#vicari

Torre del Palazzo dei Vicari a Scarperia

Tower of the Palazzo dei Vicari in Scarperia

A single gust of wind from the man’s mouth sent a cloud of dust spraying into the air. He brushed off the rest of the dust on the table and laid down a parchment. With a flick of a quill he set out crunching some numbers. With a few minutes passed, he stood straight and extended his arms to crack his wrists. “Wish I were still a mage, this would be a whole lot easier.” He mumbled to himself.

He took out his diving rod, a device that has helped him pinpoint ley lines in the past. He held his arms out straight and the rods further out. Immediately they crossed in the room he was living in. “Huh.” He pondered, did he get lucky immediately? He walked out of his house and down the sandy, islander road and pulling out the divining rods again. 

Crossed.

He tried a few more times in different areas of the nearby island, all of them turned up with crossed rods. Gerald slowly sauntered back to town confused, but relieved that his job seemed so simple. He entered an abandoned building near the center of town, the perfect place to build an entrance to the mainland. Carefully, he inscribed the rune on the ground, stepped back and raised his hands. Reciting an age old incantation, he opened a door to the nether, and hoped to reach Stormwind on the other side.

Both luckily and oddly enough, something on the island was emanating enough magic to act as a conduit for the portal to stay open, there were no ley lines needed at this point and time. Omen focused on the destination and forced it into the nether. It parted and on the other side was a dark abyss. He reached his arm through, and upon bringing it back, found it soaking wet. Then the whispers came. a deep voice coming from the depths. It crept into his mind, but before it could take hold he shut down the connection, fearful for whatever he tapped into.

He tried once more, reciting the same verses, and tried harder to establish the connection he wanted. Nether portals were far less reliable than a regular mage’s, to be sure, but if he could just find the right spot, it should be safe enough. The second location opened up, it was dark but dimly lit, the smell of mold and dirt crept into his nose. Familiar chattering could be heard, like those of insects. Before he could close and retry, a figure came out of the darkness, sprinting towards the portal. It was humanoid in shape. but out of fear, Omen began to close the connection. It was too late though as a figure jumped through, landing with a meaty thud on the sand covered floor.

Omen drew his weapon and pointed it directly at the panting man. He was disheveled, emaciated, and filth covered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Was all the man could mutter.

Omen pushed him over with his boot to see his face. A matted and grizzled face looked up at him, his green eyes sunken in. He recognized it, he thought this one was dead. “Clyde?” Omen whispered, putting away his weapon.

“I don’t know how you know me, but thank you. I’ve been in that hive for a year. A YEAR! They just...left me, forgot about me. Where am I?”

Omen sighed, he had been in the party that left him in Silithus. Clyde distracted the Silithid so the rest could get away. How he survived was a mystery. “An island. We don’t know where. Give me one moment. Rest.”

Gerald looked back to the rune, held his hands out and for the third time started the incantation. He hoped this time would be the last. To his relief, the familiar spires of Stormwind came into view, though hazy. It seemed like the exit was on the cliffs above the city. “Home,” came a hoarse voice behind him. “Just like that, I can go home.”

“If you want to.” Explained Omen. “You can choose, but so far it is safe here, if you pull your weight once you heal, you could stay. No need to make the decision now.” He paused, looking down at the frail man. He used to be so fit and healthy. “Come, let’s get you patched up.”

Omen carried Clyde to his home, fed him what remnants of food he had, and made him rest. It was the least he could do for leaving him alone for that long.

But they were free now, free to come and go.

(mie foto https://www.instagram.com/p/Bd7bYOili_c/)

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“You wear a mask even in your own home? Everywhere ya go? Seems a bit odd o’ ya.” Clyde wondered aloud to Omen in his Westfall drawl. 

“For good reason, I assure you.” The man said as he brought Clyde a cup of tea. “The less people know, the better. Have you decided if you’re heading back to Stormwind yet?”

The Westfallan looked down at the tea quizzically. No doubt he wished it was some strong swill instead. “Well, if you don’t mind, I think I may take some time here, maybe help you all out. I could probably use some time away from everythin’ and get myself back in workin’ order. I got a big job to do when I get back to civilization anyways.”

