Thieves Of Magic

Security Liason Pt. 1

The bigger they are...

Pern walked briskly through the bright day, though it was looking to be a cold moon of souls this year. At least it wasn’t raining.

She quickly left the old castle kitchens and headed toward the rising sun, it was cold and white but it was just leaving the horizon and kissed the silvered waters gently with it’s light. She saw a tall ship, lean for a galley but just as long, it’s flag, a slaughtered mimic, was flying at half mast. Odd. I’ll have to ask one of the chumbers about that.

Once she had met the old tillman’s road she headed south, towards the Institutional Guild Bank of Flushport. She came to a halt outside the Harbour Bank as a wagon came out, probably headed to one of the bank’s warehouses at the edge of the city. She couched her halberd in the crook of her arm and brought up her shield to bare, she spoke in a practiced voice.
“Make way for the Guardian Protectorate.” She put a slight ounce of her will into the words and let a little power flow into her shield. The crowd parted, but not before someone spoke,
“Fucking rooks.” a voice from somewhere in the crowd muttered, almost indistinguishable from the noise of the crowd in general. She ignored it, the symbol of the Guardian Protectorate shone gently, a white rook on a blue field.

She walked the rest of the way and crossed the street, the recent rain and the camber of the road had left it surprisingly clean. She looked up from the street, the steps of the bank were worn with footsteps, four stone pillars supported it’s old portico, a stylised image of a tiefling with a balance scale. She walked up the steps and in through the double doors.

The tone shifted from cold white stone to warm dark woods, and plush red red velvet. As her eyes adjusted to light of the room, someone coughed to her left. She turned and saw a behemoth of a man trying to look inconspicuous behind an almost comically small diary.
“Mr. Ringtail?”, the mountain stood, a faint jingle came from his seat as his tail slid from the bench.
“Please, call me Matthew, people usually call my brother Mr. Ringtail.” As obvious as it sounds, he was even bigger standing, his face was scarred over his right eye and his nose had clearly been broken several times, healing differently each. His chest was as broad as two men standing together, and, Pern had noticed, he had been sitting next to a pair of warpicks.


Sonnet Sonnet

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