Qoh has lost his way in the Shadow City of Ziseryll, but he finds unlikely help in the form of a would-be-pickpocket.
The ties between the people of the Shadow Cities and the Children of the Light are revealed, and Qoh takes a child's education into his own hands. The Thsoling Saga continues.
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Qoh followed the flow of the crowd. The sights and smells of the Ziseryll bazaar were strikingly different than the markets of Avis Abeh or even the smaller compounds. The fathers of the Outsiders, the Free, as they now called themselves, had made a decision long ago that resulted in the schism between them and the Children of the Light. While the Children used magic to tame tunnels and generate light to emulate the world they long ago fled and so food could be grown, the Outsiders' sorcerers reshaped their people instead. They embraced the alien and strict subterranean ecology - there was no food readily available, so they changed themselves so they did not have to eat.
The Free did not have to farm, cook, or worry about where their next meal would come from. They were free in many important ways and it deeply affected their culture. They had become a society of artisans, artists, and epicureans. The wares of the bazaar reflected this, merchants and craftsmen hawked items to flaunt wealth - ceramics, metalware, statues, shiny trinkets, and baubles. While others sold items that were meant to tantalize the senses and be enjoyed, incense, questionable substances that did questionable things, morsels of fine foods, and much more. Qoh wound his way through the stalls, internally shaking his head at the spectacle around him. Was it worse, or was he just getting stodgier in his old age?
He paused amongst the throng as he looked up to the dizzying towers to align himself. The crowd flowed around him like a river around a boulder. Perhaps it was better Rham was not there, he had grown up in a world filled with light, he craved it and needed it to see. The light he would have demanded to use would have made them stick out like a missing thumb. As it was, Qoh's garb and Twelfth Strong Son at his side made them stand out enough.
The aged priest sensed the fleeting presence at his side more than he felt it amongst the jostling crowd. With a speed that belied his age, his hand shot out and closed around the bicep of a retreating boy.
"It would behoove you to return what you stole." Qoh spoke levelly but firmly and loud enough to be heard over the babel of the crowd.
The Free boy, who probably was not even thirteen, whirled upon him, anger, fear, and shame filled his dark brown eyes. He lashed out with a dagger, trying to nick the old man. The priest's other hand closed on the boy's wrist before the blade could get close and he drug the would-be-thief to the closest alley.
"Pickpockets in Ziseryll, strange," Qoh mused more to himself than the boy who struggled in his vice like grip. The child shouted profanities as he tried to punch, bite, kick, and head butt, anything to get the old man to let him go. The priest sighed and shook his head. "Stop it!" he barked. The would-be-thief looked up at him, but only to spit in his face before continuing his struggle. The child's dark red hair was matted and tangled and so grimy it looked black. Free men and women usually had pale gray skin, but the boy's was caked with dirt and soot stained. Qoh guessed Twelfth Strong Son was probably cleaner than the feral pickpocket.
"Twelfth Strong Son," the priest clicked and popped in the skrit's language. "Watch the alley, and warn me if anyone comes."
"Hurt small one?" the being buzzed.
"No. He has done wrong. I will scare him, but not hurt him," Qoh replied. The skrit bobbed his body in apparent understanding and moved back into the deeper shadows to watch the mouth of the alley.
The priest turned his attention back to the wriggling pickpocket. He glared down at the child fiercely and fell into the role of disciplinarian, a role he had not filled since he left the monastery decades ago. "What is wrong with you boy? What has happened that has driven you to steal?" The child answered with snarls and more profanity. "If you want to act like an animal, fine, I'll treat you like one." Qoh took a moment to summon his strength, then he stooped down, gripped one of the boy's ankles and hoisted him high. The boy's string of vulgar threats got louder.
"Let see what we have," the priest quipped as he lightly shook the upturned pickpocket. Qoh's component pouch was one of the first things to hit the stones along with some loose coin. "I doubt that's it." The child could spout profanity better than most soldiers the priest knew. Qoh continued to shake. More coins fell, along with a few loose baubles, and a couple necklaces. "Busy, busy."
He unceremoniously dropped the young thief who landed in a jumble. The priest moved as quick as a snake, before the boy could recover, and held the child down with his arm. He glared into the pickpocket's eye for a moment and then began a great show. Qoh mumbled gibberish and waived his hand about - he did his best sorcerer impression. The boy's eyes grew wide and he redoubled his efforts to throw the old man off of him. Qoh called forth a little of his power, enough for a good shock, he did not want to really harm the boy, but he did want his full attention. The priest touched the would-be-thief on the chest. The child hissed, but he did stop struggling.
"You picked the wrong mark, child. That was a curse. Now let me tell you what will happen, if you don't do exactly as I say. Within a week you'll break out in an itchy rash. No matter how much you scratch, it'll never stop, you'll go mad. Then the rash will turn into painful pustules. Touching anything will cause agony, even your clothes will be too much. The pustules will seep and pop and the smell will be overpowering - anyone around you will vomit. Then, finally, if you're still alive and sane to experience it, your skin will simply rot off. Everyone who sees you will scream and run in fear."
The priest played the part to the limit and sneered down at the boy. "Do you understand what I've said?" The young pickpocket, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks, whimpered and meekly nodded. "I can and will cure you, but only if you do exactly as I say. Are you going to run or cause a fuss when I let you up?"
The boy shook his head and for the first time said something other than profanity: "No."
"Good." Qoh picked up the fallen items as the child got to his feet. The street thief looked up at him, anger and defiance had already replaced the sadness and fear in his eyes. The old man's scowl deepened. "Take me to Atrahapak's by the fastest route, I am already late."
