Chapter Text
Four moons ago, the people of Boleham trudged up the mountainside searching for a sorceress to exact their justice upon— and four moons ago, they found a churlish imp residing in the tower of Vixis the Cruel instead. Powerful in equal measure to her— if not more— was the incomprehensible creature that Margaux and her townspeople stumbled upon. And yet, to her great relief, the creature had proven itself to be a bit of a pushover and much less interested in the existence of their small town than their predecessor.
Boleham’s townspeople had few answers for what it actually was that lurked inside the stone walls of Vixis's tower, or even what nature of power they witnessed that day. Not even Margaux, in all her travels, had seen a creature quite like the manor’s Lord. Since that day, the townspeople agreed to stay far from the forest paths darkened by the tower’s shadow, lest the mage change their mind— ever since, they had not seen hide nor hair of Vixis's slayer.
Even so, Margaux rode towards the fortress of blackened stone peeking above the treetops, having little choice but to pray to The Winged Defender that her gamble might pay off.
Rumor of the upheaval and political rivalries brewing in the frozen landscape to the north hardly ever reached places such as Boleham, but evidently the wastelands had not been kind to the brutes this year. Boleham being as far north as it was had its downsides, but Margaux had never expected Freljordians to descend on them from the mountains.
What she had previously assumed wasn’t of concern, at this point. Thinking would come later. Now was the time for action. And to be frank, she was grasping at straws for a solution of some kind— any kind— to avoid a bloodbath.
Smelling of sweat and smoke, Margaux urged her horse on and willed herself away from resting an anxious hand on her sword’s pommel.
Vixis’s Manor was a place that had certainly seen better days, its grounds still large and sprawling, yet overgrown in Vixis’s absence. Without knowledge of what resided within, one could almost mistake the silence for calm… The sky was clear here, a welcome departure from the dense forests of North Valoran. Out of that clearing erupted the great tower that looked out upon the forest and fields below, granted its height by the rocky cliffs it was built upon.
There was no assurance that the spirit would still be here. That fact hung heavy on Margaux’s shoulders. Last she knew, it had been questing for the heads of sorcerers and magicians with a gusto that reminded her of her early days of beast hunting. Always a new contract upon the horizon— always a new monster to test her mettle against. Yet coming here despite such poor chances was the risk that Margaux had been forced to take, Lamb have mercy upon them. Boleham was a town of farmers, not mercenaries, and could only do so much against the Freljordian pillagers approaching from the north.
And so, she ascends the tower steps two at a time despite the feeling of foreboding settled in her gut. There was no guarantee the imp was here, true. Even if he is, there is an equal chance that the spirit would immediately strike her down for showing her face once again. Well, so be it, then. It could do no more harm than what the pillagers would do to her people. And so, Margaux raised her hand and slammed the knocker upon one of the monstrously large doors.
There was overwhelming silence. The entire forest seemed to go quiet with the dawning of what she'd done, and if she were superstitious, Margaux might have thought twice and left the tower grounds. Yet she was much too old for such childish things, and so she knocked a series of knocks yet again, louder this time.
“Hello?!” she shouted, rapping the knocker on the door again and again. There was no response, and losing her patience, Margaux took hold of the doors’ great bronze handles. She heaved twice without the slightest budge, but on the third time the doors flew open practically on their own accord.
Stumbling away she paused, leering suspiciously into the shaded interior of the castle. Then, down a distant corridor, she saw the glow of a candle spur to life. Clearly she had been noticed, and welcomed in. The theatrics were a bit much, but she wasted no time in stalking into the tower’s entrance, following the light. She had confirmation that the magician was here, if nothing else, and that much bolstered her hopes.
Margaux rushed from corridor to corridor, urgently following the flickering flames. It took three times passing an odd painting with a glinting golden frame for her to suspiciously slow to a stop and investigate it. Margaux frowns, chewing the inside of her cheek. It was a regal portrait of the tyrant sorceress who had formerly lived in Boleham’s tower. Margaux contemplated it suspiciously, but finding nothing peculiarly notable about it, turned away.
