Towering spires of churches stab through the smoky clouds that fill the night sky, while the stone and wooden homes of the commoners huddle together on the streets. The light of the full moon creeps it’s way through the mist and smog to create small patches of illumination. These only serve to amplify the darkness of the shadows, causing them to seem longer and deeper than they are during the haze of daylight.



The night air is filled with the familiar smells and tastes of the city. The labs of the local alchemists spew out thick clouds of fumes through an assortment of different shaped chimneys that always seem to smell of sulfur and sea salts. The markets of the city, normally a cacophony of bartering voices and animal sounds, are now quiet. Leaving the scents of the sweat meats, fruits, stale wine and horse dung lingering to create an atmosphere thick enough you can almost taste.



If you were to climb the wine merchant’s building in the alley you’ve been sitting in, there would be nothing to see but more and more city. Avalon surrounds you like a womb of corruption, reaching out and holding you close enough to It’s heart that you know you can’t escape until It’s ready to give you up. Nothing you can do will pull you out of the depths. At least, that’s what It wants you to think.



The city is everything you’ve ever known, or at least this part of it is.



You’ve never been through the whole city. You don’t have the time, the money or the inclination. Besides, it would take too long to even try. The whole damned thing is some hundreds of miles across. At least that’s what you’ve been told by the storytellers on the street you used to give your hard fought coppers to when you were younger. But later, when you learned to pick the pockets of the marks who bothered to listen to those tales, you’d forgotten most of those stories as anything other than a moments amusement.



This isn’t where you would be if you had a choice, but choices are hard to come by here. Besides, you don’t know where else you’d be with your skills. You have no idea what lies outside the city, and right now, it doesn’t matter. There’s work to be done.



The incessant night fog, mixed with the stench of the sulfur fumes and the coal smoke from a thousand different furnaces combine to make an almost constant night, wrapping around you like the well worn cloak your wearing to help you blend with the oppressive blackness. The light that has managed to filter through the concoction of gasses and soot during the daytime has long faded, leaving only the flickering of candles and lamps in the surrounding buildings as the only current source of light. A sudden breeze of the cold night air comes through your alley, causing you to shift slightly in order to pull your cloak closer, while your steady breathing creates small wisps of frozen air that drift out of your cowl.



You’ve been waiting in the alley at the corner of Copper and Water streets for almost three hours now. The chill of the night is starting to settle into your bones, making your knees feel like they might lock permanently into the crouching posture you’ve been holding next to the old wine barrels. The smell of the stale wine and vinegar is strong. You would have ignored the smell, but as it gives you a hint of what might await you at the Red Crow if all goes well, you allow yourself a moment to notice.



As another half hour wears on, you start to think that your contact might not show, which would destroy six days worth of work and about twenty gold talons in bribes, most of your savings. But, you quickly remind yourself that if this score goes right, it means big payoff. And, the Lamplighters Guild is always on time. Always.



Just as you finish adjusting your position behind the barrel to try and keep your blood flowing, the Tower Clock in the center of Avalon strikes nine. At the last stroke, as the sounds of the massive bell begins to reverberate into the night, the Lighters materialize out of the inky shadows. Their soundless strides and raven black cloaks which refuse to move even in the strongest winds, makes the Lighters one of the more peculiar residents of Avalon. They make their rounds each night, stopping at every oil lamp on the streets of Avalon, providing a little glimmer of bright hope in the bowels of the city. And, thankfully, they are so punctual that all timepieces are set after them.



Apart from their obvious job of keeping Avalon out of perpetual darkness through their self appointed duty, these mysterious beings also keep most of the secrets in Avalon. If it’s happening, happened, talked about or rumored to be, the Lighters know about it. And, luckily for you, they charge a fair price. At least it’s one that you can currently afford.



“Greetings, Dispeller of the Darkness and Bringer of Hope, how do the lamps burn this night?” You’ve learned the hard way that the only way to get anything out of the Lighters is to be overly dramatic, use long sentences, have the right bribe and be very respectful.



The Lighter slowly reaches out with the glowing brand of his staff towards the glass covered lamp and ignites the wick with the small flame. “The Lamps burn well this night. Though, not bright enough.” His voice is soft, almost a whisper, but still as easily heard as if he were speaking into your ear.



“Oh, that I could aid you,” reaching into your cloak and producing a small candle made from the fat of a newborn calf, you offer it to the Lighter. “Perhaps the light from within this one’s eyes may help your task?” The Lighter turns his face towards you, in order to examine the offering. This is the part that makes your stomach turn.



