by Aaron Graham

Created on: April 29, 2008

Mortalis sat on a wooden stool drinking his rum tea, trying to keep cool from the heat of the desert sun as it began to sink in the western sky, splashing orange and brilliant pink accents along the clouds. He was drenched in a goldenrod hue as streams of light poured around him, casting him in a soft glow. Exotic spices from every imaginable root and extract blended together to create a sweet perfume that only partially masked the nauseating smell of human body odor from the cities thousands of inhabitants. He could smell the Jbrus root, of course, with its lemon aroma, Bierkoning Milk and its bitter nut odor, as well as a hint of Skortila, Dirkweed, Ahipa and Mauka, all swirling together in the air.

The city of Dalriada sat on the major trade routes between the exotic and barbaric land of the western mountains and the lush, civilized river-lands of the east. Technically, the border-city fell under the jurisdiction of the High King in the east, his father, but his power had little influence out here. His memories of the east were still vivid: endless rolling hills filled with hundreds of sheep growing fat, their coats thick and warm, tall pines and sprawling oak trees, and miles of pristine rivers that reflected the aquatic life below.

The renegade prince sat back and lit a small tobacco wrap with a flame stick and watched the peddlers and shopkeepers hawk their wares. These supposed priceless antiques were being pushed at bargain prices to the countless mass of humanity squeezed into the city's relatively small Market Square. Mortalis watched as a lost tourist paused in front of his Scrivener's tent. The tourist was a ridiculous sight to watch as he scratched his balding plate and studied his crumpled little map. The parchment hung end over end as he twisted it upside-down and backwards, trying to find his location. Satisfied that he had discovered something, the tourist smiled at Mortalis and waved before marching off into the crowded streets alone.

It could almost be comical if Mortalis didn't know that thieves were also watching. It would happen again tonight. It had happened to him five years ago. The whole city was a trap for the unwary, crammed with thieves and rogues laying in wait for their next victim. A professional could always spot an easy mark as they walked aimlessly through the bazaar, looking for a trinket to take home as a souvenir. They were marked and tagged long before they finished looking at the beautiful pottery displayed along the

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