The World of Atmora

Goma walked into the city of Duraal completely stunned with its architecture. It was a city bustling with life, excitement, and people. Goma rubbed his wrists, as to him he still felt where the shackles once existed. It reminded him to be careful. They say anything can be bought, sold, and acquired in Duraal, and he bet that included slaves. Goma knew he could not afford to allow anyone to recognize him first. If he was to find this trio of Dark Wizards, he knew who he had to find first. The Young Dragon is what he was known by. Apparently, he was some sort of human half-dragon thing, with some serious sword knowledge and magic.

Goma hoped he could find this Young Dragon, and learn everything he could about this Trio of Dark Wizards behind the enslavement of hundreds. He looked down, and realized his clothes were tattered. He would need to get new ones. That should be his first priority, after all. He wanted to make a good impression for when he met the Young Dragon for the first time. His pet, Ilya the Trunger, a small animal that likes to tunnel through ground and fly though the air, found either in mountains or in caves underground.

From what he had heard, the Young Dragon took out like, fourty slavers while naked, on purposefully letting them take him and enslave him so that he would be taken straight to the boss on their own accord. Once they were in the same room, apparently he killed each and every slaver there, and freed everyone. Another story says on how he destroyed an entire Dark Magic Guild after learning they did business with the magical trio, searching the remains for three days for any information on them. And then, there was the rumor that he took on a Holy Knight who mistook him for a demon, and won. "Ilya, when we find this guy, he is going to be so badass it will be amazing! I mean, can you imagine him? AN ultimate hero, capable of destroying anything in his path! He will totally be able to help us!"

As they walked down a road, he looked in a window. He still could not get over his new hair color. Seriously, why did magic turn his hair blue. Although, he did have to admit, it did look really cool now that he thought about it. And how did it stay so spikey? Was that magic too?

He turned and continued down the street. He had to focus, he had to find the Young Dragon and get his information, and maybe even his help! "Oh yeah, it would be so cool to team up with this guy! I heard he once destroyed an entire Coven, and their base, in a single night! And they had zombies and everything! You ready Ilya?"

Ilya gave a squeak of joy and understanding. Goma was sure he was the smartest Trunger ever. Like, the smartiest smartest Trunger. Goma never really did learn anything while underground, so his speech and other intellectual based stuff was on the low side. Actually, he could only read and write in Runic, because the magic he absorbed gave him that knowledge. But seeing as how Runic was only used by ancient, magical civilizations, it was completely and utterly useless in reading signs. Which meant, he had no idea what the signs were saying. Though, he assumed the one with a sword and a shield was a forge.

Still, he had to find the Young Dragon. He had to focus. He had to.... "Oh wow, that fish smells delicious!"

This was going to take him awhile.

(Not my best intro post, but I am sick and need to focus on finals so this was the best I could do)

Zabel was so happy today. Normally, he would work the whole time, but Vrax would tan his hide if he did not celebrate and have fun every so often. And the Festival of Crowning was one of the greatest festivals of all times. Still, Zabel should probably keep an eye out. After all, more then a few people had put a bounty on his head, and many people would likely want to collect it. Well, people who believed they actually had a chance of success. Many mercs and bounty hunters were smart enough not to come after him, but stupid people could still be dangerous.

Pipap flew onto his head. "You know, I gotta say its pretty ironic, calling you the young Dragon when you are actually older then most humans. How old are you again, like sixty?"

Pipap was a young beast dragon he had been chosen to squire. He was a crafty fun loving sort, but his heart was in the right place and his magic strong. Also a bit pestering at times, but he was young. He would learn. Dragons age slowly, but they also mature slowly. Which is probably why Dragons learn to be so patient. How else could they put up with their young?

"Yeah yeah. Well, that is still pretty young for dragons" Zabel mentioned. A Dragon's total lifespan is hard to predict, but some believe they can live well over one thousand years old. Zabel took some food, and continued enjoying the music and dancing. "Unfortunately, it seems like we may be interrupted".

"So you noticed then the assassin tailing us?" Pipap replied. "For a moment I thought you were getting soft".

Zabel scoffed. "Keep dreaming, hatchling".

"So what are we going to do about it?"

"I say, let the festival keep going! And deal with him when he finally decides to strike" Zabel told him, as they continued to enjoy the music. Of course they had no idea just what they were about to get into today.