As she moved to take another step down the hall, a snicker resounded somewhere behind her.
Wasting her time, was he? And at a time such as this!
Margaux scowled, restraining her voice. Anger or urgency may tip the spirit off to a vulnerability, and although she did not think it was evil, per say, she was not sure it was benign either. “Enough games, My Lord. I know you’re here within Vixis’s manor.”
And what a blunder that was. “Vixis’s manor?!” their shrill voice promptly demands, and the paint on the portrait shifts strangely as the image itself begins to move, the woman in the painting sneering down at her in disgust. “This place has not belonged to her for many, many moons. Do not make me laugh!”
Margaux winced a bit. At least her careless words had goaded the mage to speak. The entire canvas darkened, its paint quickly decaying to the pitchest of blacks in the shadowy hall. Only the frame was visible now, glimmers of gold reflecting in the candlelight.
“Of course— I suppose that it does belong to you now, Lord Veigar. This manor and many lands beyond it, even," she smoothed over. "I apologize."
“Flattery will gain you nothing," the voice says. "What a sad little thing you are!” A laugh resounds from the frame. “Approaching someone of my power with only a toothpick to aid you? How very sensible of you.” Two familiar yellow eyes suddenly flash within the black canvas, leering down at her. “Not!”
“M'Lord—” she protests, but he continues on.
“It was amusing watching you run about these halls like a headless grouse, yet I have no interest in an adversary as puny as yourself. Begone the way you came, before I change my mind.” With that, the eyes on the canvas snuff out. Yet if Margaux was anything, she was stubborn, and so she stood again in front of the frame, slamming her palms down upon the hall table below the canvas.
“I’m not here to be your adversary, Lord Veigar! I may be a fool, but even I am not so foolish.” There is a silence, and she clears her throat, taking a step back. If she must lay on the flattery to gain his damned aid, then so be it. “I’m... sure that you showed us only a fraction of your abilities that day you met the people of Boleham. Even that small display of power struck fear into each and every one of us, I will have you know. When we returned home and told stories of you, why, poor Matilda fainted from fright, I swear it on Lamb’s name!”
After a pause the blackened canvas scoffed at her. “I have met those who have died of fright upon seeing me. That is not so surprising.”
“Oh, yes. I do believe it,” Margaux agrees immediately. “Your power is barely comprehensible to people such as us. It strikes a kind of fear that goes into one’s very soul.”
But Veigar scoffed, still disbelieving. “If you are truly as scared as you claim, worm of Boleham, then you would not have returned here at all.”
The first time they had met, simply fanning the mage's ego had done wonders. Now the wizard seemed wholly more reluctant to give any ground this time, for whatever reason. Margaux wracked her brain for any kind of leverage.
Finally, she sighed. Perhaps she should just be honest. “...The truth is that I am truly terrified of your terrible abilities, great Wizard. You could kill me easily. After warning us not to come back, I wasn’t certain whether you would spare my life or not." Perhaps her words were a bit exaggerated, but they rang mostly true. "I have had no choice but to return.”
“Oh?” the mage said, their interest piqued. The start of an idea began forming in Margaux's head.
“Yes. As the leader of Boleham, it was customary that I would be the one to come here and report to you what has happened.”
“To me?” he asked, confused.
“Well, yes,” Margaux continues, now speaking with firm confidence. “You are the warlord which rules over these lands, and so by technicality Boleham is under your jurisdiction by extension. Wouldn’t that be correct?”
“I— Well—” clearly this was news to him. That was very understandable, because Margaux had completely made it up. To his credit, Veigar did recover his wits quickly. “Of course. Naturally.”
“And, Boleham being under your… er. Jurisdiction, implies that the happenings of Boleham do reflect on your reputation and character, M’Lord.” She quickly tacks on, “I assure you we have been spreading far and wide the news of your terrible reign.”
