Welcome to Gaia! ::

ooc| Note about time: this is set slightly in the future; Dji and I couldn't wait to role play, so we skipped ahead a little. Mal has no met Asariel by this point, so... yeah. No risk of things like that. :3 Enjoy reading.



Malcolm Lansing had absolutely no interest in literature and tended to spell the word ‘literachoore’ if he ever had need to write it down. Spelling, among other educational skills, were not his forte. Still, this occasionally served him well. This was one of those times.

It was a dark and stormy night. Because of his inexperience with reading and writing in general, Mal didn’t realize how clichéd the phrase was. Even if he did realize this, he wouldn’t have cared much; the night was dark and it was stormy. There weren’t many other ways to say that, unfortunately. The wind blew the trees into tortured contorted shapes, so that they seemed more like they were hands reaching out to the sky, pleading for some sort of mercy from the gods. The gods, it seemed, had more important things on their mind at the moment, as there was no mercy forthcoming. And the rain! It didn’t pour down in drops. It poured in rivers. Still, it was better than what Mal was used to. He was reasonably sure that this was water. Like, pure water. Back where he came from, they did horrible things to water.

On the bright side, at least he wasn’t out there; at the moment, he was riding in a wagon, one with a cover. A covered wagon, one might call it; the road was slick with mud, but the destination was in sight, only a few moments away. Moving so he could take a good look at the tower, Mal whistled slightly under his breath. He had heard about these mages, but… well, one needed to see things with one’s own eyes to truly believe.

The fact that it was even visible in this downpour was amazing enough. The tower practically glowed with magic, or maybe it was just the pure white stone that had that effect. Or maybe it was just Mal’s night vision. Battles didn’t exactly stop for nightfall; good night vision was important. He could easily pick out the panes of stained glass, the light shining through those marvelous works of art. Because of the colored lights, it was possible to see the stair case---on the outside of the tower!---spiraling around the white stone, as elegant as anything he had ever seen before.

It wasn’t the elegance that got to him though. Elegance didn’t impress him. Pragmatics did, and this place was as pragmatic and easily defendable as anything he had seen before. For a mage, this Djibril had some sense. Even if she had set up in the Borderlands. In another few minutes, the wagon stopped. Several men---Malcolm included---unboarded, looking around carefully; as guards, it was their job to make sure everything was safe. Mal wasn’t worried though. At the destination, things were usually ok, so long as the employer---in this case, this mage, Djibril---didn’t decide, ‘Nah, I won’t pay you after all’. Or, possibly worse, decided that they didn’t want the cargo. Still, that wasn’t really Mal’s problem.

That was the merchant, Taariq’s, problem. The slightly portly merchant---as if there was any other type of merchant!--- got off the wagon as well, and chose to stand near Mal, as he was the guard he trusted the most with things like this. Mal knew the territory, having grown up on the Borderlands himself. Neither man liked the other, but they understood that the other had his uses. They were willing to look past such things in the name of profit.

“What do you think, Mal?” Taariq asked quietly, clearly awed by the set-up of the place.

“Honestly? I think that the balconies are overkill, but that’s just me.” This was exactly the type of thing that Taariq got bent about, which is exactly why Mal liked saying things like this.

“I meant about the milit’ry set up, not the aesthetic values!”

“Oh, well, you should have made that clear. My point stands. I still think that the balconies are overkill. Simple arrow-slots would be better. Still, if she were going to try to kill us after we hand over the goods, I’d say… I’d say that we wouldn’t have a chance. She’s a mage. ‘S no good, mucking around with magic. If she weren’t to use magic for some strange and unknown reason, then she would use snipers from over there,” he pointed at a nearby hill, “And there,” he pointed towards a balcony, one that was devoid of people. Which was the main reason why he thought arrow slots were better; then you would have no idea whether or not someone was aiming at you.

After all the chests had been brought inside, Malcolm and Taariq followed. The inside of the tower was every bit as elegant as the outside, if slightly less pragmatic. All high-ceilings and magic lights, the walls were made of… well, Mal was no expert on woods, so the best he could say was ‘some sort of dark pretty type of wood’. Gold inlays were a common theme, as well as pillars. Mal slowly drew back his hood and shook his head slightly, spraying the nearby people with water. He was far from dangerous-looking that was for sure; the first words that came to people’s minds when they saw him typically were ‘pretty boy’ or something along those lines. His dark brown hair was cut only to keep it out of his eyes and was constantly messy; he saw no need to get a fancy hair cut, and, besides, he kinda liked it like this. Dressed in plain browns and blacks, he really didn’t dress to suit his appearances. Most people---or at least those attracted to men---agreed that the clothing style that best suited him was none at all.

