"We're here," Silas said, stretching his back. "Unload the personal gear. The cargo stays 'til morning."
He looked at Projo, then at Gideon, a genuine smile of relief on his face. "You both earned your pay and then some. Let's get inside—that first round's on me."
The wagon's descent into Shattercoast had been steep and treacherous, the air thick with salt, tar, fish, and smoke. The town itself looked less built on the coast so much as it was clawed into it.
On the eastern edge, a line of sturdy buildings made of sea-stained stone acted as a breakwater against the salty spray of The Menhir Sea. The roar of the waves crashing against the cliffs was a constant, percussive force.
The west descended into a sheltered cove.
The main street was a wide, sturdy boardwalk of driftwood planks raised over the calmer waters of the gulf. Buildings leaned against each other, built on a chaotic network of thick wooden stilts and stone foundations. It was a labyrinth of piers, docks, and rope bridges connecting different parts of the town over the gently lapping water. Sailors mended nets on the docks, merchants shouted orders from the decks of moored ships, and the raucous sound of laughter and a badly played fiddle spilled from the open door of a waterfront tavern.
Projo still cradled his arm against his chest as he entered The Salty Dog, the pain a dulled but stubborn reminder of his near-death experience. Gideon's eyes hadn't stopped lingering on him since the outburst of lightning magic. The old mercenary's gaze was sharp and weighing, as if trying to uncover what secrets lie just underneath Projo's surface.
Pushing through the heavy driftwood door was like stepping into another world. The roar of the sea was instantly replaced by a wall of noise: the boisterous laughter of sailors, the clatter of wooden mugs, the shouting of a dice game in the corner, and the same out-of-tune fiddle from before, now playing with more enthusiasm than skill. The air was thick with the smells of stale ale, sweat, pipe smoke, and frying fish. The room was crowded, dimly lit by smoking oil lamps that cast a greasy, yellow glow on the rough-hewn tables and the hard, weathered faces of the patrons.
Silas, a man clearly in his element, strode confidently toward the bar. "Three ales for three weary travelers!" he bellowed at the large, bald-headed barkeep.
Gideon scanned the room, assessing the crowd, noting the exits, and identifying the biggest, loudest, and most potentially troublesome patrons. He found a small, defensible table in a dark corner with its back to the wall and gestured for Projo to join him.
Silas soon arrived with three frothing mugs and a small, heavy pouch of coin. He set the ales on the table and then pulled out two gleaming gold coins, placing them in front of Projo.
"Your pay, Smith. As promised," the merchant said with a respect in his voice that hadn't been there in Greatbridge. He then passed two more gold pieces to Gideon, who simply pocketed them without a word.
"Now," Silas raised his mug. "To a successful journey."
He took a long, deep drink. "Tomorrow, I unload and then I start looking for goods to haul back to Greatbridge. I'll be here for a few days."
He looked at Projo, his eyes glinting with a shrewd, calculating light. "And you, my boy? A man with your... talents... must have plans. Looking for more work? Or just passing through?"
The question was casual, but the intent was clear. Silas now saw him as a valuable commodity, and he wanted to know if that commodity was still on the market. Gideon, sitting silently beside him, seemed to be just as interested in the answer, his eyes fixed on Projo over the rim of his mug.
Projo deposited the two gold coins into his pouch and took a sip of ale. "I'll be looking for my next job. Gotta be some work around here needs doing—but to answer what you're really curious about, I'm needing to learn more about magic. I can use it, yes, but," he glanced casually at Gideon, "As you can probably tell, it's a little unrefined. Either of you fine gentlemen know what direction I should start looking?"
Silas's shrewd expression softened into one of genuine interest. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Magic, eh? Smart man. A talent like that is wasted on grunt work. But you're right, it needs a master's touch."
He took a swig of his ale, thinking. "Shattercoast... a tough place to find a proper tutor. From what I've seen, most you're like to find here is sea-witches and knuckle-bone readers. Not the kind of folk you're looking for, I'd wager."
He stroked his short beard, his merchant's mind already flipping through his contacts. "There's a scholar in the capital of Engira who deals in old texts, but that's far east, across a not-so-little pond. Not exactly helpful."
The conversation stalled for a moment, and Projo was worried they had reached a dead end.
But then Gideon lowered his mug. He stared at Projo for a long, silent moment, his pale eyes weighing and measuring. Projo felt like a piece of steel being tested for flaws.
"There was an old man," Gideon said in a low, gravelly rasp. "Lived on the cliffside, up past the docks. Called himself a 'student of the arcane,' though I think most around here think he's some old crackpot. Kept to himself, from what I remember. Quiet." He took a slow drink of his ale. "Don't know if he's still around. It's been a few years."
Silas's eyes lit up. "You mean old Master Eldrin? The one with the tower full of glowing rocks and strange smells? I'd forgotten about him."
Gideon gave a single, curt nod.
"Well, there you have it, Smith," Silas said, slapping the table. "Best lead you're likely to find in a town like this. A proper hermit-mage."
Gideon's gaze was still fixed sternly on Projo. "I'll take you there in the morning," he stated, not as an offer. "I have my own... questions... that a man of his talents might be able to answer."
Gideon's suspicion was making Projo more and more nervous, but with no other leads to learn more about his abilities, he had little choice but to go with the man.
The rest of the evening passed in a tense, but not unfriendly, atmosphere. Silas, lubricated by ale, told loud, rambling stories of his trade routes. Gideon remained a silent, watchful statue. Projo, for his part, nursed his ale and his throbbing arm, his mind a whirlwind of hope and dread. He had a lead. But his guide was a man who looked at him with an unsettling curiosity—both professional and cold.
