A heavy fog blanketed the streets as Cyrus emerged from the tavern, tugging his cloak tighter. His breath puffed from his lips as he breathed in the crisp air, and shook off the remnants of sleep. Behind him, the door creaked open as someone slipped past, muttering their apologies.
Cyrus gave a slight nod, and stepped off the stoop, making his way towards the center of Galeden. As he walked, the city came to life, clattering as doors and windows swung open, releasing the aroma of fresh eggs and porridge, while the morning calls echoed as the citizens began their preparations for the day.
To avoid any unwanted attention, Cyrus kept his hood low, and stayed near the edge of the road, beneath the eaves of the buildings. His destination was the market place, which he felt would provide the best results when searching for someone, despite not knowing who he was searching for in the first place.
'I suppose I'll start with a scholar, like Berrodin suggested,' Cyrus thought, turning the corner. A crowd blocked the street forward, packed shoulder to shoulder around an old well. 'What are they doing?'
With a frown, he scooted along the wall, peeking through the people as he pushed towards the other side. A pale man in a black robe stood proudly in the center, his wild hazel eyes bouncing beneath his arched brown eyebrows. His narrow cheeks flushed bright red as he threw up his arms, and parted his wire thin lips.
"Hear me, people of Galeden! I come from the temples of Dilthane to warn you of the dangers of magic, which is still as real today, as it has been for centuries! Don't you know there are still beings out there, who wield unnatural power. Power they've acquired through dark ways, and which they use against people such as yourselves! They roam these lands, still free as they lurk through the forests, and hide in the mountains, waiting for an unsuspecting man or woman!"
The man shook his fists, one of which clenched tightly around a silver pendant, shaped in the form of a withered rose wrapped around a cracked sword. An amethyst was nestled into the swords pommel. "We know not what they are capable of, only that it is dangerous, and terrifying! I ask you to think of your wives, your husbands, your sons and your daughters! Their futures remain uncertain as long as these beings remain free and wild!"
Cyrus flinched as the crowd erupted into a fury, jostling him with their elbows and shoulders. Lowering his head, he hurried onwards, his pace brisk until the noise faded into the calls of the market. There, the citizens of Galeden filled the street, their coin purses snapping open and closed as they bustled between the wooden stalls and open shops in the early morning.
Cyrus found himself swept in by the flow of people, his mouth watering from the sweet scents in the air, while the odd trinket here and there caught his eye. Nearby, a group of men gathered around a merchant selling hammers and nails, their voices hushed as they discussed different projects. Occasionally, they'd glance over their shoulders as their wives and daughters picked through the stalls and shops ladened with cloth. With sleek and time trained fingers, they tested the wool, and examined the silk.
Cyrus stepped to the side as a group of children darted past, chasing a leather ball. Overhead, the light of the sun trickled through the buildings, turning the tendrils of fog into gold. Tightening his grip on his pack, he glanced between the stalls until he spotted one selling jars of ink and linen parchment.
'There. If I was a scholar, then wouldn't I need supplies?'
Cyrus grinned, and made his way over. As he approached, he noticed a young man with tufts of golden hair, haggling with the lean merchant. As their conversation progressed, the merchant's face hardened into a scowl, and he unconsciously tapped the wooden stall.
Cyrus waited a few steps back, until at last the merchant threw up his hands, and the young man left with a stack of paper, and three jars of ink, along with a sly grin. Cyrus met his eye for a moment, and the young man threw him a wink, before continuing on his way.
'How strange,' Cyrus thought. He continued forward, and approached the merchant. "Excuse me, do you happen to know where I could find a scholar on ancient history?"
The merchant stared at him momentarily, then turned away as if he hadn't seen him. Dumbfounded, Cyrus knocked on the stall, but stopped when the merchant narrowed his eyes. Shrugging, he made his way to the next merchant, only to be met with a similar response.
When the following three merchants also refused to speak to him, he moved onto the passerbyers, only for them to quicken their pace whenever he approached. Furrowing his brow, Cyrus paused to think, when a heavy, burly man rammed their shoulder into his as he passed by.
