Chapter 12: How Fascinating

Stryg raised his hands and flexed his fingers, flashing his grey claws. He tried taking in the details of his enemies. There were eight goblins total. The one called Leroy was holding a struggling Karen, so that was two down for now. Four others held knives. Strangely, all of them had their claws shaved down. Fools, why get rid of one’s natural weapon?

They began to close in on him. The food Stryg ate had only replenished a small portion of his energy. It wouldn’t be enough to fight them all. He hoped they were all as skilled as Jax, he might have a small chance of running then.

The first one screamed as he charged low, knife held in both hands in a thrust. Stryg sidestepped him at the last moment, slamming an elbow into the attacker’s temple. Two others tackled Stryg to the ground, before he had a chance to recover. Stryg raked his claws at their chests as they tried to pin him. They yelled in pain as fresh inch-deep gashes stretched across their skin.

Stryg kicked them off and scrambled to get up. A knife slashed across his shoulder. He shouted in pain. A fist connected against his jaw. Stryg fell to the ground with a dull thud. Taste of iron filled his mouth as two of the thugs hauled him up and pinned his arms to the wall.

His vision blurred and his ears were ringing. Karen was shouting something he couldn’t quite make out. Jax stood in front of him.

“You think you can just walk into my turf, break my nose, and run away scot-free?” Jax glared and leaned into Stryg’s face. “I don’t know who you are, bastard, but once I’m done carving up your face, you’ll be singing like a pig.”

Stryg watched dimly as the serrated edge of Jax’s knife neared his face. Stryg’s head felt stuffy. He was really going to die here. Fear coiled around him, like an old friend.

He had been a fool for following Karen. Gullible for believing he had been something special, when the shaman had promised him a great destiny. Naive enough to hope he could be strong and win the respect of the tribe. He thought he could be a giant, but he had just been another small goblin, about to be gutted like a fish.

He was scared. Terror beat at his heart. But it was the anger that boiled within the pit of his stomach that rushed forth. Pure unadulterated hate for the ones he saw. Everyone who had seen him as less, for being different. A freak.

Stryg’s neck sprung forward, his mouth opened wide and gripped onto Jax’s face. His fangs pierced through the bandages and sunk into Jax’s nose. Stryg bit down with all the force he could muster and ripped away. A hoarse scream escaped Jax’s disfigured face as he recoiled back in agony.

Stryg spat the remains of the nose into the face of one the goblins who held his arms down. The goblin flinched. It was enough. Stryg pulled his arm from underneath and slashed his claws through the goblin’s open throat. The thug fell to the floor as he clutched his bleeding neck.

Another swung a knife at Stryg’s chest. He twisted away as best he could, the knife nicking him on the ribs. With his free hand Stryg sank his claws into the face of the next goblin who pinned his other arm. Stryg kicked the wall behind him and threw his body forward, tearing the thug’s face and freeing himself.

Stryg rolled on the floor just in time to dodge another thug’s punch. Stryg roared in a maddened frenzy as he tackled the thug to the ground. She tried swinging her knife at him, but he caught her hand and slammed the blade into her chest. She gagged on her own blood and weakly tried to clasp the knife’s handle. Stryg ripped the knife from her chest as he wobbled to his feet. The last of the six thugs stood still, his hands shaking.

“The guards are coming, we gotta go! Help Jax up, quickly!” Leroy said to the last thug and pulled Karen away.

“Let go of me!” Karen yelled in protest.

Right, those two were still alive, Stryg thought bitterly.

The other thug helped a writhing Jax to his feet and ran after Leroy and Karen.

Stryg watched the four thugs fade away into the spectating crowd. The adrenaline in his body began to fade away as the reality of the situation sank in.

The dagger slipped out of his bloodied hands and his knees crashed into the cobblestone. A small part of his muddled brain told him the guards were coming, that he should escape. But the last scraps of energy had burned in the fire of his anger. His head dropped in exhaustion.