Eventually, Silas paid for a room for the three of them—a simple, rough-hewn chamber with three cots—and the long, exhausting day finally came to an end.
----
Morning, after a simple breakfast
Tyr's Day
18th of Avril, Year 824 of the Silent Age
----
PROJO'S QUEST LOG:
+ Learn More About My Strange Powers
- [ACTIVE] Find the Mage: Follow Gideon to Master Eldrin's home.
+ Repay Bram (Owe 24 Gold)
+ Return to Mira
PROJO'S INVENTORY:
+ Money: 6 Gold, 6 Silver, 27 Copper
+ Weapons: Iron Longsword, Iron Dagger
+ Armor: Crude Leather Cuirass
+ Supplies:
- 1 Day's Worth of Trail Rations
- Flint & Steel
----
The morning air in Shattercoast was thick with fog and the smell of low tide. After a simple breakfast of hard bread and salted fish at The Salty Dog, Gideon stood up.
"Time to go," he grunted.
He led Projo out of the bustling inn and onto the damp, slick boardwalks of the town. They navigated the labyrinth of piers and rope bridges, heading toward the quieter, residential part of the cove that climbed back up the cliffs. The path became a series of steep, winding stone steps carved directly into the rock. After a long climb that left Projo's legs burning, they arrived at a small, isolated ledge overlooking the grey, churning sea.
There, perched precariously on the cliff's edge, was a strange, crooked tower. It was made of the same dark, sea-stained stone as the rest of the town, but it was adorned with strange, spiraling patterns and crystals set into the walls that pulsed faintly. A thin, purple-tinged wisp of smoke curled from its chimney.
Gideon walked up to the door and knocked, the sharp sound echoing in the misty air.
They waited.
After a long moment, they heard the sound of several bolts being unlatched from within. The door creaked open, not to reveal a wizened old man, but a woman.
She was young, albeit older than Projo himself, but her appearance was a stark contrast to the drab, grey town.
A pair of intelligent, curious eyes peered out from behind a set of small, wire-rimmed spectacles. She wore a striking, brightly colored set of robes—white accented with blue and gold—not unlike a dress but obviously designed for function. An array of pouches, scrolls, and strange, dangling trinkets hung from her belt.
What stood out the most, however, was the cascade of long hair tied back in a messy braid.
It was blue.
She glanced at Projo for a second before looking back at Gideon.
"Good morning, young miss," the old mercenary spoke up. "We're looking for Master Eldrin, does he still live here?"
She waited a moment before answering. "Master Eldrin is not here. He's been away in the east for months."
She gave them a polite, but slightly wary smile. "I am his apprentice, Falira. How can I help you?"
"Hm," Gideon grunted thoughtfully, glancing once at Projo. "We had some questions, maybe you'll be able to answer them for us, if you'd be so kind. My name is Gideon, my… associate here is called Projo."
Falira gave the faintest bow as she opened the door, gesturing for them to enter.
The air inside was warm and smelled of dried herbs and old parchment. The room was a chaotic but organized library.
Books were stacked on every available surface, strange glowing crystals pulsed with a soft light from shelves, and arcane charts covered the curved stone walls. A large, bubbling cauldron sat against one wall, emitting the same purple-tinged smoke they had seen from the chimney.
Falira turned to face them, her intelligent eyes moving from Gideon's stony face to Projo's. "So, you're seeking information about magic?"
"Not me," Gideon rasped. He leaned his crossbow against the wall but kept his hand near the dagger at his belt. "The boy is. He's... new to it."
Falira's gaze settled on Projo. "New?"
Her voice carried a hint of skepticism. "That's... unusual. Most show a spark in childhood. What is it you wish to know? What sort of magic do you practice? Fire? Protection wards?"
The questions were direct, the kind an expert would ask, assuming a level of knowledge Projo simply didn't possess. Gideon remained silent—a watchful predator, waiting to see how the "boy" would handle himself. The room suddenly felt like a crucible.
Projo looked between the two nervously before speaking. "I, um… I used lightning yesterday when we were attacked by Spindle Crabs. First time I've ever done that, it was kind of life or death."
Falira's eyebrows shot up, her skepticism instantly replaced by focused interest. "Lightning? From your hands? Unprompted?" Her voice quickened. "And you've never used magic before?"
She took a step closer, eyes alight with curiosity. Her gaze dropped to Projo's hands. "You were in mortal danger, and you just... manifested a lightning bolt? That's quite advanced magic to just blast out on accident."
She suddenly grabbed his left hand without even asking.
Projo flinched, expecting some sort of reaction from the contact, but nothing happened.
Falira noticed his reaction, but didn't speak on it.
Yet—at least.
"Let me see," she said. "I want to feel your Mana channels. If you produced that much raw energy, your system must be humming with residual power."
Gideon shifted his weight by the door, and Projo could feel the mercenary's eyes on him.
Falira's brow furrowed in concentration as her cool fingers analyzed his wrist. He felt a faint, tingling sensation, like a spiderweb being dragged across his skin.
Her confident expression slowly melted into confusion. She moved her hand, her thumb pressing into the center of his palm, then tracing the lines up his arm. "Nothing," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "There's... nothing here."
She finally let go, her brow furrowed with disbelief. "You're drained. Your Mana channels are completely empty."
"Yeah," Projo said, pulling his hand back. "I've felt a bit tired since it happened yesterday."
"Tired?" Falira scoffed, pushing her spectacles back up her nose. "You should feel exhausted. But it was just the one blast? And it was yesterday? You should have recovered at least some of your reserves by now, even just from sleeping."
She shook her head, looking at him as if he were an impossible puzzle. "It's like you cast the spell thirty seconds ago. There's barely anything there at all."