“Hm. As you did promise…” he admitted, and paused. “Perhaps I will consider not disintegrating you for trespassing, then. If this is true, you have done well for an incompetent human.” The glowing eyes finally reappeared in the frame, staring down at her. “Yet, I hope for your sake that you did not interrupt me for such mundane news.”
“Of course not. I am afraid that the news is not good.” Margaux bowed, giving an inexperienced flourish with her hand. “Those stories we told of you have traveled quite far. Hearing stories about your, well, dastardly and evil reign, many had decided that they quite want to end it. A Warmother from the north is fast approaching Boleham with her army.”
“...Warmother,” the spirit drawled, trying the word on for size. “I am unfamiliar. Is this Warmother a skilled witch?”
Margaux paused at the question, lifting her head. “...Well, no.”
Veigar pressed again, voice deadpan, “a sorcerer, then? Any sort of magician at all?”
She creased her brow, baffled by his disinterest. Had he not heard her mention their dire situation? “No, my Lord. She’s not a mage. More of an axe-swinging sort, if you know what I mean…”
He sneered, unimpressed. “Can you not deal with such things yourself? I am busy.”
“If I might be so bold—”
The eyes narrowed, wisps of yellow light floating from the canvas. “Answer me this! In what world does a mage as prominent, as horrifying, as overwhelming, as myself have any care for your puny town?”
“Yes, perhaps you don't,” Margaux retorts bluntly, not keen to give up so easily. “But surely sending those brutes packing is barely a bother for someone as… Well,” Margaux trails off. She was running out of synonyms for ‘evil’ and ‘powerful’ at this rate. The eye shape in the canvas shifts, as if they have lifted an eyebrow, expectant, waiting. She coughs awkwardly. “Well, for a petrifying tyrant such as yourself,” she settles on.
Veigar must be pleased with her choice, because he does not try to interrupt her proposal again.
“...And of course,” she continues, “any who live to tell the tale would do so with enthusiasm, if you were to show them something so… mind shattering, that it’s seared into the forefront of their brains." Margaux swept her arms out. "And for your name to travel as far to the distant north of the Freljord! Now that is an impressive feat. Correct me if I am wrong, but would these things not please you, Veigar the Atrociously Powerful?”
For a long moment, he contemplated her points in silence. “Hmph. Yes, I suppose this suggestion may have merit. Perhaps even a brainless human may have good judgment, occasionally.”
He said nothing else though, and so she prodded him on, not having time to waste with indecision. “Boleham is hardly a ride away, My Lord,” Margaux encouraged, trying not to seem too desperate. “Were we to leave now, perhaps you would be able to dispatch them in one fell swoop, while they were still entering the town.”
“Is that so?” he mused, playing aloof. Yet, he relented. “Fine. Since you insisted on pestering me so relentlessly, I shall aid your pathetic town, this time.”
A chandelier above her suddenly bursted to life with fire, and like a chain reaction, all of the torches and candles in the manner lit and cast the halls in warm glow. The painting maintained an eerie darkness that seems to swallow entirely any light that hit it, and Margaux admittedly startled as a small, dark figure slips out of the canvas, stepping down onto the table below it that held the first flickering candle.
The familiar imp stood there, still clad in blue and purple robes and spiked armor, the form of its body just as nondescript and peculiar as the black canvas itself. It stared at her with its odd yellow eyes a moment, and then hopped from the tabletop to the carpet, walking down the corridors without a glance behind it.
“Were you not in a hurry, you worm?” Lord Veigar asked, and Margaux immediately collected herself and followed.
—
Margaux rode with as much haste as her exhausted horse could muster, paying no mind to the complaints at her back as her mount thundered down the path through the trees. She had hoisted Lord Veigar onto the horse by the scruff of his robes to the imp’s chagrin, but it was certainly quicker than waiting for her horse to listen to his demand of it to kneel.
