I'm not sure where, chronologically, this fits in with the last instalment. I think later. Much later. He's off the streets. The oppressive regime that was present in the last story is long gone. He must be old by now. Really old. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
Two Fifty
The Oldfather had been dead for some time now. Almost eighty years to the day, in fact. However many citizens of Brazenhold still feared to speak his name. His reign had been one of terror. His power: Supernatural. The general belief was that The Oldfather had ruled for so long because he had made an unspeakable deal with an unthinkable being. Something that gave him unnatural longevity.
The Oldfather’s replacement was not much better, as far as the general populace of Brazenhold were concerned. An exclusive group of the city’s wealthiest and most powerful residents kept the peace and the culture and the trade strong. However everything was tightly regulated.
Magic was banned, for a start. For it was magic that kept The Oldfather in power. Magic that was used to create an army of indestructible iron giants that kept a close watch on the city. Magic that made sure the gates of his citadel were impenetrable.
That’s not to say that access to arcane powers was completely cut off. If someone of noble birth wanted to learn a few tricks that would make life more comfortable - all it took was a fat enough purse, and he would be rid of that pesky wheeze and those dusty shelves.
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Wilred coughed a deep, wheezing cough as he pulled an ancient book from it’s dusty shelf. Seven Spells for Student Sorcerers. He hadn’t thought about this particular tome for many years.
“Great! So this will turn my step-dad into a toad or something?” His latest client peered over his shoulder to get a look at the books’ cover. “I mean, that prick’s already halfway there. Why not finish the job?”
The retired wizard let out a long sigh “This book does not cover transmutation. That costs much more than you can afford”
“Well I got two-fifty already, what does that get me?” The boy asked, getting impatient. He couldn’t be older than 15, Wilred thought. How did he get my address?
“I told you, old man - Tyree told me what you do here!” Wilred had inadvertently spoken that last part aloud. This was happening more often than he would care to admit.
“Yes of course,” He said opening up several of the tiny drawers in his apothecary cabinet. “Two hundred and fifty crowns will buy… Ah here it is.” He produced a tiny glass vial from one of the drawers. The word Hair was written in shaky handwriting across its label. “Rub two drops of this onto your target’s scalp twice per day for one week and, before you know it, his hair will begin to fall out!” Wilred displayed the vial with the showmanship of a desperate used-cart salesman, his wide grin bearing what was left of his crooked teeth.
“That is some weak, joke-shop grade bullshit.” The boy replied, his coin purse already back in his pocket. “Plus my step-dad’s fifty! All his hair fell out years ago. And am I supposed to become his personal scalp scrubber for a week? Gross. You’re gross. Forget it.”
“Wait I might have something else for you!” Wilred called as the boy walked out the store. “You like spiders? I’ll bet your step-dad hates them!” But the door was already shut, a tiny bell tingling above it.
Another sigh turned into a long cough as one of Wilred’s street cats crept along the counter. “Two hundred and fifty crowns, Carlos.” He ran his old fingers through the cat’s long coat “I suppose we’ll be sharing food again this week”
Carlos tipped the vial marked Hair onto the shop floor.
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