He bit his lip to keep from crying out, and glared at the back of the balding man. His luck worsened as another stomped on his toes, followed by someone shoving him as they rushed past. All the while, their shouts and cries to each other grew louder, grating on his ears.
Cyrus's pulse quickened as the noises melded together, and his hands grew clamy. He spun around, scanning the stalls and people, looking for a way out. A space opened momentarily, but was blocked by a horse drawn carriage, which whipped past without a word of warning. Cyrus stumbled back as the wheels nearly ran over his feet.
'I need to get out of here,' he thought, gritting his teeth. Eager to be free, he lowered his head, and shouldered his way through the crowd. A gap in the people quickened his step, when a sharp pain poked his side.
"Ouch!" Cyrus straightened his back, and whirled around. His movement caused him to trip over a raised slab, and he tripped, tumbling backward until he crashed into a stall. All around him, baskets of spices flipped into the air, scattering their wares to the wind.
A cloud of pepper air hung around the stall, and Cyrus fought back the urge to sneeze as he spotted a small boy darting away. Gritting his teeth, he climbed to his feet, when a thick hand grabbed his arm.
"Oi! I hope you don't plan on running off, now do you? You've gone and spilled my wares!"
A middle aged man loomed over him, his reddening face and thick jowls inches away. His breath stunk of radishes and sausage, and crumbs speckled his thick beard. A carpet of red and orange spices laid around his feet, now speckled with dirt and dust.
"Of-of course not. Here, I'll pay for it. How much did this cost?" Cyrus asked, wrinkling his nose. He started patting his hips as the merchant studied him.
"Well. I buy most of my spices from Tulmuth, so they cost a decent coin," The merchant released Cyrus, and rubbed the back of his swollen neck. "Almost… hmm, a silver, no, two, per basket. So that'd be about… eight silver. For all of it." The man grinned, though his eyes flickered with a sly glint.
Cyrus pursed his lips. "Very well. Let me just find the coin…"
He ran his hands along his empty belt around until they met at the back. With a frown, he lifted his cloak, and stared at the torn rope where his coin purse once hung. His clothes were also torn, and a line of blood glistened from a scratch on his skin.
Cyrus cursed inwardly, and glanced in the direction the boy had run off.
"Well? Where's my coin?" The merchant asked, crossing his arms.
"I- I don't have it," Cyrus said, lowering his cloak. "I believe that boy just ran off with it. If you let me go, I'll be certain to bring it back."
"I have a better idea. Why don't I call the guards, and let them settle this."
The merchant grabbed Cyrus's arm again, and tightened his hold. Cyrus winced, and tried to break free, but the merchant's grip was stronger than steel. By now, people around them stopped to watch, whispering amongst themselves.
"Hold on, now! There's no need for that," Cyrus said, trying to pry back the man's fingers. "I'm telling you, that boy stole it. He's getting away, right now."
"Quiet, you. You think this is the first time someone's done this?" The merchant shook Cyrus, then waved his hand over the crowd. "Guards! I need the guards over here!"
The crowd shuffled apart as the guards' silver armor appeared, pushing towards them. Cyrus's thoughts whirled as he yanked against the merchant's unyielding grip again, panic swelling inside him. His chest grew hot, and heavy as his surroundings blurred, and his fingers tingled as he flexed.
'I need to go. I need to go now!' Cyrus thought. A faint whisper played in his ears, followed by a low rumble.
He froze, his eyes widening as the cobblestone street cracked, and swelled. Around him, the citizens of Galeden cried out, and stumbled back, their faces paling as the cracks widened, revealing roots writhing beneath the stone.
"Ma-Magic! It's magic!"
The cry came from an old man, who whirled around, and pointed a gnarled finger at Cyrus.
"He's a warlock! A warlock has come to-"
The old man's cry was cut off as the roots erupted through the stone, and slammed into his chest. The force was enough to pick him off his feet, and slam him into a stall with a sickening crunch. As he collapsed to the ground, chaos enveloped the market. A wave of cries and screams filled the air as people pushed and shoved each other to get away.