It wasn’t exactly a steady ride. She was glad that she wore her leather armor, feeling how the mage clung to her for dear life with sharply clawed gauntlets as her horse vaulted over a fallen tree trunk. Eventually Veigar quieted, and all she heard was the thundering of the hooves and pant of the horse’s breath.
They would make it in time. Surely they would. They would have to; Margaux refused to consider any other outcome. But as they burst from the shade of the forest, greeted by the light of buildings up in flame and the sound of distant shrieks, Margaux realized that they were already too late. The Freljordians were here, already tearing Boleham and its people apart.
Margaux yanked on the reins, forcing her horse to a halt at the edge of the village. She stilled with horror for a moment longer before leaping from the saddle, momentarily at a loss of what to do. She saw no people, at this edge of Boleham. Just burning buildings and the corpses littered between them.
Margaux heard the clink of metal armor behind her, sliding down from the horse and stepping towards her. She did not expect Veigar to laugh.
“A poor sight,” he gloated afterwards. “I was under the impression you had responsibility over this place.” She lacked the energy to protest. He was right.
“Yes.”
“Alas, it seems that your quest has failed, Hero…”
Margaux turned on his diminutive form then, the dam of emotion breaking and livid rage finally flowing through her. Powerful mage or not, whether he could kill her with barely a lift of his finger or not, it did not matter. Her pride demanded she turn to him and berate him for those words. Yet when she turned, she stopped, confused. Veigar stood there, looking up at her.
Calmly reaching out a gauntleted hand. Offering.
He looked unhurried, despite the slaughter surely continuing elsewhere. “If you thought that you had truly deceived me, you are a dull fool. To lie to me was bold! Yet unintelligent.”
“What?” Margaux asked.
“You say that Boleham belongs to me, under my reign of darkness and suffering?” The imp let out a rasping laugh. “There was no agreement between us. Bind those words. I will test your cowardly human heart.”
Marguax felt her mouth go dry at those words. Her choices were limited, but she was no fool. “Tell me exactly what you want.”
The wizard clicked his tongue, but did elaborate. “Swear a solemn oath that Boleham belongs to me, and only me. Give me all there is to give— Do all I ask you to do. You and your charges will keep your word, or die at your own hand.” Although his expression is nebulous, she can hear the thin smile in his voice. His yellow eyes glowed like infernal embers. Margaux always expected that the creature within Boleham tower was some sort of spirit or fae. Now, she was just hoping he was anything but a demon.
“If I do this, will you save us?” she demanded, voice unwavering.
He tilted his head, contemplating. “I do not like anyone touching my things,” Veigar replied, and although it's not a straight answer, she feels that his intent is clear.
And so, Margaux did not hesitate any longer. Not with the sounds of distant screaming around her and the smell of blood soaking the earth of her village. She dropped to her knees and grasped his armored hand tightly with both of hers. “Fine. I swear it. Boleham belongs to you, both to own and to protect. We will do all that you command.”
“In return, I vow to protect what belongs to me, to the best of my abilities,” the dark silhouette replied.
Suddenly, an electrifying pain raced up Margaux’s arm, searing the skin there. Sooner than she could wince the pain waned, and Veigar released her hand, wiping her touch off on his robes. He ignored her then, walking past her, a tall staff materializing in hand as he stalked onwards into the town. The imp raised it up, slamming its end to the earth, and with that there was an ear splitting crack somewhere in the far distance. It was so grand a sound that it was something she felt more so than heard, the earth itself shaking.
Unbothered by the quaking earth, Lord Veigar continued on towards the sounds of screaming and visions of fire.
Although Margaux could not see any part of the fight from here, the sounds in the distance suddenly seemed to quiet. Surely even the Freljordians had stilled in confusion at the quaking. It was then that something wet dropped to her face. Margaux touched her skin, confirming that it came away wet, and then another wet drop fell to her hand. Shaking her head in disbelief, Margaux finally stood and looked up. As swiftly as the booming sound came and went, a downpour began plummeting from a cloudless sky.
