Whether by design or result of decades of a single-minded pursuit of power, Aberdeen Swathmore's office could be more accurately described as a museum of the Black. In Aberdeen's prideful estimation, there wasn't a finer collection in all of the Black City, perhaps not even on this side of the continent. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of tomes, grimoires, manuscripts and spellbooks filled the ground-coffee jacobean wood shelves that occupied all but one of the walls fully. Years of covetous safekeeping and obsessive inspection gave each volume an outwardly ageless appearance and those with golden lettering glinted against the light. His most prized and recent possession,
The Ratha' Alzilal, he kept in a safe that was built into the wall.
Aberdeen stood with his back to the door. He wasn't expecting any visitors and as such, had devoted most of the afternoon checking for dust and damage. He ran a gloved finger down the spine of an old favorite, a spellbook he'd pried from the desperate grip of a magi who had been bisected at the navel by a nasty bit of sorcery gone wonderfully wrong. The Black, how he loved it! How it spoke to him! In a different age, it would have been his war room.
Oh, Leonard! To be at war again! Born to an age of boredom! How lucky you were to be splattered across the cobblestone as a young man than to grow old as I have!
The whine of door hinges pulled Aberdeen from the morbid romance of memory and turned him about in a hurried hobble away from the bookshelf that flanked his desk at the back of the room. The golden fox-head handle cane had seen the old man through many winters yet he hadn't managed to make it the true replacement it had meant to be.
Another bum leg! Another left foot! What good are you if you aren't helping me move faster?! Better to be splattered across the cobblestone! It was particularly irksome on those days when his bones ached at the chilled air that cut through him as if they were wrapped in ragged cheese cloth instead of skin. It was particularly infuriating when, despite the limitations of his ailing and aging figure, the moment demanded strength! He clasped his free hand over top the one that gripped the ebony handle, abating the tremors that had rushed up from his wrist and rattled his elbow and turned towards the door, "Jorge, how many times need I remind you to grease
the damn door?!I can't even think whe-." Pause. It wasn't Jorge's broad frame that filled the frame of the office entrance, but instead a young man whom he'd never seen before. Aberdeen cleared his throat, shrugged the tension from his shoulders and pushed against the cane to stand just a bit taller for the moment, "Whatever it is, it had
better not be a waste of my time."
"A waste? I wouldn't say that," Avoran feigned a struggle to hold up the briefcase at arms length, "an offer for an item in your collection, that's what I've brought to the table Mr. Swathmore."Crossing over the threshold, he started across the room towards Aberdeen's desk, the leather panels of the briefcase thudding against his thigh with every other step.
Impressive...first editions, original prints...can't even read that one. I'll have toget my hands on it. "Mr. Swathmore, my client is interested in purchasing an item in your collection. I believe he said it was the," he fished a bit of paper out of his pocket and made as if to squint at what was written therebefore shoving it back into the pocket, "
The Ratha' Alzilal? Is that right? You might know it better as
The Lament of Shadows? In any case, my client is prepared to make a generous offer...provided it's authenticity can be verified."
Aberdeen bristled under his coat and made little effort to hide the contempt for the young man as he snarled through gritted teeth, "I know it best as
The Ratha' Alzilal. Better than you. Better than your client. Better than the mad hands that put pen to paper." With a huff, he adjusted his tie with a quick tug left and right, "Regardless, it's not for sale. Not even for two of those loaded briefcases."
That's right, it's not for sale. Aberdeen's eyes narrowed as he cast a curious gaze across the young man who stood so brazenly in his office. Why? How?
The Ratha' Alzilal had been hidden from the world for decades. Generations had been born, lived and been buried all around its resting place. The seal on the time-sealed crypt had been cracked by chance and only by incredible fortune had Aberdeen's eyes and ears been in the right place to send word along. Yet, here this young man stood, plain as the nose on his face. "Who did you say your client was?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Swathmore," Avoran replied with a smile as he placed the briefcase on the desk and with his forefinger pressed firmly on one of the corners, spun it around so that the latches were now facing Aberdeen, "confidentiality clauses in contracts. You know how it goes, couldn't tell you even if I wanted to. But what I can tell you,"
Click! Click! "is that you will find the offer quite fair. My client knows how hard these books are to come by." Steadily, Avoran eased up on the pressure that had, for the while, kept the briefcase closed and revealed the neatly stacked and bound bills that filled it from end to end. Sometimes all that it took to entice a seller was just the right amount of theater. "So, what do you say? Are we in business?"
