Magic and Gunpowder (1)

Clambering out of the alleyway that the pair had been kicked out of, Django and Zherros slowed to a walk, panting. The short burst of adrenaline born of witnessing the divination magic had worn off, and now the two had to catch their breath.

"Django, what the hell?" Zherros was, understandably, both mad and confused. That was not how he had expected that to go. Even if his friend was a bit... uh, strange, it hardly warranted blowing up the place.

Meanwhile, Django was panicking, thoughts of the discovery of him leaving the castle flooding his mind.

'Damn it, there's no way that seer doesn't report me. They knew my full name! No, even worse, they knew I was the prince. There's no way they don't know I'm not supposed to be here! What am I going to do, what am I going to do, what-'

Zherros shook Django's shoulders, and he realized he had been lost in thought for too long. Somehow, the moon was about to set, and the sun would rise soon.

"Django, c'mon! Man, I know that was weird, but don't zone out like that! We have to go, now!"

The two began to run, trampling at the cobblestone beneath them, as they made hast towards the castle once again.

---

Django sat on his bed, laying out flat as he organized his thoughts. What just happened had been... interesting, to say the least. To encounter a true seer, hiding out as a mere entertainer - what were the chances? More importantly, what were the implications?

Upon further review, Django was pretty sure his outing wouldn't get revealed to his father. Even if the fortune teller had scolded him and prophesied doom upon him, they had no motive to rat him out to the king. So, privacy secured.

'Still, though. A true seer.'

To Django's knowledge, true seers were incredibly rare. Recalling from an old book he had stole- ahem, borrowed;

"True seers are the pinnacle or oracle magic, and very few exist in the world. In fact, I have heard sources claim less than 20 true seers populate the world at a time, although the validity of half-drunk scholars as a source is dubious at best. Emboldened by the divinity of the patron God of fate, Apollen, true seers can see into the essence of the soul to determine one's future with startling accuracy. While capable of providing fortunes with brevity and clarity, many fortunes told are still vague. Perhaps they simply admire the charade? Or maybe there is another reason they refuse to be clear, one I have yet to discover."

In other words, their encounter was extremely improbable, and that fortune teller was cryptic to Zherros on purpose, for the love of the game.

'How disgraceful.'

Well, Django was one to talk, he also liked playing up his escapades around the castle. Speaking of which, he needed some new reading material. Remembering Apollen made Django realize he didn't actually posses a book detailing the entire pantheon of gods, something that might come in handy for identifying his mark.

But wait a minute. Was that even smart? Django could still hear the fortune teller's words in his ears , "Be advised... it is not what you know that will destroy you, but the lust for what you don't."

While Zherros' was much more broad, this seemed a bit more palpable. A warning, even. To not chase the unknown.

Suddenly, Django felt a subtle sense of dread. To deny obtaining knowledge would be to deny his only real purpose - nothing grandiose, he just wanted to read stolen books. Because he was bored. Was boredom a crime?

'Wait. There's no way it's a warning against stealing books?'

Regardless, even if curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back. Django could handle a bit of destruction in exchange for an escape from sitting around all day. Besides, he technically wasn't stealing, they were his family's books after all, and he was in the family.

Feeling slightly better, Django began planning his next trip to the royal library. He needed to be more careful this time, as the last go around had really upped the ante...

Sitting up, he looked over to his desk, where Zherros' gift, the crow mast, sat among various books and maps pillaged from the castle. Walking over, he picked it up and turned it in his hands.

A soft smile appeared on Django's face. He was very appreciative of it, more than anything else in his room. It was the only thing actually his, not stolen. Sure, he had clothes, and a bed, and other necessities provided to him; as well of other things of his own creation, but they never felt like his belongings. Perhaps tools, or things necessary for life, but actual possessions? Never. But the mask was different.

'He really didn't have to go this far. Thanks, man.'

His mark was obnoxious. It terrified those who looked at it, and denoted his being different. Django could feel it, always, slightly humming in his head, like a low drone at the back of his mind that he couldn't ignore. But when it was covered by the mask, it suddenly didn't matter. The fear no longer showed on people's faces, and people had actually talked to him. To him! The food vendors hadn't been afraid to prod him to buy their products, the street magician had pulled a coin from behind his ear, and people would greet him jovially in the atmosphere of the festival instead of cowering in fear.

Even the fortune teller hadn't been afraid of him... until the whole crazy fortune thing, which still peeved Django slightly.

It was liberating, to not have their stares be on him like in the castle. For the people who give him food to be happy he bought it (with Zherros' money), rather than quickly leave the room once it was delivered.

Setting the mask back down, Django returned to his trusty "mission planning station."

Pinned up to the wall was a rudimentary map of the castle, which detailed routes from Django's room to various locals in the castle, from the obvious library to the kitchen, various guest rooms, and even the armory, although he had only ever visited there once. Countless notes, scribbles, and doodles depicted all the extra info Django needed - guard patrols, servant routines, habits of the librarians. He had figured out work schedules, a roster of most servants, and even had notes as to where the creakiest floorboards were.

The map was truly Django's magnum opus. With it, he could perfectly plan his next trip, taking into account the "ghost of Castle Miklagard." Which was him, it was Django. Ah well, better be thought a ghost than actually himself...

'What a morbid thought.'