I’ve heard many stories of worldbending feats of magic, good and bad, Margaux thinks to herself, as she takes her horse by the reins and vaults back onto its back. Yet to truly think such things as these are possible? How? She wiped the water from her face and dragged her eyes to the fires being drowned out, shaking the mind-numbing insanity of it all off of herself and spurring her horse onwards further into Boleham.
She nearly missed the sound of yelling from a burning house, with the cacophony of rain and thunder around her. Margaux leapt from her horse and rushed towards the collapsed building, peering within.
She saw Arwin there, the lanky son of Fredrick, his leg trapped under the wreckage of the building, and without question she immediately stepped over smouldering rubble to aid him. “Margaux,” he coughed, having been strangled by smoke. “By the skies above, thank the Aspects.”
The fire around him was contained for now, and she mustered all of her strength to lift the wooden shrapnel enough for him to pull his foot from it all. Together, they stumble from the building’s skeleton. Down the road Margaux spied a disoriented woman, fleeing clumsily from something through the pouring rain, and Margaux called out to her. “Here!” As the woman approached, Margaux recognized her to be Anita, a young milkmaid.
“Was— Was that a falling star?!” Anita murmurs, terrified, her hands clasped to her heart. Margaux can barely hear her wobbling voice through the downpour. “A comet, they call it? The world is ending! By Lamb's name, Pale Archer, spare us.”
“The world is not ending,” Margaux corrected firmly, setting a hand onto her shoulder, “although the happenings around us would truly suggest it.” She handed off Arwin to her, and pointed to the treeline of the forest. “Go and find shelter outside of the rain, Anita, and take—”
The three of them flinched and shielded their eyes as something impossibly bright suddenly streaks across the sky, and realizing what it meant, Margaux grabbed both of them and guided them to brace against the ground. Just in time, as another ‘comet’ impacted the ground, nearly throwing them off their feet. So, that is what the shaking earth had been the first time. Damn imp.
“Margaux, what is— I—” Anita’s tongue was tied, and she blurted with fear, “oh, I knew it! The world is truly ending!”
“The forest, Anita!” Margaux shouted, having no time for such things, and the two villagers finally nodded and began stumbling up the road.
Margaux rushed through the streets, pulling people from the wreckage alongside those townspeople who were able, stepping over the corpses of men and women alike— some mangled, others not, but the smell of death and blood all around them.
It was barely ten minutes later when she finally made it into the Boleham’s center, catching sight of her second in command, Isacc, through the rain. His sword was on the ground near the corpses of a few Freljordians, and he rushed toward her after handing off a wayward child to another man.
“Margaux—”
“Have you seen the mage?” She asked.
Issac is waterlogged and his expression absolutely grim, but he nodded. “Yes. We’ve seen him. He has been cutting through them like a warmed knife through butter.”
“And ours? What of Gwenyth?”
Isacc frowned deeper, and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I haven’t found her as of yet. But she is as stubborn as you, and twice as clever, Margaux.”
It was not the news that she wanted to hear, but it did get a weak huff of amusement from her. “You’re right. There’s no time for fretting now.”
He nodded in agreement. “A few of us have been injured in the crossfire… I know at least a few buildings collapsed with the earth shaking as it did. They were already on fire, but…” He sighed, running a hand through his sopping wet hair. “I have no idea what else might have happened on the east side.”
Another few comets went streaking across the sky, smaller this time, but there was still the noise of their impacts that sounded like what Margaux could only imagine rivaled cannon blasts. She gestured back towards the way she had come. “Get everyone out of the town and into the forest, as quickly as you can. And take the horse. I’ll continue the efforts further in,” she said, and hurried in the direction that the comets had flown in.