It’s not the gaunt face neither is it the thin lips that hide the needle like teeth nor the cadaverous flesh stretched taught across their bones that causes the problem. It’s the missing eyes.



Not that the Lighters have sockets for eyes that are no longer there, but rather their skin seems to create one elongated forehead that starts at their chalk white hair and stretches over where their eyes should be and ends at the top of their hawk like nose. That along with the fact that they seem to see more without eyes than you can with them makes your skin crawl every time they “look” at you. You are positive they can see inside…



“Yeah it’s the real thing…I mean,” You stammer slightly at the invisible visual scrutiny of the candle as you fight to regain your composure. “I mean…I would be willing to part with this, although it is very dear to me, if one such as yourself were to have insight as to the inner workings of the upper floors of the exquisitely designed Hansen estate…” the face turns from the candle to you, causing you to swallow hard. “For I have need of such information so that I might secure the…” The face is now inches from yours, and disturbing your concentration horribly.



“Eternal light that shines within the diamond the size of a Quall merchant’s eye?”



“Uh…Yeah. That’d be it.” The directness causes a lack of etiquette on your part, but as the Lighter produces the one of a kind parchment, and takes the calf candle from your hand, you know the deal is sealed.



“May the One Who Illuminates Us All shine upon you,” The thin lips part in what you think may be the first smile you’ve ever seen from a Lighter as he hands you the parchment. Then, without further comment, he moves on to the other lamps on the street, methodically lighting each in turn.



“And may the Darkness Never Dwell Within,” You finish the parting as he walks away, adding, “Whatever in the Hells that means…” under your breath as you turn and hurrying down the alley, as much to get to the Hansen estate as in fear that the Lighter may have heard you. The Lighters take insults very seriously.



Your thought’s quickly turn to the job at hand. You’ve got the map of the estate’s third story complete with trap locations and lock descriptions. The house guards that could be bribed have been, and you’ll just have to deal with any strays quickly and quietly. You’ve timed the patrol of the Griffins so you know the city guard won’t be a bother and night is getting on. It’s time for the real work to start.



* * *



With what feels like all of the Esoteric Order of Ancient Knowledge watching, you slowly begin the mixing of the catalyst with the concoction of lead, mercury and various other elements that you have been working on over your last term as an apprentice. The sweat is beading up on your freshly shorn head, running in small droplets down your temples and into the collar of your gray robes. The stadium benches that rise up around you and the testing tables in the center of the depression of the small room that serves as the location for your final exam is filled with the various professors and accomplished alchemists that make up the Testing Board.



Here, in the two story tubular testing room at the compound-like setting that makes up the home of the Order, you have reached the culmination of the testing that you began when you were a young boy. This test is all you have thought of since you began your study. When you started, you were plagued day and night by your superiors demands for cleaning their rooms, sweeping the floors, emptying out the waste water, cooking meals and the occasional scrapping of the remains of an unfortunate alchemist from the floor of the lab.



Now is the time to earn the respect you know you deserve.



After years of struggle and trials, you have succeeded in your quest for the final exam. Here you will attempt to turn lead into gold. The task that is given to every student at the end of their studies even though no one has yet to accomplish the feat. It is more of a tradition than an actual attempt to turn lead into gold, more of a test of your skills and abilities than an actual experiment.



Most students don’t even give it much thought after their final exam. Just one more thing to get over before you are allowed to practice and get on to the “real work” of the alchemist. You, however, have taken it to a much deeper level. The other applicants for graduation have snickered at your determination, making you the butt of many jokes. “The One” they’ve taken to calling you in mockery of your drive to be the first to actually accomplish the transmutation. In their mocking you they have only sharpened your focus and forced your determination to new levels.



Your parents had spent most of their savings to get you into the Order. They weren’t wealthy, being mere carpenters, but the talent you showed at the initial trials the Order held when you were only ten winters old, made your parents determined to give you a chance for greatness. They took you to the Order once they had managed to gather the entry fee from their savings, kissed you goodbye on the massive marble steps and waved to you as the massive iron bound oak doors closed them off from your boyish view. That was the last time you saw them.



You heard they died a few years back, you’re a bit over 25 now, but by that time you were so involved in your studies, and so close to your graduation and you can’t remember what you mother looked like anymore… You’ve decided they would have wanted it this way.



