The storm came crashing down with burning white flashes from the pitch black sky. It raged with heavy drops, a tremorous shower that soaked up the settlement. The tall fences barely held back the violent jungle banging in the gust against their steel frames. Branches and debris, which already gave in to the tormenting wind, caught at the legs of the landing pad. The lights flickered and the last transport was nearing. The skyport was already in lockdown and most of the deeper landing zones were shot close with most of the vessels chained down. A man in a sad, faded yellow raincoat ran through the gloomy mud and up to the landing pad after one of the lights got torn down. He held a blinking amber rod in each hand signalling the edge of the platform and providing assistance with wide gestures. During his circular motions he almost fell over when the wind changed direction, but he persisted and watched the murky clouds as his face was whipped by streams of water. Up there, high above him something, like a faint star, was moving closer slowly. It was a transporter, a class two corvette, which was swinging up there like it was a paper kite caught in the tempest.
Inside the cockpit of the Minokawa corvette sat two men, sweating under their helmets as the events unfolded. They said nothing. One was the pilot, named Kazo Ayiin and the other was Tarn Shadik. Took a good five minutes of navigation and wrestling with the joysticks for Kazo to get close enough to the platform to begin landing. The radio stopped shouting instructions long ago, and Kazo's eyes were fixed on the dancing dots beneath them. He blinked a few strong ones when the salty sweat got into his eyes. They were both illuminated only by the consoles of the craft, different kinds of oranges and blues, but the concentration on their faces was still visible. Kazo adjusted the thrusters once again. They yawed upwards sharply before he forced the vessel back into horizontal position. It was incredibly hard to land without an ion-sail: the most effective trial eliminating a lot of candidates in flight school. But it wasn't the first one for him. Somewhere near lightning struck into the forest flooding everything in majestic blaze, drawing the shiny outlines of the landscape around them as if Nature herself was showing off how much more there is than their struggles in a deadly storm.
Once they landed the two of them went inside, the ship with all its supplies remained on board, which meant a good three tons of pottery products, artworks, cutlery and various artisan supplies from the Silvercoast had to wait for the market. Kazo was not happy about it and argued with the officers at the entrance, but Tarn was happy to get inside and he continued along the underpass that joined the landing pad with the skyport. He clutched to his large leather bag hanging from his shoulder like it was his soul inside. At the entry checkpoint he was relieved that no search was conducted. The officer only asked him:
"Do you have any firearms on you, gis?"
Tarn shook his head as an answer, staring at the short man in uniform.
"In Virin, no ranged weapons are to be carried openly or concealed. You can read the rest of the rules at the Info-booth" he gestured towards the big hall he was about to enter.
"Thank you" said Tarn with shaking voice and a smile that was late enough to add to the awkwardness of his stance. "If I may; where can I find the Green Leaves Tavern?" He asked with a finger almost pointing at the officer for a second.
"It is the Green Leaves Inn, gis. It is an inn, not a tavern." he corrected him. "It is right outside the Skyport to the left.
Tarn hesitated whether to ask or not what the difference between an inn and a tavern is, but he just thanked it and turned away from the officer who then greeted the pilot of the ship he paid to come here.
Tarn entered one of the biggest skyports of Lemuria, it was a multi level complex of shops and other businesses with commercial and private vessels always moving in and out. "Welcome to Virin" said a large green post above him as he walked forward. Right now all the major screens were informing the people about the storm and that only a limited amount of ships will be permitted to take off. He passed near a beggar sitting at the foot of a pillar when he tried to avoid other officials to talk to him. There was just enough crowd to make him feel comfortable and he noticed how almost every store was open and the station itself (although it has seen better times) was well maintained. Or rather 'well restored' would be a more appropriate term. The segmented glass dome far above was only missing a few tiles and kept blinking under the lighting; the hanging plants from the platforms provided an appealing atmosphere, even if they hung together with cables at some parts; and most of the walls and the floors were either not damaged or repaired. He left the large station in a hurry that was not supposed to look like hurry at all and looked at the signs at the exit. Once more a huge wall of text reminded him of the most important rules around Virin:
"No guns inside the city limits. When going into the wilderness around the city, do not leave without armed professional company. Keep prohibited propaganda away."
