At the genesis of it all, it was a delightful deception. A stroke of favor that fated him all he desired and all he dreaded. And it all began because he chose the wrong mark. It was meant to be a simple transaction; his life for the shiny stone he was flaunting about. Gallagar assumed a wealthy man like himself, part of the primacy, would part with what brought him peril.
Gallagar had no inkling of just how significant the gem was.
The pompous fool held the blade at his throat threateningly, and that forced the man to a jarring standstill.
"I admire your will," Gallagar commended. "But if you move again, I will skewer you like a pig."
"I will not be commanded by a lesser form."
He made a move. And Gallagar kept his word. The blade slashed his throat, blood bursting and unleashing a rivulet of red. And all words of sophistication devolved into senseless gurgling. His eyes bulged from their sockets like a caricature drawing as he clutched his throat and crumbled to the ground. Since he would have no further use of it, Gallagar took the sack purse that dangled from his belt. And his hand delved into the inner pocket of his embroidered garment so he could reel out the stone. And the moment Gallagar beheld it, he was spellbound, and it was like he was cast under the thrall of the mesmerizing golden jewel.
Suddenly, like a brightness from nowhere, light flooded the inside of the gem until it exploded out to illuminate the entire street, almost blinding him. He dropped it and backed away, shielding his eyes from its searing light. The flash of brilliance nearly stole his vision for all-time. When the spectacle faded and the light thawed into the darkness of night. A gripping realization came upon him that the mysterious gem was no longer a mystery. Gallagar pocketed it, and his eyes strayed to the dead noble, who had a halo of blood around his head. He had to dispose of the body, and fast. Gallagar heaved his deadweight and placed him upon his shoulder as he transported him to Cirus. The center of the old well. Abandoned but not vacant; places like those were rife with banditry, a den of thieves, members of the landed gentry would say.
So in my case, refuge, he thought.
"Gallagar."
Roderic approached him with a toothpick peeking out of his mouth.
"I need a favor," he asked, hurrying towards the derelict well. "At the north end of the street in front of the old library. There's some cleaning I need handled."
Gallagar reached the cusp, and he hurled the corpse over the ledge and into the pit.
Roderic huffed, insulted. "I'm no-one's servant boy."
Gallagar took out some silver shekels from the sack purse and offered it to him.
He eyed him down distrustfully before he snatched the shekels from his grasp greedily.
"Do you need a deep-clean or a quick fix?"
"Just erase any evidence that I was ever there."
Rodric took out his toothpick to point it at him reproachfully.
"What have you done now, boy?"
"Something that'll condemn me for a thousand lifetimes."