Fleo Plector – Homeward Bound
Given the general state of the group, it took Fleo a good fifteen minutes to round upon the horses, even with her Sirocco lending speed to her feet. She did not mind, however. After not making much use of herself in the battle and retaining a good portion of her characteristic energy, she stood as the most chipper out of the group as a whole. One of her teammates suffered from g-force trauma, another from heatstroke, and the last from general exhaustion, though his lack of shirt did not escape the dusty woman's notice. During the steady clop back toward Reezun town and the waiting carriage, the sun chanced to be obscured slightly from the sky, thanks to encroaching wisps of cloud. How such aerial bodies had managed to form in such an arid place, Fleo had no clue, but she counted her blessings for what cover they provided. Few words were spoken during the horse ride, especially given her proclivity for chatter, but she sensed the general fatigue of the group. Combined with Nolan's grimness, despite a momentary phenomenon of what may have been affection back in the desert, it made for silent traveling conditions.
Reezun town was reached without incident, the horses returned, and the carriage boarded. As requested, Fleo took the helm, and though her driving experience was minimal she kept the ride from being too uncomfortable. From the driver's position, she could see the passing countryside with easy, and marveled at the way that familiar scenery could look new and different from another angle. The carriage's other occupants slept or otherwise whiled the hours away, until the clatter of Magnolia cobblestones could be heard beneath the wheels. When that particular noise ceased altogether, it could only mean that their journey was over.
Yawning, Fleo jumped down from the driver's seat and stretched. Though now fairly tired herself, she still pulsed with the excitement of completing her first job. Leaving the other members of Powder Keg to continue slumbering in the comfy carriage department if they wished, she nabbed the job flier and made her way into the guild hall. She looked around eagerly for Jamie, but found no trace of the shapeshifter.
“Huh,” she puzzled, still glancing about rather awkwardly. By happenstance, Jarvis appeared to be in the same situation as she—trying to take in everything at once. Fleo approached him, as he had not yet entered his office.
“Good afternoon, sir! Do you know where I turn in completed jobs?”Staring into his cup, Nero rolled his eyes. He should have known better than to assume that a Phoenix Winger might let him have the last word.
“Feh. No-nonsense types always frost my ass.” Resting his head in a hand, he tried to maintain a sweet smile.
“Fine, I'll make this short to work with your terrible attention span. I have as much right to curse people who deserve it as any of you have to cast your spells on people who deserve it. Some of you throw fireballs, some of you shoot arrows, and I curse people. It's how I fight. It's more harmless than like 90% of Phoenix magic because there's no collateral damage and I can undo it all. And you haven't done anything nice for me; trying to pay just now was defense, not generosity. There, done.”Now free of time constraints on his vocabulary, he addressed Lucian next.
“Please, just make a new tab for me. I'm going to prove that I can make good on my word like any wizard.”Kalahari Bert's Final Resting Place
Almost no time at all had passed since Bert Cunningham's brutal defeat. The Phoenix Wing team was only a few hundred feet away, but now with their horses there was no chance they'd look back. If they did, however, they'd see a
figure crouched over Bert's unmarked grave. Though the sun, not yet mitigated by fleeting clouds, shone brightly upon him, the figure maintained a decidedly sinister aura. In the desert mirage, his eyes appeared to flicker an iridescent blue, which permeated the creases of his face as he smiled. When he spoke, his words were silky, smoother than rich, black oil and just as deep.
”Thank you...Bert.” A wave of his hand drew water from the sandy earth, a shining teal even in the midday light. It coagulated into the shape of a fish and dropped into his waiting hand.
“Though you had no choice, you served me well. The madness of my Deep Blue Moon is a frightening thing to behold. It has washed away the Magnum Hound.”The man stood, and frowned severely. He held out bandaged fingers and from them snaked streams of boiling, teal water. Expertly he whipped those streams across the sandy ground, and where the hot liquid struck, sand coalesced into sandstone. When he was finished, he allowed a special layer of silvery water to cover himself. This special brew blocked all light, and without light bouncing off him he turned invisible. Very visible, though, was the sandstone etching he left behind:
HERE LIES “KALAHARI” BERT CUNNINGHAM
S-CLASS SAND WIZARD OF MAGNUM HOUND
A MADMAN KILLED BY WIZARDS FROM PHOENIX WING
BUT HIS MADNESS CAME FROM THE DEEP BLUE MOON
REST IN PIECES
