Overhead, the light of the sun trickled through the buildings, turning the tendrils of fog into gold. Tightening his grip on his pack, he glanced between the stalls until he spotted one in a corner, selling jars of ink and linen parchment.
'There. If I was a scholar, then wouldn't I need supplies?'
As Cyrus approached, he noticed a young man with tufts of golden hair, haggling with the lean merchant. As their conversation progressed, the merchant's face hardened into a scowl, and he unconsciously tapped the wooden stall.
Cyrus waited a few steps back, until at last the merchant threw up his hands, and the young man left with a stack of paper, and three jars of ink, along with a sly grin. Cyrus met his eye for a moment, and the young man threw him a wink, before continuing on his way.
'How strange,' Cyrus thought, approaching the merchant. "Excuse me, do you know where I could find someone who researches ancient history?"
The merchant stared at him momentarily, then turned to inspect his shelves. Dumbfounded, Cyrus knocked on the stall, but stopped when the merchant narrowed his eyes. Shrugging, he made his way to the next merchant, only to be met with a similar response.
When the following three merchants also refused to speak to him, he moved onto the passerbyers, only for them to quicken their pace whenever he approached. Furrowing his brow, Cyrus paused to think, when a heavy, burly man rammed their shoulder into his as he passed by.
Cyrus bit his lip, glaring at the back of the balding man as he muttered something about beggars. As he turned around another stomped on his toes, followed by someone shoving him as they rushed past. All the while, their shouts and cries to each other grew louder, grating on his ears.
Cyrus spun around, scanning the stalls and people, looking for a way out. A space opened momentarily, but was blocked by a horse drawn carriage, which whipped past without a word of warning. Cyrus stumbled back as the wheels nearly ran over his feet.
'Bloody ravens! Can't these people see?' Cyrus wondered, gritting his teeth. Eager to be free, he lowered his head, and shouldered his way through the crowd. A gap in the people quickened his step, when a sharp pain poked his side.
"Ouch!" Cyrus straightened his back, and whirled around. His movement caused him to trip over a raised slab, and he tumbled backward, unable to regain his footing until he crashed into a stall. All around him, baskets of spices flipped into the air, scattering their wares to the wind.
A cloud of pepper hung around the stall, and Cyrus fought back the urge to sneeze as he spotted a small boy darting away. Narrowing his eyes, he climbed to his feet, when a thick hand grabbed his arm.
"Oi! I hope you don't plan on running off, now do you? You've gone and spilled my goods!"
A middle aged man loomed over him, his reddening face and thick jowls inches away. His breath stunk of radishes and sausage, and crumbs speckled his thick beard. A carpet of red and orange spices laid around his feet, now speckled with dirt and dust.
"Of-of course not. Here, I'll pay for it. How much did this cost?" Cyrus asked, wrinkling his nose. He started patting his hips as the merchant studied him.
"Well. I buy most of my spices from Tulmuth, so they cost a decent coin," The merchant said. He released Cyrus, and rubbed the back of his swollen neck. "Almost… hmm, four copper, no, three, per basket. So that'd be about… nine copper. For all of it." The man grinned, though his eyes flickered with a sly glint.
"Nine? For just this?" Cyrus asked, waving his hand at the thin piles. He cursed beneath his breath. "Fine. Just let me find the coin…"
He ran his hands along his empty belt around until they met at the back. With a frown, he lifted his cloak, and stared at the torn rope where his coin purse once hung. His clothes were also slit, and a line of blood glistened from a scratch on his skin.
Cyrus cursed inwardly, and glanced in the direction the child had run off.
"The coin, boy. I don't have all day." The merchant crossed his arms.
"I- I don't have it," Cyrus said, lowering his cloak. "I believe that boy just ran off with it. If you let me go, I'll be certain to bring it back."
"I have a better idea. Why don't I call the guards, and let them settle this."
The merchant grabbed Cyrus's arm again, and tightened his hold. Cyrus winced, and tried to break free, but the merchant's grip was stronger than steel. By now, people around them stopped to watch, whispering amongst themselves.
"Hold on, now! There's no need for that," Cyrus said, trying to pry back the man's fingers. "I'm telling you, that boy stole it. He's getting away, right now."
"Quiet, you. You think this is the first time someone's done this?" The merchant shook Cyrus, then waved his hand over the crowd. "Guards! I need the guards over here!"
The crowd shuffled apart as the guards' silver armor appeared, pushing towards them. Cyrus's thoughts whirled as he yanked against the merchant's unyielding grip again, panic swelling inside him. His chest grew hot, and heavy as his surroundings blurred, and his skin tingled as if being dunked in an icy river.
"I told you to let go!" Cyrus said, yanking his arm free. As he slipped from the merchant's grasp, he brushed against the stall, and a sudden jolt ran up his arm, freezing him in place.
"Stop! Where do you think you're-"
The merchant trailed off, his brown eyes widening as the blood drained from his face. Cyrus slowly followed his gaze to the stall. Growing from the wood between his fingers, a small branch twisted to life, with leaves budding along its edges.
A small crack split the stall as the wood bulged and a second branch grew, then a third. From the base, countless roots shot out, snaking across the cobblestones, and digging into any cracks or holes. As the ground began to rumble, the merchant stumbled back, only to trip and fall to his ass.
"Warlock… You're a warlock!"
The man's cry was followed by a loud clang as a rack of iron pots crashed into the ground. The crowd erupted into a frenzy, pushing and shoving one another as a tree suddenly sprouted from the stall, knocking loose a number of cooking wares. They ran, screaming as they scattered into the alleys while the cobblestone cracked and split beneath their feet.
As a wave of thick knotted roots spilled from the ground, Cyrus dropped to his knees, the strength quickly draining from his body. He clawed at the ground, trying to get back to his feet as his vision blurred.
'What's… happening to me?'