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"I'm looking for something," said an attractive, mysterious stranger in a deep, husky voice and leaned closer.
Charles cringes in distaste, before turning the illustrated page. This so-called light novel appears quite heavily vulgar to his taste and, honestly, why Raven prefers the likes of such.
"I'm looking for something."
What?
He looks up, caught unaware, and smiles invitingly at what he assumes is an outline of a tall man in the dark cloak, standing in the shadow thrown by the massive display cabinet.
"Excuse me, what exactly are you looking for?"
Having put that blasted book down, Charles squints at the man, who stubbornly remains hidden in the shadow.
"The sign on your window says 'we sell, not ask'."
"It probably does, yeah."
Really? Has Moira come up with that herself?
"Well, I need the most potent untraceable poison you've got."
"Ah, is it rabies —" or, heavens forbid, huge two-headed rats. He's heard some blood-chilling stories lately.
"Humans."
"Please, go on," prompts Charles calmly. Why, oh why did he agree to watch over the shop?
"I don't want it to be a painless death, neither a quick one," casually says the man. "I wouldn't say no to some internal hemorrhage as well."
"I see," Charles drawls, faking thoughtfulness.
"So, do you have it?" the man finally leaves his shadow and approaches the counter, treading stealthily and keeping his hand glued to the hilt of his sword.
He's got a sharp face of a weathered warrior and shrewd grey eyes. Charles, for some reason, can't look away.
"We might have," he blurts, "but you have to understand that the price equals, um, the risk of selling illegal substances."
"No problem. How much?"
"Twelve gold coins," ventures Charles haphazardly.
Twelve gold coins are enough to buy this shop with everything inside, and the tavern next to it, and, well, the better half of this lovely town.
"This is a total rip-off," hisses the man angrily.
"Yeah, the prices are outrageous this time of the year, I'm afraid. But this is the only decent shop selling potions around here," he is especially proud of how skillfully he had stressed only.
After that, Charles tries to look as kindly apologizing as possible.
"Fine," the man utters all of the sudden and drops a wallet on the counter with a very distinguishing dull clank.
"Fine?"
"Yes, fine. Now, give me the poison."
"But, you see, sir — "
"Charles, thank you," Moira's grip on his shoulder was too strong to be treated lightly. "I shall carry on from here."
Despite her slender stature she somehow pushed Charles back after winking at him and mouthing great job discretely. While Charles was numbly and mutely going through being startled by Moira and then slowly digesting being horrified, the customer was prudently examining a tiny vial, produced by Moira out of thin air, no less.
Then, in a beat, the man and the vial are gone; and Moira is giving him a winning grin and a half-hug with her left arm. She's busy recounting shiny coins with her right.
"Charles, you're the best!"
"Moira, aren't you afraid that he'll come back and demand compensation?"
"Why would he do that?"
Oppressed by some vague foreboding disaster, Charles nevertheless prods:
"But you didn't give him real poison, did you?"
"This is a golden rule: never trick a purchaser. Anyway, that was the extract of pure basilisk venom and some recipe of my own. Hey, Charles, where are you going?"
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On the fringes of the ancient-looking forest Erik pondered over his options. They were not plenty. What a nuisance. He darted a sour look over his shoulder at the quickly approaching young man. Nice neat clothes, rather long hair rakishly tied back in a manner of court nobility.
"Thank you for waiting for me," huffs the man upon reaching him, studiously ignoring Erik's best murderous glare as if it is nothing.
He starts fanning himself with the book he is holding and Erik notices the embroidered intricate pattern running along the edge of his navy cloak. And in the dim light inside he would have never told that his eyes are unnaturally bright, so deep is the blue.
"I didn't want to wait for you," Erik narrows his eyes as the red disk of the setting sun finally disappears below the line of horizon. "It's getting late. Why don't you go back, Charles?" he pushed aside the folds of his cloak and unsubtly clasped the hilt of his sword.
"Oh, how kind of you to remember my name, sir!" quips Charles. Just to his credit, he's got a perfectly drawn generous mouth, prone to smiling. "You see, I've been wondering, you must have been joking back there about killing — "
"Of course, I was," retorts Erik civilly with patience of a saint.
In an hour or so, he seriously contemplates murder.
Charles, despite everything Erik has done to lose him, is still persistently following suit, while moody moonlight is flooding a forest tract.
Erik loses it after all.
"You," he growls and spins around, theatrically, drawing the sword this time. "Stop following me!"
His swords glints menacingly, the tip is nearly poking through the book that that Charles is shielding with.
"Can I, by chance, talk you out of your intention to use the poison?"
"I told you," he made eye contact. "I was joking."
"Please, forgive me, but I don't believe you," Charles states, none too yielding.
Erik wondered whether it was high time to resort to first contingence plan and knock his sorry pursuer out cold. It would be the easiest thing in the world. Besides, he really didn't feel like staining his sword and Charles looked otherwise harmless, so…
Then, Erik fell into half crouch.
Charles fidgeted nervously, but Erik was not looking at him any more, since shadowy silhouettes behind his back came into motion. Bandits.
"Behind you!"
Erik tightened the grip on his sword and let his body react to the warning. He didn't even realize what was going on before his fading senses registered numbing pain and everything turned darker than black.