The guards arrived at the scene of the crime.

~~~

Rorik Polamtal, a Trade District captain of the guard, rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was getting late, he wanted to go home to his wife and kids. But, of course, he was stuck listening to some of his men reporting about a bloody mess a few streets down.

As a drow born into a martial Minor House, Rorik had been given great opportunities within Hollow Shade. His family had been able to afford sending him to the martial academy, and he had done fairly well, earning himself a spot as captain on graduation.

Problem was, he had been stationed in the Trade District. In some ways it could be argued that the Trade District was the most important district in all of Hollow Shade, as most business occurred here. It was, however, without a shadow of a doubt, the most busy district, which often led to the most incidents.

Rorik sighed, he wished he had studied more, worked harder in his time at the academy. Perhaps one of the more powerful Houses would have offered him a contract? Who knows? Maybe he might have even risen to the ranks of a warlord like his grandfather. But, no, instead he was in this small office, watching as his lieutenant floundered about with his papers.

He needed a drink.

“From the top,” Rorik said. “What exactly happened, lieutenant?”

“Ah, yes, sir,” the lieutenant straightened his papers. “It says here that some of our men encountered a gang related incident this afternoon. The Wild Knives gang, composed of goblins from the Commoner District, attacked a lone goblin near a bakery shop. The victim seems to have put up a hell of a fight though. From the accounts of eyewitnesses, there were eight Wild Knives members present during the attack. The victim killed three of them, two of them pretty gruesomely I might add, and knocked another unconscious, before the other four fled as our men arrived.”

Rorik nodded, “So, it was a gang war between a couple of goblins? Let’s put them in cells and be done with it.”

“Ah, not quite, sir. The victim seems to not have any gang tattoos nor any scars that may resemble a gang tattoo. It's very unlikely he is part of a gang. Judging from the victim’s hide clothes and lack of a name-plate, we think he is an outsider who just got caught up in an attack.”

Rorik’s head shot up, “Wait. The victim seems to be poor, based on his clothes, yes? So, at best, he is from the Commoner District, and at worst, an outsider. The fact that he doesn’t have a name-plate makes this quite easy no matter which of the two groups he belongs to.”

“Sir, do you mean to put him into slavery?”

“Obviously. Hollow Shade has strict rules on name-plates and those who don’t wear them. The punishments are especially serious for the commoners and don’t get me started on outsiders. Get some of the men to bring in the victim and then kindly ask Mr. Granby if he could come down from his office.”

“Right away, sir.” The lieutenant saluted and left.

A few minutes later he returned with two other guards holding the victim, a blue goblin. He was bloody and looked worn and ragged. He seemed to be struggling to even stand. His eyes looked defeated, he stared at the ground.

“The victim’s name is Stryg, from the Sylvan tribe of Blood Fang of Vulture Woods, or so he claimed to the men,” the lieutenant said.

“So he is an outsider, good enough for me,” Rorik nodded. “Where is Mr. Granby?”

As if on cue, Mr. Granby walked into the office. The resident mage wore his traditional black robes. A silver necklace inlaid with a jasper gem rested on his shoulders, indicating his role as a chromatic brown.

“Mr. Granby,” Rorik said, “thank you for coming and my apologies for the disturbance. I was hoping you could help us.”

Mr. Granby raised his hand, “Yes, yes. I heard. Now let’s get this over with quickly, I’m about to leave for the day.”

Mr. Granby pulled out a docility collar. Strange sigils were etched into the metal collar, a small magestone was embedded in the center.

“He seems to be bleeding, sir,” the lieutenant pointed out.

“Not now, lieutenant,” Rorik said. “One of the guards can patch him up after Mr. Granby is done. Slaves don’t require much medical attention.” Rorik bowed his head in deference to the brown mage, “Whenever you are ready Mr. Granby.”

Stryg tried struggling as Mr. Granby approached. But he was too weak, the guards held him securely and pulled his neck up by his hair.

“Stop,” Stryg said weakly.

He was having trouble staying conscious. He had lost too much blood.

Mr. Granby paid him no heed and wrapped the collar around Stryg’s neck.

The mage raised his hand, a soft brown light began to glow from the collar, before sputtering out of existence. Mr. Granby’s eyes narrowed. He raised both his hands. The light returned brighter this time, but sputtered out just the same.

“I don’t believe it,” Mr. Granby laughed and stepped back.

“What happened? Is it done?” Rorik asked.

Mr. Granby removed the collar, “No, the collar’s enchantment failed to activate.”

“Why? Is it defective?” Rorik had a bad feeling about this.

“Not at all,” Mr. Granby said. “As with all ethereal energy, this boy’s mana simply counteracted the collar’s effects.”

“Wait, are you saying he’s-”

“A mageborn, yes.”

“Well... shit,” Rorik muttered.

The guards who held Stryg loosened their grip and looked at the goblin with newfound fear. They didn’t want to be responsible for accidentally hurting a mage.

Mr. Granby said as he studied Stryg’s appearance, “A goblin mageborn, you don’t see that everyday. How fascinating.”

Stryg couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was this a dream? Was he dead and was this the afterlife? Or was he simply hallucinating before they killed him?

“I-I’m a mage?” Stryg managed a whisper.

“Mageborn to be precise. You’ll have to study for years before you have the right to call yourself a mage,” Mr. Granby said. He glanced at Rorik, “The boy seems quite wounded. As per Hollow Shade’s rules, any mageborn has a right to attend the city’s magic academy. As the boy was found under your watch, you are responsible to see that he gets that right fulfilled.”

Mr. Granby glanced back at Stryg, “He barely seems to be standing up. Best if you rush him to Celica’s clinic. Unless you wish to face the consequences of depriving this city of a potential mage.”

Rorik swallowed, “Of course not. I’ll see to it that the boy gets to the clinic immediately.”

Mr. Granby adjusted his glasses, “Oh, I think he fainted. Best hurry, captain. My job here is finished. Tell me how he fares in the morning. I’m off.”

Mr. Granby began whistling a cheerful tune and left.

The lieutenant sent Rorik a questioning look. “Sir, your orders?”

“Well,” Rorik said. “What are you waiting for? Get him to Celica’s clinic. Now!”

“Right away sir!” the lieutenant saluted.

The guards carefully lifted up the unconscious Stryg and rushed him out of the room.

Rorik slumped back into his chair. It was going to be a long night. He sighed, stood up, and walked out to go follow his men. He really needed a drink.