Pointless! Just take it! Yidra shuffled back and forth along Avoran's shoulder, clicking its beak testily. To the spirit, the office's contents were little more than man and magi's folly and vanity. The Black had always been beyond their true understanding. They had hurled themselves into the river to drink greedily but always drowned. Gasping and gulping. Spitting and swallowing.
Pathetic. This Aberdeen Swathmore wasn't even an enticing bargain.
I wouldn't chew his bones even if the vultures had already done the pleasure of stripping the flesh bare. I can smell the weakness, I can smell th- what is that smell...like old coals. Smoldering. Rotten...Yidra's focus darted up and down Aberdeen searching for the source of the strangely familiar smell until, suddenly, locking on the right pant leg.
Oh...is that how it is?
Crash! The golden fox-headed cane slammed on the table and splinters of wood skipped and bound across the desk. Aberdeen gripped the table as if he intended to crush it between his fingers, his knuckles splotched red underneath the taught white skin. "In business? Boy, you haven't the slightest notion as to whom you are speaking! BUSINESS?!"Leonard's trembling, bloodied, battered fingers flashed across his mind.
There, there. Just a few more fingers. Let go. LET GO! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! LET GO! Bones. Viscera. Bits of Leonard splattered all over the cobblestone. Blood began to pool under his nails as they dug into the hard wood of the desk. But then, suddenly, a calm washed over Aberdeen.
Better to be splattered...eh, Leonard? A smile crept across his lips that grew wider when he noticed that the young man was in fact, a young magi, a spirit magi. "Apologies, I may have lost my temper there. There's a lesson in this, for me, for you...mostly for me, I suppose. I've grown old, soft. I thought it was this damn city! THE BLACK CITY, that made me this way. But no, it was me the whole time. No more. Not again, not for a moment longer. I wish you could see it, the greatness of the times to come."
The spirit's senses came alive with the stench of the pulsating black that had hungrily devoured most of Aberdeen's leg. It was as if the creeping sickness had been awoken by the old man accessing his mana.
Oh...there's still some fight left in him. Be careful, I smell it on him. Yidra clicked its beak excitedly.
Aberdeen turned to the bookshelf behind him and consulted the spines in search of a fitting end to the young magi's life. A fitting return to form for the black magi.
Not this one...not this one either...ah-hah! He pulled the book off of the shelf and began to flip through the pages as the book lay open in his palm. "We were so alive back then, so full of ambition. They tried to beat it out of us, you know? The Circle always knows best. The word of our progenitors shall reach beyond their graves to dig new ones for our ambition! You're lucky, you know," the rustling pages stopped beneath Aberdeen's bloodied forefinger. The perfect spell. It would bore its way through every bone in the young man's body and yank them from him screaming. Another spirit magi for the pile. Aberdeen began to recite the incantation, turning about on his heel slowly as the words began to tumble from his lips. He could feel his mana churning as his intent took shape through the black words. His heart raced like he'd suddenly embraced a lover and then just for a moment, he looked up from the spellbook and saw that Avoran was pointing at him.
Wha-
A small black circle appeared at the tip of Avoran's finger and in the next instant, visible light contorted around the circle, twisting what seemed to be the very fabric of reality down towards the pitch black center.
BOOM! The sphere tore through the space between them in a moment between moments and excised most of Aberdeen Swathmore's upper body and, along with it, a considerable portion of the back wall of the office from reality. The old man was everywhere and nowhere all at once. Once pristine pages of the collection were dyed crimson and those that were not stuck to the walls or ceiling, fell to the floor in a heap.
Thud! The safe door fell to the floor.
Avoran slowly lowered his hand, "There you are."
