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writeblrfantasy · 4 years

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Hey, remember when I introduced Tales of the Mages of Meadowbury and then never did anything else with it? Here is an excerpt from Cloaked, my personal favorite of the five stories.

Pain. Mox’s whole being was pain, head to toe. The pain in his chest had been reduced to a dull ache, but everything else was agony, which didn’t make sense. Mox was awake enough to realize a simple chest wound shouldn’t bring pain enough to rival that one horrible week.

Moving his head was a mistake, as that made him nauseous and dizzy. He closed his eyes with a groan. There was blaring light all around. A soft laugh came from his left side. Mox wrenched his eyes open to see the man he’d saved sitting by his bed. Mox was laying on a bed?

“Welcome back,” the man said, grinning awkwardly, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. If Mox could’ve mustered the energy to sigh, or roll his eyes, he would’ve.

The man was drinking from a cup. Mages’ tea, from the smell of it. No wonder; the man had performed two killing spells as well as invisibility and gods knew what else. That would exert anyone. He’d probably woken up from the commotion and joined the fight without pausing to think.

So he may not be what Mox expected, but he was a quick thinker.

“How are you feeling?” the man asked.

“Terrible,” Mox muttered, glancing around at his surroundings. He was on a bed in a long room of white light, other beds, and medicine cabinets. A healer’s ward. Something Mox was all too familiar with.

His robes and cloak were sitting awkwardly against his sides, his upper chest naked but swathed in bandages. They’d probably decided to tear his cloak after discovering it was attached to the hood, and the hood was locked in place.

Mox could feel the buzz of magic coating him, spells he hadn’t cast. He tried to sit up, but was gently pushed back down by a frigid hand. “Nuh-uh. You were wounded and cursed, the healers said. No way you’re getting up yet.”

“Believe me, I’ve dealt with much worse,” Mox retorted, but conceded. “Cursed?” He blinked as memories came flooding back. Of course. “Gods, I’m an idiot.”

“What?”

“The guild enchants their daggers,” Mox said, then stopped himself. “Let me backtrack.

”Every assassin’s guild--and trust me, there are many--has their own mark carved onto the dagger that each assassin carries. It’s like an ID. Most assassins know the designs of other guilds, and so when you can’t see someone, you can look at their dagger and know from where they hail. To know if you’ve met friend or rival.

“The guild I was from, the guild where the assassins tonight are from, use enchanted daggers as further insurance. Nasty spells, ones you need permits for.” He didn’t add that Semanente had been rather liberal with his use of such spells. As leader of the city guild, he’d probably thought himself above the laws that other mages had to abide by.

“The curses usually worsen any wounds the dagger inflicts, make the wounds take longer to heal and resist magical healing. In some cases, the curses can equate to poison. My dagger enchantments were removed when I left the guild, but it’s clear things haven’t changed since I’ve been away.”

The man whistled lowly, eyes glittering with interest. Mox smiled under the privacy of his hood, but not a second later his priorities woke up. Questions. Why wasn’t this man interrogating him instead of discussing assassin techniques like a fascinated schoolboy? Why hadn’t this man ordered him to remove his hood? Where was the whole household, for that matter? His guards?

“Forget me,” Mox said, shoving everything else back for now. “Who are you?”

The man took another drink of tea, and Mox realized he’d changed clothes. He was now wearing a cape decorated with pins and badges; permanent spell permits thanks to his authority. Hints of a rich red shirt showed underneath the cape, and a bowler hat sat on his head, covering most of the curls Mox had seen in the dark.

Mox impatiently declined the tea he offered. “My name,” the man said slowly, like he knew how eager Mox was to know, “is Lemadaren. The governor’s nephew and heir.” Setting his teacup on the table beside Mox’s bed proved to be too grand a task, as it slipped through Lemadaren’s fingers and broke on the floor. And he didn’t have cursed blades to blame.

Mox was unable to hold in a snort as Lemadaren swore, then hastily waved a hand to clean it up. So this was the governor’s heir. The person that had required six assassins. The man whose life Mox had gotten cursed saving.

Internally, Mox allowed himself a long, deep sigh. Gods help him.

“Sorry,” Lemadaren muttered, and Mox thought for a moment he was talking to the spilled tea. Then he glanced up at Mox with a shy smile. “Thoughts?”

Mox didn’t know whether to laugh or gape. He really never thought his night would end like this. “Uh- your parents must’ve loved long, confusing names.”

Lemadaren grinned. “I know. You can call me Lem if you’d like. Everybody does.”

Mox found himself smiling again, and quickly reprimanded himself again, even if Lemadaren couldn’t see his face. Get your priorities straight, man.

Lem opened his mouth before Mox could speak. “The healers found it rather odd that your hood was glued to your head. And you’re riddled in scars, or so they say. Why?”

“I’m an ex-assassin, what did you expect?” Mox said quickly.

“I’m sorry,” Lem said, sounding strangely like he meant it. “And the hood? I would like to see the person who saved my life tonight so I can thank him. It’s a bit…unnerving, talking to a hood I can’t see under.”

At least he’d phrased it in a much more polite way than most. “No”, Mox said. “I’ll tell you anything, cooperate in any way but that.”

taglist: @mudtomagic @charles-joseph-writes

lmk to be added/removed! i promise i will post more of this in the future

#fantasy writeblr #my wip #writeblr #fantasy #writing #writer #wip: tales of mm #bean's excerpts

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