Arcanum Tales Chapter page 3 of 6

Later, when Perriman had left, Simeon Tor sat alone, deep in thought. After a time, he became aware of another presence outside the great doors, and opened them. Jorian the Diviner entered soundlessly, face cast in shadow beneath his hood.

"I watched as you commanded, Simeon. The boy seems capable enough, although perhaps a bit naпve. You didn't tell him much."

"What's to tell, Jorian? What would you have said? Even I, of more than three centuries, have neither answer nor explanation. This boy is to be our eyes and ears. There will be much to learn from what he reports."

"Still, you might have better prepared him for what he'll see." The Diviner turned to go, the doors already closing.

"Experience teaches best. He portals into the Forests of Morbihan tomorrow morning." A low rumble as the doors slid into place. "He learns his first lesson there."

Perriman sat blinking in the harsh morning sun. Portalling was a new experience for him, and, as expected, he was a bit muddled. As instructed, he checked his person for his belongings, and the immediate surroundings for signs of danger. All seemed in order, yet something just wasn't quite right. But, as it was, he was glad to be out of Tulla and onto his new mission. Many were the young mage who longed for adventure, but few who actually saw it. He would make the most of this opportunity. After checking the sun for position and direction, he trudged off in the direction of Tarant.

After a while he put his finger on what was wrong, and stopped a passing farmer to ask about it.

"Say there, my good man. This is Morbihan, not far from Tarant. Is that correct?"

"Yessir," said the farmer, long in years with a back bent from hard labor. "Yessir, it is."

"Right. Well, I say then, it seems a little empty for a forest, don't you think?"

"Eh?"

"I'd say I've been walking for more than an hour, and all I've seen are these bloody rolling hills. Where is the Forest proper? I mean, where are all the trees?"

The only response he received was a cackle so loud, long and guttural that he was sure he still heard it long after the old man was well out of sight.

Perriman entered Tarant via the Kensington Broadway, a wide, evenly-paved street lined on both sides with trees and shrubbery. To say it was an attack on the senses was a vast understatement. Hawkers espoused the integrity of their wares through brass megaphones, their brightly colored wagons dressed in hand painted signs and placards. A throng of people gathered around two brawling, shirtless street toughs, and Perriman thought he might have to bring his powers to bear, when he realized that money was changing hands on the outcome. Gangs of street urchins ran unchecked through passing pedestrians and carriages, engaged in acts of mischief and tomfoolery while their older (although, unfortunately, not wiser) counterparts stalked the edge of the crowd, seeking the wide-eyed tourist or fat-pocketed foreigner. Men were smartly dressed in coat and hat, with a stiffly starched collar for every perfectly knotted tie, while the women on their arms wore conservative, flowing gowns in the colors of summer.

The Kensington ended in a large, gated archway, constructed of granite and trimmed in intricate metalwork. It stood atop a large hill, and he stopped there, among many others, to gaze down into the valley and upon the city of Tarant.

It was like nothing Perriman had ever seen.

Tarant sprawled below him, like a great beast slumbering in the shallows of the gulf of Morbihan. The River Hadrian, emptying into the gulf on the far side of the city, was stitched with iron bridges, its waters murky and choked with merchant ships piled high with the items of their captain's trade. Tarant was battle-scarred, its roads and boulevards a haphazard mesh interspersed with ramshackle houses and monolithic buildings of stone. Everywhere there was motion, from the people shuffling shoulder-to-shoulder on streets of commerce, to the shipyards where crates from the furthest corners of Arcanum came to rest in wagons and warehouses. Nearer its western edge, great billowing clouds of black smoke, belching forth from towers of plated metal, thinned into an ochre haze that blanketed the city. And strangest of all, floating lazily in the air above, a monstrous, ovular ribbed structure, a vehicle it seemed, whose variety and purpose Perriman could hardly venture a guess. His very lungs constricted at the first taste of Tarant's breath, eyes watering in the blunt sunlight of early afternoon.

"Unbelievable," said Perriman.

"Yes, quite a wonder, isn't it?" observed someone to his right. Perriman turned, and was taken aback-it was an elf! Dressed in a red velvet coat, with immaculate lace collar and matching handkerchief, he was the very image of Tarantian high-society. Truly, few outside of Tulla or Qintarra would even recognize the differences; as his thick, black hair covered his ears, the only things betraying his heritage were an unnatural fairness of skin, and a slight narrowing of the eyes that many might mistake for urban shrewdness. Perriman stood there, mouth agape and wordless.

"Welcome to Tarant, old chap," said the elf, winking. He began walking away, a young human woman at his side, and then stopped, not turning. "Its going to be warm today. I'd recommend you find more suitable attire than your greatcoat. Good day."

Not being especially warm, Perriman decided against the elf's advice and fell in with the crowd snaking its way down the hill and into the chaos of Tarant.