Another two years had passed. Two full years navigating the murky and hilariously insane waters of Raven's End. I can say, with the authority of one who has seen the fabric of reality unravel and be patched up with cosmic sticky tape, that this city was an open-air lunatic asylum, with a slight touch of dark magic and much, much fish oil.
At the tender age of eight in this body – a mere blink of an eye for my ancient soul – I had already established a routine that would make a psychiatrist scratch their head and ask for a pay rise. My daily 'jobs' were living proof of this. Remember Mr Whiskers? A middle-aged gentleman who dressed entirely as a cat, from head to toe, and insisted with feline conviction that he was, in fact, a transmigrated feline. He paid me a considerable sum of Jewels (which smelled suspiciously of tuna) to steal all the cucumbers from the central market. The reason? "The cucumbers, my young apprentice, are secretly conspiring against noble catkind! They plan a vegetable revolution, and I, as their anointed leader, must stop them!"
I completed the job, of course. Loyalty to a client, however delusional, is a principle. The cucumbers ended up, through a series of fortuitous events and some poorly executed levitation charms on my part, picturesquely adorning the roof of the local church. Father Magnus, a man with a pathological aversion to green vegetables, had what witnesses described as a "divine apoplectic fit" when he awoke to see a shower of cucumbers raining down upon his faithful during morning mass. I still think it was an improvement on the liturgy.
There was also Mrs Ravencroft, a self-proclaimed 'renowned mad scientist' who, as far as I knew, was only renowned in her own head and amongst the pigeons she occasionally tried to equip with small rockets. She hired me weekly to collect 'special and rare ingredients' for her "revolutionary potions that will change the world as we know it!" Most of the time, these were things like smelly old socks, rusty nails from abandoned coffins, and feathers from particularly unlucky pigeons.
"It's for my new invention, my dear prodigy assistant!" she would declare with eyes that shone with a contagious insanity. "A potion that will turn ordinary water into gourmet instant soup! Imagine, the end of world hunger!"
[She is aware that instant soup powder is already an existing and considerably less disgusting invention, right?] Eos used to ask, her impeccable logic always trying to find sense in the absurd.
(Let her be happy, Eos. It's more fun this way. And, honestly, after some of the 'soups' I served at the orphanage, her version with rusty nails might be an upgrade.)
The Baron of the Sewers was another regular client, a character straight out of a Victorian nightmare. A man who, for all intents and purposes, lived in the city's sewers and proclaimed himself the absolute monarch of the underworld – literally. He paid me in 'jewels' that were, in fact, polished shards of glass and lost buttons, to deliver messages sealed with melted candle wax to 'his noble subjects'. His subjects, of course, were predominantly particularly large and bold sewer rats.
"Their Rat Majesties, the First and Second of their Furry Dynasties, must be informed of the impending royal ball and the new decree regarding the equitable distribution of cheese scraps!" he would insist, handing me small scrolls tied with dirty ribbons with an air of solemn importance.
And I genuinely delivered the messages to the rats. They seemed to appreciate the paper as excellent nesting material. A wise king looks after the welfare of his subjects, even if they are rodents. It's a lesson in governance.
Oh, and we mustn't forget Doctor Dooom (with three 'o's, he made sure to emphasise, so as not to be confused with 'that other amateur'). He considered himself an 'up-and-coming magical supervillain, destined to rule the world… or at least the neighbourhood'. His grand evil plan involved an army of enchanted rubber ducks that would, supposedly, fire highly destructive explosive magic. In reality, after weeks of dubious enchantments and a lot of noise in his basement laboratory, the ducks merely let off mini-fireworks that smelled of sulphur and magical confetti that stuck to everything.
The Raven's End Guard, composed of three tired men and an old dog, spent memorable weeks chasing rubber ducks that sang pub songs dreadfully out of tune and occasionally exploded in a cloud of sparks and glitter.
The Magical Conspirators' Club was another highlight of my social week. They met secretly (in a back room of a noisy tavern) to discuss theories such as: dragons never really disappeared and were disguised as street sausage vendors; the current public lighting lacrimas were, in fact, mind-control devices installed by the Magic Council to make us buy more hats; and the fact that the moon was made of cheese was merely a smokescreen to hide its true nature as a Cosmic Gryphon's egg. I never had the heart to tell them I'd ridden dragons and conversed with the moon. It would spoil their fun.
But the most memorable job of those two years, the one that truly tested my patience and my ability not to roll my eyes until they got stuck in the back of my head, was for Captain Maelstrom. A former naval mage, dismissed for 'nautical instability and a worrying obsession with imaginary krakens', who had built a 'flying ship' using old beer barrels, stolen planks, and levitation crystals so unstable they made the air vibrate. He hired me, an eight-year-old child, as his 'trusted first mate' to 'navigate the ethereal and treacherous skies of Raven's End.'