The rest were basic rules, similar to other places, written in a smaller font and detailing the exact laws in a language that made the common man's head hurt. The screen next to this was occupied with a news channel talking about the rising tension between Valdria and the Akkadian Dominion as woman read something to the screen all the while showing footage of troops running to board a large vessel and airborne images of a sky fleet behind her. There was no sound on, but he also never cared about the politics too much to watch it till the end anyway. He finally found a sign, that led him outside into the rain again under the barely visible city lights and pointed him towards the Green Leaves Tavern, which was an Inn.
It was not hard to find the large establishment of the Green Leaves. A great old-fashioned building, almost feudal looking, something right out of a children's tale book. There were similar classical style buildings on this street, but Tarn knew that they all lead to the vastly different inner city where skyscrapers were a common site.
Upon entering he felt like he stepped into a different world. It was the kind of spacious pub, which was built from stone and wood, resurrecting a simpler time from ages ago. It was full of people from all lands, conversing loudly on several languages. The music was live performed by lute, drums and pipe by a little group of enthusiastic locals, their stage was set up next to the fireplace. Because this place included a real fireplace too. Scent of roasted meat, strong spice and smoke of cigarettes mixed in the air. If there were no occasional wires running on the ceiling between the masterwork carpentry, or the screens above the bar, it would have felt like time travel. The waitresses were busy on all sides and Tarn had to squeeze himself through the tight corridor of packed tables and a group of hunters in large coats. It was then that he finally saw the man he was looking for.
It was a booth at the back end of the bar. Almost every seat was taken but this man was sitting alone in expensive dark clothes, reading a book of red leather cover. Tarn sat down without greeting or invitation and held his bag in his lap that made him look like he got stuck between the bench and the thick wooden table.
"This was a bad idea" said Tarn under his nose and the man did not reply. "Let's go somewhere to a more private place. I have what you wanted with me."
The man look up from his book and closed it. His movement was slow and uncaring. He looked up with aged blue eyes from under his glasses and smiled.
"Tarn. You will not find a more private place than this. You know why?" Tarn did not answer, but looked around nervously. "Because nobody cares."
A young lady approached the table, she wore the typical maid robes of the other servant girls which was meant to outline her curves and also hide the occasional stains of the job on her multi-layered skirts and shirt.
"Kirsugal, my dears" her shining voice sounded flirty to Tarn who looked up at her with a wide grin. "What shall it be?" She asked.
"I would like to have another one of your fine white beer and to my friend here" paused the elegant man for a second, "a strong maruhuit soup."
The young lady took notes and the empty glass of Tarn's friend, who was almost never openly addressed by his true name: Vladko Shakall IV. She disappeared into the crowd and Tarn was left without words. Vladko took off his glasses and gestured with them towards the large man sitting across him.
"You are under a lot of stress, I can tell. How is your tuition going under the famous alchemist mistress?" His voice was butter and his friendly smile was inviting Tarn to complain.
"It is not so fine, Vlad. Not fine at all. She is a harlot, I tell you." Tarn's used his thin voice again as he went on. "She thinks I am useless. And... and... and I am to carry out small tasks only. Never doing much on my own."
"Is that so?" Vladko sat back in his seat and listened.
"It is cold there, with all this sad music and... I wanted to learn more about the Dim Lagar tablets, yet all she cares about are these wicked creatures of hers."
"She is quite the artist, when it comes to homunculi. Or so I've been told."
Tarn nodded and shook his head in the same absentminded gesture before going on.
"Yes, well she is renowned for those."
After listening to the accounts of Tarn's struggles they both received what Vladko ordered and Tarn produced a stack of newspaper bound together with thin rope out of his bag and handed them over to his friend.