He sniffed the air slightly and traced the smell to a large cage with two odd weasel-creatures in it; he sniffed again and wrinkled his nose. “Ferrets,” he announced to the world in general. “You know, when I was a kid, I wanted a ferret. ‘Course, we’d been starving; anything with meat on it would’ve done.”

A shriek rang out from somewhere nearby, and something hit the top of Mal’s head. Stumbling away, the mercenary looked around madly, wondering what the Hell had happened. There, before him, stood an elderly man, holding a cane.

“HEATHEN!!” the old man screamed, taking another whack at Mal, who dodged the blow quickly. “Knave!!” there were a few more blows, with Mal quickly backing away, wondering just what was going on here. People trying to kill him was nothing new, but normally, he actually had to do something to earn it.

Mal ducked to the dubious safety on the other side of the crates, eyeing the old man warily. He hadn’t actually said he was going to eat those ferrets! Some people just didn’t actually listen… the old man was still glaring at him, simply waiting until the girl was gone so he could continue his assault. While Mal could easily kill the elderly man, he didn’t want to; that sort of thing was bad for business. Still, he wouldn’t attack Mal again while the girl was around. Mal took a closer look at this girl, wondering just who she was. At first glance, she seemed to be little more than a scribe, someone who worked a lot with ink or something. Being paid to write was a new thing to Mal, but he wasn’t going to comment; it sounded like a cushy job. But… on the other hand, she had commanded the old man. She was more important than she looked, he decided.

Taariq the merchant, however, did not pick up on this. Looking at the girl oddly, he had decided the opposite, that she was clearly some sort of writing-servant. No one of any consequence. He sniffed slightly, and regretted it as he smelled the ferret-musk. “We bring trade for your mistress; we wish to speak to Djibril.”

There was a sigh from Mal and his hand went up to his face, rubbing at it slightly. “…I hate to break it to you, but I think that IS Djibril.” A lot… umm… shorter than he had expected and younger too---or maybe she just looked young because of her height---but she couldn’t be anyone else. It seemed to Mal that a scribe wouldn’t be given fancy clothes to muck up. “’S food mostly, actually, along with some more paper and ink,” he answered the question, since Taariq wasn’t in the state to answer anything. He had just turned slightly purple, actually.

It offended Taariq that Djibril would run around in dirty clothes like that, oddly enough. In his world, people at the top ought to look like they belonged there.

Meanwhile, Mal sniffed again. He could smell something underneath the musk of ferret; something else… something far more familiar to Borderlanders.

Mal decided he liked Djibril; he had a tendency to like people who were snarky and quick-witted. For a mage, maybe Djibril wasn’t all that bad… even if her place did have that annoyingly familiar smell around it. He thought about commenting on it, but knew it would just worry everyone. No need to cause a bloodbath, he figured. So long as IT didn’t come in here, everything would be all right. “You forgot about the civilized tea biscuits,” he said helpfully.

Great. Now Taariq had to deal with TWO snarky bastards… well, one b***h and one b*****d, actually. Still, at least he only had to deal with the mage for a little while; he and Mal would part ways soon enough as well, although Taariq had yet to decide whether or not it would be bloody. Mal demanded a high payment for his services, and the merchant hated to let go of money that he didn’t have to. Since he couldn’t think of anything to say in reply to Djibril’s quick wit, he wordlessly went over to the crates and managed to pry the lid off of it. Inside, as Mal had said earlier, were reams of paper. Well, sort of paper… as far as Malcolm was concerned, it was paper, but it was actually vellum. Far higher quality than just tree pulp, and worth far more. Another lid was pried off, revealing sweets of some sort, cakes and the like, and a third crate revealed inks. All of the goods were high quality.