Omen cocked his head to one side, “What might that be?”

Clyde reached into his old pants pocket, “I found this in the hive. I know who it belongs to, and I am meanin’ to give it back to ‘im.”

He placed a ring on the table, dark in color with a familiar gemstone. Carefully, Omen picked it up and looked it over. It was dirty, but he knew the ring well. “Whose is it?” He asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Feller named Gerald. He came with me and the group to Silithus to figure out what that big sword thing was. Seemed kinda nerdy, dweeb-y guy.” He chuckled, “Good man though, I think he’d like to have it back.”

Omen squeezed it in his hand before putting it back on the table, “Right, well, good luck finding him. I hope you do, I am sure he’d enjoy having it back.” 

He was tempted to take it for himself, to have his keepsake back, but he could not reveal himself yet. “That does not seem like that big of a task though.”

“Oh naw, it isn’t. See after that I’m gonna recruit him and together we are gonna kill Horace Jinklestein.” He explained rather calmly, taking a gentle sip of tea. 

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Bastard sends us out there without telling us, practically a suicide mission. Collected a chunk of Azerite too, and that man can’t hold that much power. Who knows what he’s doing with it right now?”

Omen had experiences with Horace. The gnome was there when his cousin Logan was imprisoned, and Horace and Gerald had  nice adventure in Pandaria seeking ancient mogu treasure. Horace was troublesome and selfish, putting himself above everyone else’s safety. He was bound to kill someone, but he could also be used as a pawn if played correctly. “Well, in the meantime make yourself at home and gain strength. Ask the others about odd jobs, but be warned...”

He leaned over the table, “If they suspect you of anything untrustworthy, they will not hesitate to kill you.” Omen stared at the man as he sipped his tea.

“Tell me more about yourself, familiar.”

The words left his mouth and became lost among the wilderness as the man and the boy sat on a cliff side overlooking the pines of the Hinterlands.

“You can still call me Gunther, you know. I like the name.”

The boy kicked his feet over the edge. He seemed more human-like now, less of a clefthoof-human hybrid. “I told you I’d get the skin down again. It’s been a while since I was asked to be a child again. Ever since the old master.”

The sun was half-covered by the tall peaks that surrounded the valley, and a chill swept down the cliff. “Who was he? Your old master?”

The boy leaned back, his hands bracing himself. “He was alone. Wife had died, no children to call his own. He was depressed, and in his sadness, asked me to take this form. He treated me like his own child, would take me into town. People would call me cute, shuffle my hair around. It made him...” He paused, “Made him happy again. Made me pretty happy too, for an old demon.”

Omen smiled softly down at him, but it faded fast, “He is gone now though, since you’re here?”

The boy nodded, “Yes, he’s been dead for maybe five years now. Old age. His heart gave out. He was happier though, at the end. You remind me of him.”

Omen stared out at the shadow of dusk that overtook the pines, “What do you mean?”

“I’ve followed you for three years. I’ve seen what you’ve seen. Family die, tragedy after tragedy, love found and lost within a breath.” The boy sighed, “You’re lonesome and broken, Gerald Creed.”

“Omen. It’s Omen now.”

“A reminder of what you’ve done, a terrible name.”

“Help me with magic, not with life advice. You are demonic in nature, correct?” The shadowmancer inquired.

“A demon yes, but I was never aligned with the Legion, if that’s what you are asking. Think of me as more of a...wild demon. Maybe more fey than anything.”

Gerald nodded, “I am not like your old master. I am not lonesome, I have people.”

“Are you happy, though?”

The man furrowed his brow, “Come, it’s late and getting dark. We’re leaving.”

Without words the two walked down the mountain back to the hide away they called a home. That night, while the boy laid by the fire, curled up, Omen sat by his desk, illuminated the the flickering lights. He wrote something down in a weathered book. The man turned and looked at Gunther, stood and gently picked up the boy, cradling him. He walked over and tucked him into his bed, he would not need it tonight anyways.