Margaux ran and ran, as fast as the muddy roads allowed. She only faltered as suddenly the rain stopped altogether. Baffled, she looked behind her, only to find that it was still raining beyond this threshold but not ahead. They were nearly at the edge of the town by now, and out beyond it many bodies were littered along the road connecting, Veigar standing among them. Margaux turns to look along the buildings. One has a large crater in front of it, the wood planks of the front wall blown completely in, yet all the fires here seemed put out. Townspeople hid behind wooden carts and the occasional tree, watching in awe and fear, a few shellshocked people even seated in the rubble of buildings or on the streets, yet seemingly unharmed against all odds.
Another rumble rings out, and Margaux’s head whipped around to see familiar claws of pure energy erupting from the ground between the town and what remained of the group of Freljordians. As the magic dissipated, Margaux stared in shock at the chasm that had opened up between the town of Boleham and the land beyond, cutting the men and women off from the town as far as Margaux’s eye could see. With that the spirit turned away with a sweeping of his staff, and walked back towards the village, everything now gone silent after the deafening hour of chaos.
Yet one woman beyond the chasm pulled her bow taut, and quicker than Margaux could call out, the arrow flew at Veigar. Upon loosing it, it didn't even fly past the chasm. The arrow ricochetted off what Margaux could only guess was a hidden barrier, unceremoniously lodging itself back into her companion’s shoulder. This caused a great commotion among the Freljordians, and apparently seeing nothing else they could do, the group of them shouted with rage and trudged away like wounded dogs.
Seemingly aware of what had just happened, the imp tipped up his chin haughtily.
Finally, as he approached the rain ceased outside of their dry bubble as well, and Margaux watched as Veigar came to stand in front of her. Several of the townspeople cautiously abandoned their hiding spots to cluster and stand in a group behind her. Veigar eyed them quietly, with a cold expression that she couldn’t quite place.
Guessing at what he wanted, she sheathed her sword and gave a small bow. “There is not enough in this world we could ever do to you, yet please accept our humble thanks regardless.”
“Thank you?” an old man murmured from the group behind her. “Margaux, the village’s—”
“Still partially standing, which is more than I expected,” she pointed out firmly. Margaux straightened again, and turned to the crowd behind them. “And despite the odds, so are we.”
With that, a few of the men and women relented, looking at the small creature and bowing or curtsying to him, and finally most of the group grudgingly followed.
“Thank you, Sir Mage.”
“Yes, thank you, Sir Mage.”
“...House nearly collapsed with me in it. Why would I thank ‘im?”
“That mage saved my life, and my boy’s, surely he’s not…”
“So many dead…”
“Was it that creature who made the rain fall as well?”
The voices of the townspeople erupted into discussion all at once, Veigar leering quietly at them, and then at her. Margaux realized that he was expecting something else from her.
“All of you, quiet a moment.” She commanded. They all turned their attention to her. “I have… well. Great news to share with you,” she emphasized, pleading with her eyes for all of her townsfolk to roll with what she was about to say. “Myself and the Great and Powerful Veigar have made an agreement.” He tipped up his chin in approval. “Lord Veigar will be from this day forward removing any intruders who challenge his rule over the town of Boleham.”
There was a brief silence, laden with disbelief.
“I'm sorry, his rule?” a woman finally piped up incredulously.
Margaux gave her an annoyed look and grit her teeth pointedly, again gesturing with her expression for them to please play along. Margaux was glad that she was facing away from the diminutive mage behind her. “...Yes. As I said, he and I made a,” she cleared her throat pointedly, “deal. I would say that he has in fact kept his part of the bargain. Would you not say so, Clara?”
With that, Veigar laughed uproariously behind her. “Yes, this is true, Clara. I have done so, displaying much finesse and indomitable power. And for your end of this pact, people of the puny town of Boleham, I demand tribute!”
