Part of a series of short works and so forth, in no particular chronological order. Written for (and cross-posted from) a quiz at the Attic.
Traditional and obligatory disclaimer. These people aren't mine, for the most part. Lyrian is mine. Most others are at least partially Bioware's. Thanks go to Sister Vigilante/Incanto and Kulyok.
"The practice of magic without a license is forbidden in the city of Athkatla," Ellis rattled off almost automatically, staring into the darkness of the alleyway, his eyes flicking this way and that. Dark as it was, he saw nothing except for a faint blue glow several feet away. Outside of the reassuring hum of his own spell protections, however, Ellis sensed no persistent magic emanating from the light. He honestly hoped this wasn't another young child's idea of a joke. Younger deviants were the worst to deal with, he'd always thought. "You shall receive one warning only," he continued, making a gesture with one hand and casting a minor cantrip. A globe rose from his palm, hovering a fair distance above his head to illuminate the area. "Further spellcasting will result in your death."
All of his warding spells most emphatically reassured him that the only magic currently being used in this immediate area was his own, which made the presence of the sword a mystery. It was indeed a sword that was glowing, the most beautifully made blade that Ellis had ever seen in his life. He had never considered himself the sort of person to appreciate weaponry or good craftsmanship until now.
Perhaps, Ellis reasoned, it was this magnificent artifact that had caused the city's wards to trigger, through some hidden phrase or invocation that activated the glow. He took a step forward.
A pair of gloved hands closed around his throat, and he felt every single magical ward he had - and there were quite a few of those - collapsing to pieces. The globe of light he had conjured remained where it was, feebly hovering in midair, out of his reach. Choking, he clawed at his throat until the grip around it loosened, just slightly, and a female voice spoke directly into his ear, the tone light and bantering.
"They're called Sembian Spellbreaks," his assailant said, casually, as if she was simply extending him an invitation to dinner instead of explaining how she had instantly rendered his defenses obsolete. "The gloves, that is. Do hold still."
Ellis continued to squirm in her grasp, which was abnormally strong. He felt almost as if the gauntlets were burning into his neck, leaving finger-shaped imprints, perhaps even handprints. In all of the decade he'd spent as an enforcer for the Cowled Wizards, he had never run into anything like this. Slowly, he fell still again, realizing that resisting like this was getting him nowhere. It was increasingly difficult for him to breathe.
"I got them as a gift from a new friend of mine, Angelo. Why don't you both come out, Angelo, Yoshimo?"
He squirmed in the woman's grasp, hoping she would lower her guard and release him, but Tymora didn't seem to be smiling at him today.
"Sure thing, chief," another voice drawled. Simultaneously and from opposite sides of the alleyway, two men stepped into the ring of light still projected by his globe. Both were carrying katanas, both looked at least somewhat Kara-Turan, and there the resemblance ended. The man on Ellis' right was grinning, which might have come across as roguishly charming on another occasion, but in this case was simply unsettling. The man on the left looked older, with a few tattoos partially visible in the dim light, and he was not smiling. His face was deadly serious. As their contrasting expressions, cheerful and solemn, came into full view, Ellis stopped struggling once more.
"My name is Lyrian," said the voice in his ear. "All my friends call me Lyric. You'd like to be my friend, wouldn't you?"
Ellis realized, uncomfortably, that he would far rather be her friend than her enemy for the time being, what with the katanas and the choking and--
"Wouldn't you?" asked the woman, again, her voice menacingly sweet.
--in between the two Kara-Turans, another figure slipped from the shadows, reaching down to pick up the blue-glowing sword from the dirt. The figure raised the blade, illuminating his features. Slanted eyes. Pointed ears. Despite the pressure of the gods-damned gloves on his neck, he was still able to sense a flare of magical energy, far away as it now felt to him, and his mind made the connection. He was far from uneducated. A moonfighter. That sword was a moonblade.
The pressure on his neck eased, just slightly, enough for him to swallow and regain some feeling in his throat, and enough for him to speak. "I... would in-indeed, Lyric," he gasped.
"Oh, that's wonderful. I do so love making new friends! Now... won't you tell me everything you know about Spellhold?"