in his voice.
"Do tell me your tale, boy." Said the Inquisitor calmly.
The night went by, and it was a long walk back to the inn for the Inquisitor, and a whole lot to think about.
---
"So how can the Eight Moons be of assistance to the Supreme Court, on this fine day, milords ?" said a corpulent man. He was wearing the Guildmaster's Sigil attached to his fur coat.
"We have travelled down to Karnait in pursuit of leads. Leads of a slave trade being run in the area, under the guise of a local faith." Said Inquisitor Chorvald.
"Of course, of course. Anything you need to put a permanent end to these dreadful slave traders." Said the Guildmaster.
"Anything indeed. We hear that the Eight Moons guild is responsible of putting an end to the perpetrator of said cartel, is this true ?" The Inquisitor leans forward and rests his chin on his folded fingers.
"Yes yes yes of course, our men did the job once again. We take great pride in doing the deed." Said the Guildmaster proudly.
"Then are you also proud of the fact that you were the ones who let such a slave trading operation take place in this town in the first place ? I'm to believe the land belongs to the Eight Moons, in which it was given away to the slave traders to use freely, am I mistaken so far ?" pressed Chorvald.
The Guildmaster looked offended. "Well I never. This is absolutely untrue. We had no idea…"
Chorvald then interrupted. "How could a guild as prominent as the Eight Moons, fail to background check or at least investigate the nature of a slave trade that is about to occur in their midsts ? Is this truly the Eight Moons guild of old ? Or do I have the wrong address and went to the Eight Morons instead ? Because I swear by Kelemvor, if I have to put up with seven more of the likes of you…"
"Milord, this is unacceptable ! They claimed to be priests, we hadn't the heart to search a member of good faith, and we surely did not give them the rights to use the building freely, we had a written agreement that constitutes our position ! Look, I have it right here !" says the Guildmaster, in a fit of rage himself.
Chorvald and his associate received the piece of parchment and examined it. It contained the signature of the supposed perpetrator, but he had his doubts of his own.
"Has rent always been this high in small towns such as this ?"
"Why… Why yes milord, business has been very tough lately… With the storms and the roads full of bandits and all…" explained the Guildmaster sheepishly.
"Well you hadn't the heart to investigate the priest, but you certainly had no objections of charging ascetics and selfless people this much gold. If it were me, I'd be flabberghasted myself. And there's one more thing. " Chorvald was smiling at this point.
"I've been working with my associate Morton here for at least almost 2 decades. He's an excellent prosecutor himself, and also happens to be an excellent wizard. So when he tells me that there are traces of magical alterations on this piece of parchment, I take his word for it."
The Guildmaster was sweating bullets.
"Now do I need to cast Zone of Truth, right here, right now, or would you rather confess as to what's really going on here and spare me the trouble ?"
---
The sun was setting, and the prisoner transport carriage was loaded full of people who were involved with the Eight Moons. Chorvald's other associate, Fionn, was at the helm of the convoy.
"Great work Sir, I'll see you back at the Citadel." He said.
Chorvald gave Fionn a salute as he rides off transporting all the prisoners up north. Morton is seen mounting his horse, and Chorvald does the same, but after a moment he dismounts. Morton looks puzzled at the sight.
"Sir ?" he asked.
"You go on ahead, Mort. I suddenly have the urge to take a bit of a walk in that park over there."
Chorvald strolled over to where he met that boy the other night. His stride felt lighter, like a burden lifted off the chest.
"Justice is served." said Chorvald in the middle of the park. When he did so, a bit of rustling was heard again, and the boy from last night appeared.
"Truly ?" the boy asked.
Chorvald turned to face the boy.
"The Guildmaster confessed. He was jealous of your father's influence over the townspeople, so he imposed an impossible sum. Was about to put you in the slavery business too, but I made sure that will never happen, and that he will stand trial, atone for all the wrongdoing he has done."
The boy looked up to the Inquisitor. "I… I can't thank you enough, my lord. But there will be more people like the Guildmaster, and more like my father, out there in the world, or maybe even here. How can I prevent that ?"
Inquisitor Chorvald bent one knee so he was at eye level with the boy. He then put his hands on the boy's shoulders.
"Son. Our society has rules that everyone must follow. Law, taxes, wages, insurance, allocations. They're all set in stone by the most intelligent people.
There are also other intelligent people, who understand these systems, and will take advantage of the people who don't. So if you don't want anyone to be harmed, cheated, and taken advantage of all your life by these people,
You have to study hard.
Come with me to the Citadel, it'll be your new home and you'll learn a lot there. You'll learn how to defend yourself and others that need you. When you've completed your learning, return here and be the Champion that this land needs. Bring Order to this chaotic age that we live in."
---
"And that is all we have on Levin Augustus Wyndward. I trust my cooperation will be noted to your peers, and if the need should arise again, I am your humble servant." Said the elderly scribe.
"Thank you, you have been of so much help, ser." The lady does a slight curtsy, and proceeds to leave the room.
The elderly then picks the journal back up and puts it in it's place. With the void of the missing book filled, the man then touches again the row of books. Purplish lights envelop the row once again and dissipates soon after. A knock on his door was heard.
A young woman, no older than 15 appears.
"Forgive the intrusion, Grand Scribe ser."
The Grand Scribe interrupts him, "Ah, girl. Perfect timing, do show the lady who was just here out ? I'd want to be courteous to my Zhentarim guest, a lady especially."
The girl looked confused.
"There hasn't been a lady guest all day, Grand Scribe ser… But the Zhentarim Agent who made an appointment about the disciple inquiry ? He, has just arrived not more than 5 minutes ago."