Profectus in El-Amin
Dintin Dec 26th, 2014 (edited) 267 Never
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- Profectus landed on the cobbled street with a pained grunt, his head cracking against the stone. The burly dark elf who threw him shouted something in that barbarian language of theirs and spit on his back before wandering back into the brothel. Profectus pushed himself to his feet as best he could, stumbling just slightly. "Whaddya mean you don't accept foreigners?! It's a whore house! Since when have whores been allowed to choose their clientele?!"
- A bottle broke on the street next to him, spilling cheap wine across the paving stones. It was thrown by a pretty young woman on the balcony above, the whore he'd been soliciting. She shouted at him, but Profectus ignored her in favor of stumbling off down the street, towards the docks. He'd gotten separated from Fulvia at some point, though he wasn't particularly worried. She could handle herself well enough, he was certain.
- He'd been wandering the city for hours now. At first, he'd just taken a browse around the market. Then he found a bar and sampled the liquor. Someone handed him a house and told him to suck on it, and the smoke that came out was simply delightful, really. He barely even remembered his own name, or the name he'd given himself at least.
- "Profectus my ass." He mumbled to himself, leaning against the wall of a building to steady himself. "Defectus, more like. Couldn't even resist the temptation of a whore house. Tertia trusted me." He sank against the wall until he was sitting on the sidewalk, his head in his hands. The world was swimming, and just thinking required what seemed like immense effort and concentration. He'd really had too much to drink, and probably should have avoided whatever it was he smoked earlier.
- He must have fallen asleep, because when he next became aware of himself it was because he'd been smacked in the back of the head. He jolted upright, crying out in both pain and surprise. The culprit stood before him, hunched over a cane. The dark elf appeared ancient, bald as a babe with a long, flowing white beard. A scar stretched across his throat, jagged and ugly. His eyes were white, blind.
- "I can hear your accursed moaning from three floors up! Keep it down!" The old man shouted. Despite his frail appearance, his voice was deep and strong. The voice of a commander, a man used to being obeyed.
- Profectus rubbed the back of his head, scowling. He must have been out for quite some time, judging by the horrible headache that throbbed from just behind his eyes. It almost felt as if they would pop out at any moment, the pain and pressure was so immense. The ache in the back of his head from the old man's cane didn't help either.
- Wait, he'd been asleep. For quite some time. He hadn't been whining.
- "How'd you even hear me? I was passed out." Profectus had meant to sound demanding but the most he could manage was a dissatisfied grumble.
- The old man merely shook his head, smacking Profectus in the arm with the tip of his cane. "How do you think, idiot?! I can hear your thoughts, much to my own lament! You could at least give me the courtesy of thinking about something interesting, rather your own sob story."
- Profectus rubbed his arm where the cane struck him. Why did this old man keep hitting him? He hadn't done a thing to him! "You're a Vatis? Why aren't you in the part of town they stick all you magic types then?"
- The old man waved a hand dismissively. "Feh! Vatis back in my day could have crushed any of these magic users today like bugs. Back in my day, every Samjan learned magic! It was a right of passage to master one of the elements. These days nobles are lucky if they know the barest wisp of magic." He shook his head, sadly. "We've lost too much, we have. Now get up!"
- The old man swatted at Profectus' legs but Profectus managed to avoid the sting of the blow, springing to his feet. "What do you-"
- Before he could finish, the old man cut him off. "Shut it, I'm gonna teach you to stop being such a willowy little maiden. Come on." He said whilst wandering down the road, towards the docks so far as Profectus could tell. A mist had rolled in, the light cast by lamps hanging in doorpost cast in a strange, ethereal light.
- Ignoring the ominous atmosphere, or perhaps oblivious to it, a very hungover Profectus stumbled after the old man, wincing as the motion caused pain to flare behind his eyes. White encroached upon his vision, and in the next instant he found himself in a place quite dissimilar to the street he'd been found on.
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