At that, a man suddenly bursted forth with anger. “You’re not gettin’ any human sacrifices, you witchcraft practicin’, wand totin’, son of a—”
Veigar’s voice suddenly boomed. “You dare insult me with such predictable slander!?” Veigar demanded with equal fervor. He pointed his staff accusingly at the man, who flinched at the tool. “What I do is not witchcraft! It is leagues, no, lightyears more difficult than even the most complex forms of witchcraft, you stupid, slobish, lowbrow—”
“ENOUGH!” Margaux barked, stepping between them, and the two went silent. She sighed, and collected herself. “Enough fighting. There’s been plenty of that today.” She looked to the man, Barson, frowning with disapproval. “And that is no way to treat the one responsible for saving our lives. We should hear his request, as he surely deserves a reward for his aid.”
“Surely!” Veigar repeated, crossing his arms.
An old woman from the crowd piped up. “...Then, what is it that you want?”
Lord Veigar laughed menacingly. “What I want? I want—”
He began confidently, but the imp suddenly cut himself off, gauntleted hand eventually moving to his chin. “...Well, what I want is…” he contemplated for a long pause, during which the people of Boleham stared expectantly at him.
“...Fear!” Veigar finally settled on, curling a clawed gauntlet intimidatingly. “And… recognition of every facet of my horribleness!”
“But… I think you already had that, master mage,” a man commented dryly.
Again, Veigar went back to thinking.
“…Ma makes some pretty good honey knots,” A girl no older than 10 piped up from behind a woman’s skirt. Veigar immediately leered at her, and the girl shrunk even further behind her mother’s leg, but finished her thought to her credit. “U-Um. Are honey knots tribute?”
Veigar scoffed. “If you are rewarding a sniveling child!” He finally looked at Margaux for guidance, lifting an eyebrow. “You! What does this hole even have that someone as powerful and mighty as myself could desire?”
She just let out a low sigh, putting her hands on her hips. “We’re simple farm folk, Lord Veigar. But I am not telling you anything that you did not already know. Perhaps our undying loyalty?”
The imp gave the lot of them a onceover and then clicked his tongue in disapproval. Apparently, the loyalty of simple townspeople did not appeal much to him.
The stocky owner of the tavern finally stepped forward. “Correct me if I'm wrong, Sir Veigar, but d’you require spell components for your work…?” Veigar eyed him, tilting his head. “We have no mages in Boleham, so I doubt that we have anything useful onhand… yet being as isolated as we are, we do send out traders occasionally to sell surplus crops and trade for other things.”
“Hm... I see. You are saying these traders could retrieve whichever components that I request?” He lifts an eyebrow.
“If you’d like that, aye, we can try. If we have the coin to spare. I’m not sure how much—”
Veigar waved his hand dismissively, cutting him off. “Yes, fine. I agree! Whatever piddly amount of gold you’re so worried about can be provided. I expect these niceties and more, as I think of them, for saving your puny, worthless lives, and your puny, worthless town!”
“Of course,” the man stammered, baffled.
“Um. Thanks, Mister Wizard,” the young girl from before said, still staring at him from behind her mother’s leg, and the woman bent to hold her daughter in her arms.
“Yes, thank you, Grand Master Mage,” the woman said, glancing at Margaux as she smoothed her child’s hair down comfortingly.
And with that, the rest of the group was murmuring their thanks, again bowing or curtsying to him. The spirit played unimpressed, but Margaux did not miss the slight crinkle in his eyeshape, the impression of a pleased look despite how he crossed his arms and tipped up his chin.
“Will you assist us in putting out the rest of the fires, Grand Master Sorcerer?” one man asked cautiously.
“Not a sorcerer!” He snapped irritably. “Wizard!” The crowd startled, exchanging worried looks. Nonetheless, Veigar did stir and began his walk further into the town. “...But I suppose that if you are too pathetic and incapable to do it yourself, I have no other choice! Come along. I do not expect to do all of the work.”
As Veigar stalked off, the man paused at Margaux’s side. “I pray that this isn’t out of the frying pan, into the fire, Margaux,” he grunted, before following on the wizard’s heels. All she could do was sigh. To be frank, it was too soon to say.