We spent an entire day floating erratically and alarmingly around the city, rarely exceeding rooftop height. He, with a lopsided captain's hat and an eyepatch he clearly didn't need, bellowed incomprehensible nautical orders: "Hoist the main-sail of madness! Veer away from the celestial jellyfish! Beware the shoal of angry clouds!" whilst I, with an expression of stoic resignation, cast minor wind and water spells to simulate us being in the midst of an epic magical storm. The residents of Raven's End, already accustomed to this sort of lunacy, merely erected magical protection barriers over their homes and went about their lives as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. After all, it was only Tuesday.
[How has this city not yet imploded under the weight of so much chaotic, incompetent, and downright bizarre magic?] Eos would ask, her mental voice tinged with an almost audible perplexity.
(Probably because half the spells cast here are so fundamentally flawed or absurdly barmy that they cancel each other out, like a universal antidote to sanity,) I would reply, whilst helping Captain Maelstrom 'bravely fight' a supposed giant kraken made of purple magical smoke and a lot of imagination.
That was how it was in Raven's End. A city where failed mages sold potions promising eternal love, but probably only caused mild indigestion, in dark, smelly alleys. Where researchers with more enthusiasm than common sense tried to create new and revolutionary magics in mouldy basements, usually resulting in small explosions and strange odours. And where even the street cats seemed to possess some sort of strange and inconvenient magical power, like the ability to steal pies straight from windowsills or predict when someone was about to trip.
And I? Well, I was just a Beastman child with an immortal soul spanning several ages, doing odd jobs for this adorable and dysfunctional collection of lunatic mages, eccentric scientists, and conspiracists with much conviction and little proof. A silent observer of the grand theatre of human absurdity.
[At least it's never tedious. I must admit, the data collected on human psychology under chronic magical stress is… fascinating,] Eos would comment, ever the scientist.
"And when things happen to get a bit slow," I would smile, watching another magical experiment down the street go spectacularly wrong, resulting in a shower of singing frogs, "one can always count on some mad mage to liven things up." Monotony, after all, is the true enemy.
------(*)-------
Raven's Gate Orphanage was a blot of melancholy on the already gloomy canvas of Raven's End. It was a place where hope went to die of cold and hunger. On freezing nights, the wind whistled through the poorly sealed windows like the wail of lost souls, whilst we, the unwanted children, huddled together on thin, rough mattresses, futilely trying to draw some warmth from each other or from the threadbare fabric of the blankets.
The matrons were creatures forged in vinegar and bitterness. Mrs Glinda, with her small, cruel eyes, took a special sadistic pleasure in locking children in the dark, damp cellar for 'infractions' as serious as breathing too loudly during a meal or smiling on a cloudy day. Mrs Mildred, more subtle, used small, painful minor-pain spells when she thought no one was looking, her thin fingers twitching with restrained satisfaction. And Mrs Pike… well, Mrs Pike had an innate and terrifying talent for making children cry with just an icy glare and a curl of her thin, disdainful lips. She needed no magic; her contempt was a weapon in itself.
"You are the scum no one wanted, the dregs of society, crawling worms," was their favourite mantra, repeated with a monotonous regularity that etched it into our young minds. For many children, these words became the truth that shaped their lives. For me, it was just more background noise, a reminder of the infinite human capacity for cruelty and self-pity.
The situation, already precarious, worsened considerably when the orphanage began to struggle financially. The food, which had never been plentiful or appetising, became even scarcer and more suspect. The watery gruel served at breakfast often had a metallic taste and a strange sheen, likely the result of some desperate and poorly executed multiplication magic. Sometimes, it was better to go hungry.
Madam Blackwood, the orphanage supervisor, a woman with a facade of respectability that barely concealed a voracious, greedy soul, grew increasingly desperate – and, consequently, more dangerous. I saw her, from the shadows of the alleys that were my playground, making shady deals with equally shadowy figures, selling off the few donated items that should have gone to the children's comfort. Jewels that vanished, clothes that never appeared. Desperation, like an acid, corrodes morality until nothing but raw need remains.
Then they arrived.
It was a particularly grey afternoon, the sky low and oppressive, when the hooded men appeared at the rusty gates of the orphanage. Their black, heavy, shapeless cloaks bore strange, angular symbols embroidered in a sickly purple thread. The same symbol I had seen scrawled on the grimy walls of the city's darkest alleys, always associated with whispered stories of missing people, whispers that died on the lips as soon as anyone approached.
