An Unattainable Magic

Befriending Rogues

Gold eyes were all that could be seen behind the whipping of the young man’s dark brown hair. When the moon gleamed on it, hints of auburn could be seen glinting back, almost winking in the starlight. A chocolate, leather trench coat was pulled tightly around him, the collar raised around his chin. He smiled to himself, watching the ramshackle house closely. He had been watching it for ages, longer than was necessary if he was being honest with himself. Ayden had had to make sure his little sister was going somewhere safe, after all. What kind of big brother would he be if he had not? 

            The thought cut him, deeply, like a knife. Ayden had not been much of a "big brother" in over twelve years. Had it really been that long? It had to have been, his memory was flawless, one of the many curses of vampirism. Sometimes, most of the time, he hated his curse. The Council had not allowed him to maintain contact with his baby sister; it was strictly forbidden. As a Rouge Hunter, Ayden's position relied on secrecy, stealth, and no one ever truly knowing who he was. Rouges were the biggest threat to the Council; they demanded change, more freedom, for the Nonhuman Creatures of Ceokia. Most everything, from the jobs they could hold to their ability to breed and reproduce, was controlled by the iron fist of the Ceokian Council of Nonhuman Creatures. What those like Ayden (vampires, were-beings, etc.) found unfair was the fact that those who used magic (warlocks and the like) were not nearly as harshly controlled, even though they, as most of the others the Council oversaw, were immortal. 

            The only reason Ayden was allowed this close to his sister was that he had a target that was last seen somewhere near here; a youngling like himself by the name of Nikodemus. According to the intelligence he had gathered, Nikodemus was leading a small band of Rogues to protest one of the Council events that was scheduled near here, the next Autumn Festival. It was there he hoped to encounter this band of rogues, and here where he needed to be so very careful. Paris Graemeyer, and his apprentices, always put on a display at the conclusion of the festival. They also sold potions and pomades for all malaise and maladies under the three sons, and he knew as the old warlocks most junior apprentice, Sid would be left in charge of the stall. Ayden wondered, sadly, if his little sister had outgrown the nickname, he once gave her, or if she had decided to go by Absidae. 

            Straightening his stance, Ayden took off into the night, melting into the darkness. He had work to do, something he could not allow himself to forget again. He had often gotten lost in discovering where Absidae was; making sure she was safe, making sure she was fed, keeping rogues who were hunting her from her trail. The hunt had gotten more intense in the past years, making it harder and harder to divert them. Ayden was not exactly sure why, but it was something he often pondered as he hunted. He had even seen a few councils employed hunters, like himself, following her. What could she have, or be capable of, that they are so concerned about? He questioned himself once again, as he wandered around Olkmont, looking for his destination.

Ayden was lost, and that was something he hated admitting. Maybe the information he had been given by that vampire in Oraburg was incorrect, or maybe he had misread the sloppy, hand drawn map. Cursing under his breath, Ayden shrouded himself and entered a pub on the outskirts of Olkmont, not far from Paris’s makeshift school. Shrouded, Ayden looked like an average human, if the person looking upon him was an average human. His skin was no longer the color of ivory, his six fangs reseeded into his gums, his eyes did not glow red from hunger; he was just a regular guy. What Ayden would not give to truly be normal again…not his sisters’ life, that was certain, but he would give quite a large sum of money, if he came into the possession of it. 

Slowly, he made his way into the pub. Within inches of the entrance, the smell of sweat and mead assaulted his overly sensitive nostrils; oak barrels lined the walls, taps protruding from those that had been opened for the gaggle of thirsty travelers within its walls. The noise was very nearly unbearable to his ears, overly sensitive from his change; though he could pick individual conversations if he so chose, information was all he was after, and these drunkards seemed to have none. With every step, he was jostled by someone walking from the bar itself to one of the many crowded tables within, or vice versa. Most, he noted silently, were mortal. He detected a few werewolves, and even a warlock, but his scent did not allow for the pinpoint location of those nonmortals, making his shroud susceptible to detection by several of the patrons. After much effort, he was able to approach the worn, wooden surface that created the centerpiece of the pub: its bar. The stools, worn and weathered from years of use, were all taken but one and Ayden quickly claimed it for his own. The smell of vomit was now upon him, and he had to hide his disgust. He was, after all, trying to pass for mortal.

 The bartender, he could tell, was as mortal as they come. “I’m looking for a man called Nikodemus; he owes me a great deal of money. You haven’t happened to hear of him being anywhere near here, would you?”

Irritation clouded the bartenders face, and his voice was full of sarcasm as he retorted: “Yes, because I keep track of every person who sets foot in my pub. Are you going to order something, or can I move along to actual paying customers?” Ayden waved his hand dismissively, and the bartender moved down the bar, muttering under his breath about annoying information seekers clogging up his good business. 

“I might be able to help you,” the man sitting on the stool next to him mumbled, his long, gray hair tied back with a piece of leather. “I can see straight through that shroud of yours, bitten one.” He mused, clearly entertained by Ayden’s shock. “I’m a werewolf and an old one if you can’t tell,” he joked, nudging his young companions’ shoulder with his elbow. “I have to ask you one thing, though…are you looking for him because you’re interested in joining us Rogues, or because you’re looking to bring us down, just like the Council?” 

Ayden paused, shocked by the old wolfs’ bold, forward nature. “It depends on who pays better,” he responded, his eyes never leaving the solid, deep emerald eyes of the werewolf beside him. When the old man was taken aback by his statement, he let out a loud, what he hoped sounded sincere, laugh. “You fool, of course I want to join.”

“Call me Lenox,” He stated, extending his hand. Ayden clapped his forearm, stating his own name as well. “I’ve just got to wait for them to finish filling up the old wagon with the food I came into Olkmont to get for us. Our camp is near the mountain, but until we know why you are here, I will have to blindfold you before we go. Safety of the Rogues, you understand.” 

Ayden nodded his understanding and followed Lenox out to the wagon to wait. Attached to the rickety cart was an equally rickety looking horse, who Lenox fed a sugar cube. As they waited, the young vampire realized he was closer to his goal than he had ever been before; the Council had guaranteed to release him from his contract if he could locate this particular group of Rogues, supposedly the largest and most diverse group known in the Western Quarter. Once the food and drink were loaded onto the cart, Lenox tied a thick piece of black fabric around Ayden’s eyes. “No vampire tricks now, kid,” he warned, letting the low growl of a wolfs’ true voice mingles with his own, already intimidating, bass. 

“No vampire tricks,” Ayden agreed. With that, they took off into the night, in what direction he could only guess.  

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