The Last Heretic

THE PALE ORANGE PROFESSOR

He slowly opened his eyes to the gentle spring breeze playing with the curtains of his fourth-story apartment's open window. The thin white curtains danced among the bookshelves of dusty tomes and papers haphazardly stuffed between the books. It was a cool, gentle breeze; a welcome wake up call. He sat up and reached for his glasses on the small bedside table. His knuckles clinked on an empty bottle with a familiar, plain brown paper label. The scholar must've forgotten to put that away after last night. The little glass lenses fixed within a thin metal frame greeted his fingers and perched themselves on the thin fur of his snout as his room came into a clear and pleasant focus. The fox made a mental note to find a better fitting pair of glasses on the way home from work later. The massive Solladin snored in bed beside him, the thick, black scales covering its body rising and falling with every long and chasmic breath. The lizard-man's back was spotted with bandages covering deep and torturous wounds from a few nights ago. They were almost healed, by now, but not without his studious friend's help.

The scrawny fox slipped out from under the covers and stretched, arching his back as he threw his arms over the large and perky ears on his head. His spine cracked and popped as it satisfyingly relinquished the consequences of the terrible position he had slept in. The leathery pads of his digitigrade feet gently graced the cold hardwood floor as he walked over to the window, closing it part-way and drawing the heavier set of curtains to darken the room. He gently kissed the heavy sleeper on the side of the head before walking to the closet and grabbing his clothes from the dresser. The elegant mirror in his bedroom was dusty, but fulfilled its purpose.

The reflection stared back: a thin and short Vorsun, the dog-people of the north, dressed in a simple but elegant, bright white button-down collared shirt with gray formal pants to match. He buttoned up a tan vest that complimented the shirt and turned to his left and right to check his outfit. A simple and thin pale blue tie matched the bright blue hue of the fox's eyes as he slipped the pre-tied accessory past his ears, tightening it around his shirt collar and tucking it under his vest. He reached over his cluttered desk and grabbed a mechanical pocket watch missing its watchband, dropping the wind-up device in his left pants pocket. A book bag quickly found itself slung over his shoulder with the weight of a dozen books and a seemingly endless assortment of loose papers.

He strode over to the kitchen table and gently plucked a wooden pipe from next to an open book. The pages were crisp - the cover worn. It was from his personal library. His scaley friend must have been doing some late-night reading. A quick glance revealed the content: a reference book on common diseases, open mid-chapter on bloodborne pathogens. A dusty, closed tome on assorted mythology and the various legends of old Muilur lay closed next to it. The smell of rum wafted off a nearby empty glass perched atop a handwritten note with the Solladin's hasty handwriting in the center of the page.

Siy: Marcob Ruyen

Ask obout cure

He retrieved his keys from a key ring by the door, carefully closing and locking it as silently as he could. His friend needed sleep to heal his wounds.

The beautiful spring morning was not a quiet one in the streets of St. Bastion. Wooden carriages drawn by massive beasts of burden rumbled down the cobblestone street as an ever-changing mass of people flooded through the sidewalks on their way to work. Men and women of all races and backgrounds surged through the city in waves that ebbed and flowed in beautiful, undulating patterns as he stepped out of the apartment building. A speeding bicycle, the driver a young lad in tattered leather clothing, narrowly shot by him missing the fox by mere inches. Street vendors cooked fresh hot meals for the inhabitants of the bustling city. The smoke of their grills wafted high into the air and drifted between the brick apartment buildings. Crowds of people donning everything from casual suits of the finest textiles to rugged and dirty, tattered linen swarmed by him, rapidly moving to their destinations amidst the tangy smell of caramelized meat, the blasting mumble of a bustling populace, and a nearby newspaper stand yelling about today's events in a boisterous attempt at a quick buck.