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Charles' head was still very sore but had stopped spinning. He lay on the ground, the side of his face pressed against something wet and slimy. When he tried to jerk his head to the side, sharp, striking pain shot through his whole body. Ah, the attack. In a minute, Charles has found out that with hands tied behind one's back it is rather difficult to get up.
So it happened that his fumbling attracted attention and a torch was pushed right into his face.
"Is that he?"
"Dunno, he's got mud all over his face."
After the torch threatening to set his hair on fire moved away, Charles let out a breath.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," he rasps, "I dare presume, you're confused. May I help you?"
He heard voracious gaggling and more than just a few unbecoming words. Sharp stinging in his eyes was almost gone and Charles was able to see. The man with Moira's vial was lying on his back next to Charles. Thank heavens. If anything, they were alive, deposited next to the trunk of the gigantic tree. He has quickly counted more than two dozen men: some of them sitting around the nearby fire and some circling Charles right now.
"Look!"
Again, something was shoved in his face and Charles nearly recoiled, before he realized that it was only a dirty and crumpled patch of parchment. With some sketch and doodles underneath the said drawing.
"Can you please give me some light? I can't see it properly."
He was jerked to his feet, then. Rather roughly, but these people are bandits for a reason, sadly thinks Charles.
"Thank you. That's much better," placidly says Charles in response and thus peers at the drawing.
Very well, this is definitely a male face. Hard to tell anything else, with the helmet covering the most of the face and leaving the rest to the viewer's imagination. On the other hand, doodles were terribly illegible, ink washed out and letters turned into ugly, mangled shapes. Charles would make an educated guess that the name written below was a short one: something akin to Erich or Erik.
Charles could make out bandits leaning closer, that's why he cleared his throat, as if preparing to say something important.
"This," he pauses meaningfully, "is a very bad picture."
His words are met with sympathetic mumble among the crowd.
"Oi," a hand grabbed his collar, pulled him up and forward, and Charles has acutely felt how that nice silver clasp fastening his cloak pressed into his windpipe.
"Are you Erik?" asked the smelly man, shaking him like a ragdoll. "Don't fool around and answer!"
"Boss," came a timid voice. "The second one woke up too!"
"Get he here!"
The leader's grip has slackened for a moment and Charles gasped, greedy for air. After that, he was pushed back and his head collided with the tree trunk. Despite it, Charles made himself keep quiet, watching the scene in front of his eyes worriedly. In all likelihood, even if this traveler is not the man they are looking for, both of them are in trouble.
That brief inquiry has been repeated again, and, of course, the man remained stoically silent. Not a grunt escaped him when the leader punched him hard.
"Boss," again, voice of the reason could be heard, "we will take two and let Master pick the right one."
"That tosser," mumbled the burly boss-man, "making I do dirty work for he."
Charles darted a panicked look at the man, who, he has seen it himself, had fell to his knees after the blow, and felt his mouth drop open. The man had jumped to his feet, his hands suddenly free, and it looked as if a whirlwind of punches and kicks broke free. Unfortunately, people, previously stationed around the fire, were quick to draw their crossbows. Charles tried to take cover, shuffled to the side, just as somebody slammed into him and, one more time, Charles' back collided with the tree.
Then, Charles came to his muddled senses when he was running through the forest, daring not look back.
"This way," barked the order his fellow captive and tugged Charles by the fold of his cloak, in time to prevent him from running into yet another tree.
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"Thank you, Erik. Did I get your name right?"
"Yes," Erik felt quite an animalistic growl building low in his throat. "Be quiet, now. There is something wrong with these morons. They are unusually stealthy."
"I suspect there must be some black magic involved," whispered Charles furiously as he was finally done rubbing at his recently freed wrists. He shuffled closer and peeked over Erik's shoulder, bumping his knee into Erik's aching side unwittingly.
Damn all seven hells, Erik is unusually courteous tonight, dragging Charles all the way to the shelter in between the rocks and realizing, that, indeed, he is not acting like himself. Charles is still talking meanwhile.
"…apologize. I swear, this is the very first time, I've ever seen this spell going haywire – "
"Don't tell me," Erik both anticipates and dreads the answer, "that because of you I feel like I've been struck with lightning."
"I need to mention that I wanted to help. I'm really, terribly sorry," timidly pleads Charles, sighing tragically. He clasps his hands together right in front of Erik's nose to illustrate his point. "Magic flow suddenly collapsed, got out of hand, therefore it backfired, you see."
What an absolute shame. Erik grinds his teeth, reeling. Losing to a bunch of scrum…
"My sword and my gold," Erik grows angrier and edgier by the second. He pats the inner secret pocket of his leather vest and slightly protruding shape of the vial is reassuring. Its' glass in unbreakable, so he doesn't worry about his own safety regarding it.
"Erik, I believe, we are far enough," Charles, the sourest sorcerer, breaks through his inner gloomy monologue. "I want to try something. Hold on."
His hand starts glowing white and Erik doesn't even have time to get ready.
"Everything's fine now," happily comments Charles and Erik reluctantly lets him heal his aching side and bruised shoulder.
Due compensation.
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