"That symbol…" I murmured to myself, observing them from the precarious safety of the top of the stairs, invisible to the adults below. The rumours on the streets, that constant flow of unverified information which often held more truth than the official newspapers, spoke of a sinister cult, a secret organisation that abducted people – children, beggars, anyone who wouldn't be missed – for some obscure and probably nefarious project.
"We require workers… young, resilient, malleable," I heard one of them say, his voice muffled by his hood, but with a tone that brooked no refusal. "We will pay well for each selected unit." Unit. Not child.
The smile that spread across Madam Blackwood's face as she counted the glittering jewels offered to her was a mask of pure, repugnant greed. It was the smile of one selling their own soul, or the souls of others, for a handful of shiny trinkets.
The next day, I was summoned to Madam Blackwood's office along with five other children. We were all those she considered 'problematic', 'rebellious', 'defective', or simply too 'undesirable' to continue draining the orphanage's meagre resources. In other words, we were the disposable ones.
"You, my dears, have been chosen for a unique and wonderful opportunity!" she announced with a sweetness so false it was nauseating, her eyes glinting with the cold light of newly acquired jewels. "These kind and generous gentlemen have offered honest, well-paid work. You will help our beloved orphanage stay afloat and care for your little brothers and sisters!" A lie so blatant it almost made me laugh.
[Azra'il… This aura emanating from them… The street rumours about people vanishing without a trace… It must be this group,] Eos's voice sounded in my mind, not with her usual sarcasm, but with a tone of genuine, rare alarm.
(The hooded ones with the strange symbol that the city folk whisper about and fear so much?) I replied mentally, observing them with a cold, calculating curiosity. Their faces were hidden, but their posture exuded a dangerous arrogance. (They say they take people to some remote place on the coast, to mines or something similar… and that few return.)
[And your brilliant idea is to walk straight into the wolf's den, I presume? Merely to satisfy your curiosity?] There was clear exasperation in Eos's voice.
A small smile played on my lips. (Hmm… but wouldn't it be immensely more fun and educational to find out what they actually do, instead of just listening to alleyway gossip?) Life is short, even for an immortal being like myself, if you don't seek a little… spice.
[You can't be serious… This is insanity, even by your questionable decision-making standards!]
(I'm bored, Eos. Profoundly bored. Besides, let's be honest, any place with a modicum of mystery is better than this fetid, depressing hole.) Boredom, for me, is a greater danger than most physical threats.
[Your sense of danger is completely warped and in urgent need of recalibration! They are, by all accounts, kidnappers and traffickers!]
(And I am an immortal warrior who has faced literal gods, devoured stars on a whim, and conversed with entropy itself. If they, perchance, overstep the boundaries set by my vast and generous patience, I will deal with it… definitively.)
[Your concept of 'overstepping boundaries' usually involves something that could result in the destruction of a small moon or the rewriting of a few fundamental laws of physics! This is a local cult, not a harbinger of the apocalypse!]
(Precisely. Relax, Eos. This here? It's just a little extracurricular adventure. A field study on small-scale human evil.)
[Sometimes I truly wonder if you don't do this sort of thing just to annoy me and test the limits of my logical programming…]
(Perhaps a smidgen,) I smiled internally. (But admit it, deep down in your processing core, you also want to know where they take these people and what their big secret is.)
[…you are a corrupting and impossible influence. But… the data would be… interesting.] Knew it! Even an AI has its curiosity.
The hooded figures observed us as if we were cattle at an auction, whilst Madam Blackwood continued her rehearsed speech about 'opportunities' and 'gratitude.' The other children trembled with fear, a palpable fear that hung in the air like a cold mist, but they bravely tried not to show it, swallowing their tears and straightening their thin shoulders. Bravery and fear often go hand in hand.
(Let's go with the flow, Eos,) I decided, with a lightness that probably irritated her even more. (At the very least, we'll find out what's behind all these rumours. And who knows? Maybe I'll get some new and interesting ingredients for Mrs Ravencroft.)
[If you say so… But please, stay alert. Try, just try, not to get into cosmic trouble over some third-rate cult,] Eos sighed, a mental sound that was the epitome of resignation.
(I always stay alert, my dear. I just don't necessarily act on that alertness in the way a sane, balanced person would.) Sanity is so… limiting.
[That is precisely what worries me… profoundly…]
The enchanted cart, a creaking, dark contraption that looked as if it had been built from nightmares and rotten wood, awaited us outside. As we climbed in, I cast one last look at Raven's Gate Orphanage, a scar on the face of the city, and at Raven's End itself, with its mad mages, its dark secrets, and its stubborn, resilient insanity. The city would remain, indifferent to our departure, with its petty dramas and its grand tragedies.
But now, a new and potentially dangerous mystery awaited us beyond the horizon. And, to be honest, I couldn't have been more… entertained.