Rise of the Blade - Charles Moffat [45]
The dwarves had been back to work early in the spring, wanting more of the lifesyrup they knew was being brewed. They had brought help in the form of whole clans and for the next four months the Academy was abuzz with a swarm of dwarves building up the Academy's dome like some gigantic bee hive.
They had left early this year for unknown reasons, but had assured Draque that they'd be back in the spring for more lifesyrup or die trying. To Draque this meant he would at last have a surplus of the precious stuff and be able to market it more effectively. When spring came about he'd have two batchs of syrup ready and this one was the biggest batch yet. The spring batch promised to be even better.
During the summer Draque bought land north of the city and cast the Lifetree spell on an entire forest of maple trees. He was determined to have ten times the amount of Lifesyrup as last year. He carried the buckets in from the loaded wagons with the help of several students eager to have the first taste of the new batch. In his head, he was doing figures, trying to figure out just how much gold he'd make off this year's batch.
Meanwhile Hiram monitored the boiling process, content to be out of the kitchen for once and breath in the fumes of boiling sap. The sweet taste permeated the air and made him giddy as if he had drank ambrosia of the gods. This was the cook's second favourite time of the year, the first being the spring since the smell was a little bit more alive.
The black rum coursed down Chev's throat as he used it to shake off the cold. Sitting in the corner behind the bar of what remained of the Last Hammock, he searched his memories of Waterdeep. Surely there was a less drafty place he could stay in that wouldn't attract attention easily.
The warrior didn't doubt his ability to attract attention as his arrogant pride and supreme confidence was unmarked by failure. With the possible exception of magic to where there was no true defense, and thus he didn't count being turned into stone a symbol of failure.
Perhaps the fact that he had maintained his sanity throughout the ordeal said something for his pride and he banished that thought with a quick drink of rum. Spitting out the putrid stuff, he threw the bottle over the bar to crash beyond unseen.
Forcing himself back to his original thought, Chev wished that he wasn't so darkly handsome for once. It was beyond a doubt that in his early days he had been eyed by both maiden and servant girl alike as the most handsome bodyguard in the d'Or's service. With a dark complexion and a face reminscent of both gentleman and rogue, he had inspired the best in everyone.
The sword had helped with that, and Chev knew intimately its powers that could both strengthen and weaken its bearer. The sword had bestoyed upon him an unmistakable charm that went beyond mortal ability, yet was only semi-magical for it had combined with his already incredible looks and overall charisma.
The problem was that since the loss of the magical sword, Chev had noticed a definite fallout in his ability to charm people to his wishes. The guard at the gate of the d'Or residence had hesitated, something that had not happened a hundred and fifty years earlier. It was something that simply should not have happened, and that uncertainty told the warrior to be wary of his actions when confronting people.
Outright avoidance was therefore the key to survival. Chev was no coward, he knew that, but at the same time he also knew that he was far from a fool. Right now however, he concluded that it was time to get out of this dung heap and find a place to shelter him for the night. Some place less drafty, he quickly mentally rephrased as he vaulted the bar and walked towards the doorway.
Some place without a man wearing antique bronze field plate standing in the doorway,