Rise of the Blade - Charles Moffat [8]
"A little overdramatic for my taste," said Marque Draque, his thoughts betraying his true feelings. Even he couldn't refuse that it was by far the greatest statue he had ever seen. "Who made it?"
Pierce turned to face the drow mage. "No one knows. The donator was the family of d'Or. They said it was carved by one of their ancestors although Valentino said it was probably a bastard child raised by the family yet never truly recognized in their family tree." He chuckled and remembered the very thankful Valentino insisting on the present.
"Its magical," Marque Draque said abruptly, surprising the usually unsurprisable O'Hiram which happened often when he daydreamed.
"Really?" blurted Pierce, although he already knew the answer.
"Yes, although I believe the magic is there to keep that blade from breaking off too easily. Its amazing it hasn't broke already."
Pierce nodded and turned around completely, heading for the kitchen for he knew in a minute that his stomach would be growling at him. Marque followed quietly, taking out a cigar and lighting it with a minor spell. "Are you going to commission that statue of Witter from Tadd Rurik or aren't you?" asked the drow abruptly.
Pierce glanced at the dark elf, whose face was normally the ebony black of the drow elves was that of a Moon elf due to his constant illusion. Pierce knew the illusion was for good measure against the mobs of Waterdhavians who would rip the mage apart before one could say so much as a hello. The only drow elves Pierce knew of who could freely walk Waterdeep was Drizzt Do'Urden and Valeska Ko'Ragur, and even then they walked quickly and with a quick eye for trouble. Drizzt Do'Urden was a warrior who fought alongside the piratehunters, and thus a hero. The drow violinist Valeska however was another matter as she was constantly getting into trouble and ducking the guard, becoming quite the infamous bard for her ability to evade capture.
He paused and delved deeper into Marque Draque's subconscious thoughts, past the plans of making an improved version of his Vampiric Blades spell and the modifications on the Exploding Cigars spell, Pierce found what he was looking for: an image of Witter, or rather a statue of Witter sitting upon a sculpted warhorse, one hand on the reins and the other clasping the hilt of a saber.
"The dwarf is asking too high a price and we still haven't completed building the eastwing. I was wondering if you should be the one who sculpts it," Pierce said at last.
"Me? I can't sculpt!"
"You've never tried. Although, with your magic skills you should be able to accomplish the feat better than that greedy dwarf could."
The drow conceded that fact with a nod and didn't say anymore, his mind already going through the random possibilities he could take advantage of to make a sculpting spell.
Pierce stopped at one of the many doors and looked at the new sculpture adding to an already huge collection. He wondered what it had been like two hundred years ago, the merchants of the coast fighting for control, the constant chaos and intrigue. Certainly more interesting than teaching students how to kill, which in theory was not Pierce's goal.
The Academy's goal was to give the adventurers who followed him a fighting chance. Something many of his dead friends hadn't had. Many of his friends he had gained over the years had left at one time or another after some great quest. They only very rarely returned.
Pierce closed the bronze doors of his bedchamber behind him and looked about the room. For a moment his mind drifted back to when he had first opened the Academy back in the spring. The very first night he had spent here had been quiet. Deathly quiet.
Tonight he could hear the sound of the wind in the trees outside. The trees weren't very big, but they had grown a lot in the last six months thanks to Marque Draque and Rambertz's magic. The bulk of the birds had went south for the