The Last Philosopher

Go to jail, go directly to jail

Early one morning, a bit after lunchtime for Lyeasrakardsul, as he pondered over some volumes of forgotten lore. While his head nodded and his eyes were nearly napping. There came a pounding at his office door. Managing to answer it without talking to himself, he found two hulking figures. The massive Trolls were dripping with new coat of traditional red paint. The patrol must have known where to find him, not that it was a secret.

His brain-jerk reaction was that Sulenthvorenth had found some obscure rule that he had over-bent. Now the rocks were here to drag him away to the Pedran college. The rectangle block of a building that served as Pentakl's jail.

"What is it? I'm busy," he lied trying to sound demanding. "Come-- back-- later!"

"You come."

He scrutinised the Troll, but it was hard to see if it was asking or telling. "I am not going anywhere without more information. I know it is a difficult concept for you Trolls, but try using more than two words at a time!"

"Brothers?" The stupid rock choose to go the other way.

"Damnation! What about the brothers, have you killed them?"

The council had given Drik instructions even a slab of granite should understand. They were to treat the captives with care. Still, he couldn't imagine the two brothers and their non-male brother not putting up a fight. It was four weeks since he tricked the council into believing they decided to send for the brothers. He hadn't heard anything about it since, which fit with the council's standards for non-transparency.

Not that we wanted to hear anything of course, his highly developed sense of evasion thought. We never wanted to get dragged into doing things to begin with.

"You go see prisoners!" A full minute of waiting for a four word answer.

So, the brothers have finally been brought to Pentakl's justice. His inner sorcerer gloated.

"Don't you mean injustice," he mumbled into his beard.

With self-pity following him like a shadow, he stepped into the corridor covered in dark wood and books. The Archives were essentially one giant bookcase. Unbound papers were scattered on tables, or crammed in between the books. The sorcling in the corridors giggled and pointed as he was dragged to the exit.

They must think we won't remember who has giggled and who has pointed? But we will, his vindictiveness thought.

Soon he was being hauled outside. With one massive Troll arm under each armpit, he was carried to the intersection of Dalmicir and Loitar. Asking a Troll anything was a loose-loose situation. Even so, he was starting to think he should have asked where they were going. Pulling him left, they went past the tree-huggers' tower on the right and what they called a college on the left. The twisting duplex was covered in clingy greenery.

The Plant-school, his condescension thought, nothing but stinky, needy things wanting to get watered all the effing time!

"Where are we going stone-heads?"

Not even a glance his way, the Rock patrol's reply was a disappointing as expected.

They could have ended up in the Institute, his paranoia worried.

Being sent to the Institute, as a non-Pentakl sorcerer, was a good way to get oneself experimented to death. His dread worsened. Sure, this was the road to the jail, but if they passed between that black box and the scraggly Pedran tower. Then they were heading straight into Macbiar territory. It was with genuine, but temporary relief, that he was jerked along to the right.

This is wrong, his apprehension thought, we're going to the Troll tower, that wasn't one of the options.

It wasn't only the tall tower's unstable shape. Or its ominous lack of windows, that was just because Trolls hated heights. No, it was because he was heading into the unknown. Even with all his centuries in Pentakl, there had never before had reason to visit this tower. Upon entering, he was startled by the lack of gloom. The floor was covered in enchanted rocks giving of a warm orange light. The first door, right by the entrance, had a stone-sign pounded into it which read Haedmaster.

Of course, he gets an apartment on the bottom floor, his jealousy coveted, and he can't even spell his title right.

There was nothing quite like sodomising the flies of someone's grammar to inflate his undeserved sense of superiority. Still, he was soon deflated as he was carried downstairs. The first two flight gave of a cold white light. Pretending not to notice each basement level had two stone-doors, he wondered how much further down these stairs went. As far as he had known, there weren't any basement levels in any of the housing towers. As was the case mush more often than he knew, as far as he knew was incorrect.

Entering the sturdy doors on the second level, they found themselves in long corridor. This one was itching with a hungry red, pinkish light. At the end of it, his face was scrunched up against a Troll-shaped door. It opened with a scraping creak. Sulenthvorenth was already inside, and six impressive looking Trolls were standing guard in front three barred doors.

Posted: 30.01.2024