Void Walker

Chapter Seven: One of Us

Miklos was feeling horribly exposed.

On a raised podium of sorts, with his back facing the north entrance of the mountain further behind, Miklos stood before an entire assembly of rogue mages who had gathered at Orichon's dining hall. Large tankards and steaming bowls of an unknown gourmet food lined the surface of the tables, untouched. Between them and their Wildlands Specialty Dish, the newblood's official introduction by Loric was in the way.

That probably wasn't a good thing.

For the most part, the mages of Orichon were a rowdy and restless crowd. At least a dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on him, but the other five dozen present were occupied with their own little pockets of activity that had sprouted up within moments of them gathering.

Leo, for instance, had decided that the contents in Rei's bowl seemed more appealing than his own, and was attempting to swipe it. She reciprocated by pointing her dagger at his face. Miklos supposed the prospect of certain death would have deterred anyone else from trying, but Zen and Alistair were both too daft (and suicidal) to get the message.

With two flicks of Luca's fingers and an exasperated sigh, wooden spoons flew across from their table and attacked them as Krea peered at the commotion through her hair. The smile on her rosy-pink lips was almost indiscernible. Cries of protest, along with Rei and Luca's subsequent chastising, rose momentarily above the din before dissipating; sinking beneath general hullabaloo.

Eager as he was to place each member of Orichon under his personal scrutiny, Miklos withheld himself from staring in a blatant manner. Although under more. . . comfortable circumstances, he would have allowed himself to gorge freely on the sight of the sheer number of rogue mages that had gathered under a single roof.

Instead, he allowed himself casual, sweeping glances across the dining hall.

What he saw was a hodgepodge of crude and boorish individuals, as well as several other bizarre ones. Three tables to his left, a scrawny kid with slitted eyes and dirty-blonde mopped hair was hand-feeding his pet snake: a crimson-coloured, yellow-spotted serpent that was coiled around its master's body. Beaded eyes, hungry and unblinking, stared at the squealing rodent that was dangled above its nose. Farther left, crumpled balls of parchment sailed overhead, and boisterous laughter erupted from tables where spontaneous fist-wrestling matches were taking place.

A bowl was knocked over. Its contents spilled over the table, and the vessel cluttered to the floor, followed by angry yells about the stupidity of bumbling idiots and food wastage.

As for the rowdiness and uncivilized tendencies of Orichon's mages, it was so unlike what he was used to that it slapped him in the face with astounding force. Yet to a certain degree, Miklos found their mannerisms endearing. The natures of the people here were stripped bare and exposed for all to see. There was an inherent lack of superficiality, no veneer of aloof, calculated words and refined gestures to pierce through, all of which characterized those of the upper class.

Of course, he was well-acquainted with that to make a fair statement.

However, despite their projected merriment and gaiety, the mages of Orichon were a roughened bunch; a community hardened by adversity. But they hid it well, such that one could barely see it in their strained eyes, the tightness of their shoulders, and the manner in which they seemed to move with coiled-up tension and guardedness.

Almost as if they sensed that an attack on their home was imminent.

Now, Miklos was one of them - a notion that he couldn't quite wrap his head around yet. He was a noble amidst outlaws; thieves; plunderers; and murderers.