Even the most uneducated can have a mind for adventure - especially when it comes to saving the world.
A man with a tie is discovered outside the limits of a dried-up settlement in the middle of nowhere, bearing a plague that was long thought to be...
When Octienne entered the attic, Master Hughes sat with feet propped arrogantly on his desk. If he saw Alyn behind his desired guest, he gave no sign. His expression was set in a grimace, and his eyelids hung heavier than they had hours earlier.
He gestured to a seat in front of him, and Octienne neatly folded into place. Alyn hovered at his back.
"We've had a talk," said Hughes. He nodded to the back of the classroom.
Abraham sprawled, bleary-eyed, in a chair by the wall. He clutched a pocket-sized leather-bound flask. A small, round pair of golden spectacles perched crooked on his nose. The lenses were mostly missing. Jagged glass poked from the inner rims.
"Alcohol, Drew?" Octienne questioned, a stern eye upon his companion. "You gave a malnourished man alcohol?"
Master Hughes waved the scolding away. "If it kills him, then it kills him. It's at his own risk." He rolled his eyes. Even this small action came off lethargic. His gaze landed on Octienne, and his whiskers twitched upwards in mockery. "Fret not," he purred, "he's an experienced alcoholic. Carried his own flask all the way across the state for a refill."
"Oh, who are you to talk?" the alchemist sneered. "Drunk before dinner."
He shook his head and muttered misgivings to the floor. Hughes frowned. Octienne dusted his lap and straightened in his chair.
"I am not drunk," Hughes argued. "I've had a long day, William. I'd really like to be alone as soon as possible. I've had enough of your charity case."
The blacksmith flicked a plastic card at Octienne, who startled at the action. The card dropped to the floor. Master Octienne sighed and gave a small, sympathetic smile to his friend.
"I understand," he said. "I imagine you must be having quite the migraine."
"Yes..."
Octienne bent and swept the card between his fingers. Alyn peered over his shoulder to see.
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"That was one of three personal belongings that he carried," Hughes explained. "The other two being the flask and the ridiculous broken glasses. It is his identification card."
There were words on the card, all gibberish to Alyn. They accompanied a small, uniform photograph of a young man in a crisp white collared shirt, a rich green waistcoat, and a black tie. There were two golden pins on his breast pocket. His shoulders were regally held back, his head held high, and his pearly whites begged for attention in a great grin—flashed as though he owned the world. To Alyn, with little experience, he looked as though he truly might. She had never seen a person with such plump, healthy weight on their bones. He appeared powerful and respectable, with the precision and care in his appearance, with not a single hair out of place and not a speck of stubble on his chin. Though the picture only captured from his chest up, everything about him radiated a pride and narcissism that spoke volumes about his character and, she thought, his wealth.