The clink of your silver spoon on the glass alembic shatters the reminiscence, jerking you back to the situation at hand. You quickly glanced up to the benches… No, they didn’t seem to notice your slip. You continue on your task without thinking further of the past. You are not allowed to use any written notes, so all of your mental fortitude needs to be focused on what is happening now. Everything needs to be perfect. You remind yourself, as you swiftly cross from the large oak table on your left to deliver a portion of your mixture from it’s drying dish to the final set of glass beakers and tubes on the smaller table to your right, that you can’t afford any foolish mistakes at this point. Any errors would be excuse to fail you. Fail, and you’ll be out on the street with no chance for survival. You have no other skills, and if you fail, the Order won’t allow you to practice. You have no choice but to succeed.



You pull back the frayed sleeve of your worn and charred student’s robes as you light the fire under the ceramic dish at the end of your complex maze of tubes and beakers. Your concentration is complete. The rest of the room ceases to exist. The sweat has stopped flowing due to nervousness, and is now due to the effects of work, strain and time. You are drawing to the end of five hours worth of work and, as you quickly catalogue all that you have done in that time, you allow yourself a small grin. It will work. It must work! You will achieve what the others have not!



“Congratulations, Alchemist,” you jump at the touch of a firm clutching hand on your right shoulder. Turning slowly, you wipe the sweat from your head and stare with bleary eyes at the professor.



“I…”



“Yes,” another hand grabs yours and begins to shake it vigorously. “You’ve done well.”



“All we’ve come to expect…”



“Beautiful, technique.”



“Excellent!”



“Perfect concentration!”



“Precise!”



The handshakes and the words have blended into a smear of faces and grasping fingers. You can only stammer the occasional “Thank you,” as the professors lead you towards the far end of the testing floor, pulling you from your experiment to the single, black door that will allow you entrance to the graduation hall. There, you will officially be given your first set of the black trimmed red robes that will be your vestment for the rest of your days.



You glance through the crowd towards the door and are filled with a sense of awe for the meaning of the image. Passing though the blackness of the abyss that the door symbolizes, you will walk beyond, crossing the portal that will leave behind the name of Student, and be granted the title you have awaited and worked for all these years: Alchemist.



You reach the door as it is opened for you by the senior professor of the testing panel. His wrinkled and pitted face smiles warmly at you. He pats you gently on the arm, much like your father might have if he were here…The gold!



You must see! You twist suddenly in the mass of celebrants, pulling away from the professor and attempting to make your way back to the testing tables. You never saw if it worked! It had worked hadn’t it? Why didn’t you see it then? You’re feeling of elation at success is quickly eroded by the panic of the addict who just realized that he has eaten his last lotus blossom.



You tear yourself away from the groping hands that seem to reach out from the floor to hold you, keeping you from your prize and push back towards the testing table.



“Now, now my young Alchemist,” The voice is deep, strong and invading. It clears away the fear causing you to focus your eyes on the speaker. “There is no need for such foolish dreams.” It’s Felix.



You never thought you would see the Master, but here he is. At your testing! His red robes with the black trim signify that he alone is the head of the Order. He alone is the Master of Alchemy. Said to be a thousand years old, keeping his youth through his art, he founded the Esoteric Order decades ago as a way to expand the art and improve the status of Alchemists. Because of him, Alchemists are revered, as well as feared, by all of Avalon. You have never seen Felix before, few people alive today could say they have. His very presence causes a silence to fall on the room, broken only by his voice.



“We have all thought we were capable of the feat,” His voice is calm and soothing, seeming to exude understanding and peace. His mouth turns upward into an odd smile that is both disarming and enchanting. You nod dumbly at his words. “Now, hurry on and accept the honor that you have earned with your diligent study and your exceptional skill. Forget the dreams of the apprentice, and awake to the truths of the Alchemist.”



You are patted lightly but firmly on the shoulder by his pale skinned hand. He then motions you towards the remaining professors who stand with heads bowed in respect. You take a step away, and are quickly whisked towards the open black door by the others.



As you pass through the portal, you manage to steal one quick glance back towards Felix who is now standing by the final cooling plate of your experiment. Through the dimness of the poorly lit room and the maze of people, you watch as he lightly reaches out with his right hand and grasps something from the ceramic dish, quickly placing the small lump into his belt pouch. But, not quick enough for you to miss the glimmer of gold in the lamplight.









-Brett