"He's a child."
"Looks can be deceiving."
"I've killed children before."
"He's not a child."
"He looks like a child."
"Well, not all things that quack are ducks."
"I don't have time for your riddles, Simon. If I wanted your apothegms I'd bloody ask for them."
"...it wasn't really an apothegm."
"You're an ideograph."
"...I'm not sure you're using that word correctly. It's a malapropism."
Elysabeth narrowed her eyes. She leaned over the little wooden table, pointed elbow stuck between slats with enough force to make it groan, letting Simon know it wasn't sufficient cover. Not much was, when dealing with an elf-woman scorned. Regardless, he sat, passive and not paying attention. His eyes were over her shoulder, and his mind far from the festival. "You're staring at the hassassin."
"I'm not convinced he's a hassassin, Elysabeth."
"He has a garrote in his sleeve and a ceremonial knife on his belt. I've killed many of his kind, before and after entering your employment." Elysabeth lowered herself back into her seat and crossed her arms. "And I recognize his accent."
"...doesn't look terribly much like a hassassin."
"What did you say about ducks and quacking?"
"That's different. I was talking about the dragon-boy."
"He doesn't look like a dragon."
"Yes, Elysabeth. You've made that very clear."
Simon finally turned his eyes to her. She had her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, the only effeminate feature on her body. Mud coated her boots and shins, and there were still a few specks of bled on her stomach and fists. He, on the other hand, wore a simple wrap-shirt tucked into coarse pants sinched by a leather belt. He wore animal-hide shoes and a careful haircut. He'd even shaved. First impressions were important.
The arcanist smiled and scratched his bare chin. The faintest twinge of sadness was felt with the loss of his beloved facial hair. She narrowed her eyes again and bared her teeth. "I don't like when you stare at me."
"I can go back to looking at the hassassin."
"No you can't. He crossed the street and entered that bakery." She gestured with a twitch of her eyes. He nonchalantly twisted and turned to look. "I just said you can't. No window."
"...what's behind the bakery?"
"An alley. I think it's one-way. There's... a..." She looked for the name, failed, and settled: "Building. At the end. One exit."
"I think we should go introduce ourselves."
"You said no more fighting today." Elysabeth tried to sound disappointed, but she was out of her seat and halfway there before he could reply.

It was a simple, if risky, play: Simon entered through the front door, stood a safe distance from the suspected hassassin, and made some accusatory remarks. The hassassin, not wanting to draw attention to himself before killing his target, would try to escape through the back door. Elysabeth would be waiting on the other side of that door to punch him into a hospital bed, if need be.
Fortunately, need was not be; she caught him in the temple with her elbow and knocked him to the cobblestone ground. She pinned him with a metal boot-heel to his shoulder and pointed her sword at his face. Simon came around, clicking his tongue and berating the hassassin for running instead of feigning evidence. "I'm quite the gullible man, Mr. Hassassin. You could have said 'Sorry, you have me mistaken,' and we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Simon rifled through pockets, sleeves, and trousers. There was, as Elysabeth said, a cord garrote tucked into the folds of his left shirt-sleeve, and a dagger that appeared to be incredibly fragile because of its chipped design, which was intentionally hammered in to cause more jagged wounds and hold poison.
"No, no, stop struggling. Seriously. She just has to lean forward, and you have a hundred-and-ten pounds precisely placed to separate your pectoral girdle." He stole the man's shoes. "See, I'm a physician. I once took an oath, saying I'd never use my knowledge to harm my common man. I taught her everything I know about how to break a body, and the only oath she's ever taken is to do exactly that to anyone who would otherwise threaten me. So stop struggling and answer some questions, or she'll demonstrate how easy it is to detach your radius from your ulna." Simon reached out and grabbed the man around the wrist, then touched the bones in turn.

Unfortunately, the hassassin didn't speak the same language Simon did, and while he easily could have repeated his message in a dialect a few steps removed from sharing the same tongue, it was easier to let Elysabeth break his maxilla after a sufficiently incriminating writ was found in his pocket. "...so he was a hassassin."
"I told you." Elysabeth stuck the garrote in her pouch. She turned the knife over, removed it from its sheathe, shrugged, and tossed it aside. "I've seen sharper rocks."
"I think we should go see the dragon boy."
"Only if I get to fight something bigger than..." She gestured to the unconscious hassassin, whose body was in a race to see whether it would die of blood loss or asphyxiation first, like it sufficiently made her point. Then she decided better, appending a fitting expletive title. "So, are we going?"
"Yes." Simon stood, dusted himself off, and started walking. Elysabeth fell in step beside him. "Now we just have to find him again."
"He's right over there." Her ability to spot a child in a crowd never ceased to amaze Simon. He looked carefully to see what she was pointing at, then asked that she lower her arm and stop being so suspicious. "Maybe we should wait a minute. He looks like he's having fun."
"I'm not paid to stand around."
"No, I suppose you aren't. Still, it's a big crowd." Simon had to stop her from drawing a sword. "No no, I wasn't asking for you to make it smaller."