While Taariq was occupied, Mal took the opportunity to inch a little closer to Djibril and hiss in a low voice, “What’s with the smell, hm? I was born and raised in the Borderlands; I know it anywhere… what’re you doing with one of THOSE in your tower? You don’t look like a Bound…” they all had marks somewhere on them, Mal knew, usually on the arm. Then again, he couldn’t see very much of Djibril, so… well, it was possible…

Mal didn’t know what the dragon meant either, but, unlike Djibril, he didn’t give two figs about it. He had grown up with horror stories of dragons coming and picking up ‘Bad Boys’. He had never been sure what sort of ‘Badness’ would entail such a thing, but, when he was five, he had the vague idea it entailed of not going to bed when told. What he did care about was what the Hell the damned thing was doing here in the first place?! His hand went to his rapier and he thought about attacking the little dragon. It seemed like a good idea, actually… dragons always caused trouble.

But the fact that the mage had apparently named it gave him pause. People were very protective of their pets. Being hit over the head by the cane-wielding old man had been bad enough; a mage wouldn’t stop at cane. She would probably use some sort of fell magic.

Meanwhile, Taariq was a fat load of panic, running around, hands waving, and screaming. “Do something!! BEFORE IT EATS US ALL!! WHAT DO I PAY YOU FOR, MAL?! GO KILL IT!! NOW!!”

Running around, screaming, and waving your arms around, as every dog-owner knows, is large-animal language for ‘Quick, come play with me!’ Once again, Mal put his hand up to his face, shaking his head sadly. This was not going well…

Really useless, actually. Mal had held in his mirth for as long as he could, leaning against a convenient wall and trying to pretend that he was not wobbling from holding in his laughter. Unfortunately, he couldn’t hold it back forever. Hands on his knees, he simply laughed at… well… everyone in his general vicinity. Mostly at Taariq, who was still wobbling around a little, watching the dragon warily. Also laughing at Djibril, though, because, for some reason, the image of a tiny woman trying to hold onto a squirming dragon was highly amusing.

Once he had control of himself, he stood up once more, wiping a tear from his eyes and trying to pretend that nothing had happened at all. Taariq glared at Mal, but the merchant knew he could hardly dock the other man’s pay for finding something amusing. Trying to regain some of his arrogance, the fat merchant sat down in a chair, saying, “Well, then I guess negotiations have bett… WHAT HAVE I JUST SAT IN?!”

That sparked off another round of snorts from Malcolm. Those cakes really had flown everywhere, hadn’t they?

Hurridly standing up once more, Taariq tried to wipe off cake bits from his behind, which wasn’t going well. This was NOT turning out to be a good trip after all… he had hoped to get a good price for the goods, but even a good price would not be worth this humiliation! “For the love… STOP LAUGHING!! I don’t pay you to have fun! You’re supposed to be a mercenary!”

“And you’re supposed to be a merchant. I notice it hasn’t stopped you from running around and enjoying yourself. Playing with little dragons? My, my… you really ought to be doing something more important… like figuring out the price for the goods so you can finally pay me.” Oh, and then attempt to kill me, Mal added mentally. Yeah, he suspected it would happen. He didn’t like people who tried to kill him, not generally, but he always planned ahead.

Chances are, just about anyone would rather see a pretty naked man. Even straight men would admit to that, if the alternative was seeing a fat man jiggle his butt around. Luckily, the talk of money was enough to distract the merchant from the task of cleaning off cake from his behind. By now, poor Taariq just wanted to finish his business here and get away as soon as possible, even if that meant traveling at night in stormy weather through Borderlands; staying around the mage was clearly dangerous for his mental health. At least the Borderlands were only dangerous for a person’s physical health.

“The prices are twenty-one silvers per crate for the vellum, forty-five silvers for the foodstuffs, and fifteen silvers for the ink. I’ve got three crates of vellum, five crates of food, and one crate of ink.” Damn, haggling with mages was tricky… one could never be sure if they would try some sort of magic on you… or threaten to, at least. Normally, Taariq wouldn’t have even considered taking this job, but times were tough. Lady Yvette was making traveling through the Borderlands more difficult, and the dragons… well, they were getting angry at all the hunters moving through. Word was that there would be war on the horizon soon enough.

Mal could believe that. He had been in wars before, and knew the… tension that always came before a battle. If it came to war here, he wasn’t sure if he would stand or not. It depended on the price, he supposed. He didn’t care for dragons, that was true; there was something wrong with someone just… using humans like that. It grated on his own personal morals. Sure, humans used animals like that, but that was different. Animals weren’t as intelligent as humans. Humans… well, there was no denying that humans could think for themselves and reason things out. So could dragons. There was just… he couldn’t explain his feelings, probably because of his lack of education, but it came down to this: it just shouldn’t be like that.