"Finally" exhaled Vlado and put his glasses back up again when he unfolded one of the large pages. The thin paper was slightly crooked, and the black ink was far from flawless on the print; all of this seemed to be of no interest to him. It was all written in Latin and he read it in a strange sort of satisfaction.
"I saw the signs, you know" said Tarn with a mouth full of warm soup. He tore from the fresh bread and tucked into the top of his spicey stew. "These things are illegal here. Won't you get into trouble for this?"
"Nobody really cares about those signs, Tarn. It is just to scare agents and trigger-happy idiots." He didn't look up and turned a page. "Do you think that war is coming?"
Tarn shrugged as an answer because his mouth was full of dark meat and sauce. After each spoon he ate he had to wipe his drab beard.
"It seems to me that this time it is not just about flexing muscles. But inside the Dominion, there is more going on. I believe that those attacks from the desert, are not simple savages." He was left to contemplate on these topics alone, Tarn had little interest in answering to such themes.
A few minutes of silence passed and Tarn finished his soup. Only a few bones remained at the bottom of his bowl and he cleared his mouth with a large cloth napkin that was once white. Vladko pushed the rest of the newspaper aside and opened the little wooden box which was the second thing Tarn brought to him. He cautiously opened it and looked at the ten little glass vials inside.
"Is this the...?" he drew circles with his long fingers and Tarn answered.
"Elixir" said Tarn.
"I never liked that name" said Vladko with a half smile. "How do I use it?"
"Use it as an injection, directly to blood stream" Tarn gestured with his hands while explaining. "One vial every six months. You will probably only need six or seven of them. The rest you can administer once a year after that."
"And what will happen?" Vladko took one of the shiny canisters out and examined it in his hand.
"Drink a lot of water and you need to eat a lot of protein. But it will... uhm, your aging will stop and slowly your cells regenerate. At the end you will look like a natural thirty, you will also feel like one too. And lasts for about five to eight years." Tarn had to stop himself from going into the workings of the Blood of Kingu and nanobots, which usually bores his audience.
"And I won't grow another arm or anything?" looked Vlad at him and chuckled.
"There are no exotic side effects in alchemy. You either get cured or die."
Vladko looked at him with wide eyes before bursting out in laughter. His rough, sandy voice easily surpassed the music. Nobody seemed to mind them.
"That is not how you sell your products, son," he said, shaking his head. He put the vial back to the box and slid it together with the stack of newspaper into his satchel that was resting on the bench next to him until now.
"Alright, Tarn. Here is your payment" he announced and pulled out a yellow envelope from the same source. "You are still underselling your products."
"I am simply using the same prices as they were before the Apocalypse." Tarn looked into the envelope and counted them without pulling the bills out.
"Yes, but you see, back in the days everyone could buy these. Now you are driving the market. You can make the rules."
"I don't think it would be fair."
Vladko did not reply to this, he just sat there chewing on the temple tip of his glasses casually and watched him.
"Now, tell me" looked Vladko straight into his eyes. "Can you produce a hundred of these for our next meeting? I'll pay you the same price."
Tarn looked nervous and started calculating in his head.
"It is not so easy to..." his voice weakened then faded. "I can try."
Vladko took his things and tugged away his glasses. He stood up straight and dropped a fifty on the table. The music was changing now, somewhere in the other side of the inn people started dancing.
"Call me when you have it. There is a long and bright future laid out for a smart man like you" he tapped Tarn's shoulder and gazed at a man in the crowd who took it as an order and got up to leave with him.
"Thank you, gis Shakall." Tarn was now aware of the bodyguards who worked for Vladko but were scattered across the inn. It left him wondering if he could persuade an influential and rich person like him to aid him with his own alchemical laboratory. Maybe after the next supply, he thought, he will be able to drop this idea on the table. After all, he now has the funds to get extra enzymes before he returns. The only source of anxiety was that he had to go to Nineveh. Maybe he can find those worms on the local market, he hoped. For Tarn it was the greatest horror to travel to the hanging city on the planet of endless skies. It would have been for anyone who was afraid of heights.