An alcohol maker of great renown was kind and warm. They were also insanely skilled with their craft, being able to make any kind of drink imaginable, and without any use of magic at all. Of course, unfortunately, their reputation got around, so they did, sometimes, have to deal with very arrogant individuals demanding to know their secrets, demanding that they work for only one person or another and "not to share these drinks with the peasantry for they did not deserve them." Only to find out that, just because the person didn't use magic to make their drinks didn't mean they didn't know magic for use in defense of themselves and their home. -- Anon Guest
Glistablanc, the world's greatest brewer, spent a moment appreciating the dungeon cell. It was where, according to the Monarch Ysaben, he would be spending years if he didn't 'behave'.
Behave, from the tyrant's dictionary, meant, "Do what I tell you to do and be happy about it."
It was a fairly decent cell, as far as incarceration methods were concerned. Carved into the solid rock, there were no bricks or cobbles to loosen. The one crack in the flooring also served as the drainage and was barely wide enough for a mouse, let alone a full-grown humanoid. The rushes were changed once a month whether they needed it or not, the food wasn't spat in, and the bars were wrought iron. Seven tin cups out of a possible ten.
Too bad that Glisterblanc knew things that Hir Majesty did not. Such as the vast number of tricks up his sleeve. The fun part would start soon, the minute he determined the rotation of the guards.
There were so many options. Return to his true form and simply grow his way out of his cage. Use a spell to open the door. Use a different spell to melt the bars. Simply shapeshift. Or, one his personal favourites, turn into a cloud of vapour and leave in whichever direction he pleased.
There were downsides to each of them. Returning to his true form ran the risk of destroying the castle above him and ending the lives of everyone in it. Bad form. Spellwork always depended on whether or not the wardens were smart enough to prevent that sort of thing. Shapeshifting demanded the right kind of obligatory stupid guard, and these fellows seemed sharper than most. Vapour had the regrettable side-effect of assaulting his senses with whatever he touched whilst he was in the cloud.
All things considered, there was a reason he preferred to escape as a wandering mist. Even if it did mean staying away from his primary occupation for at least a week.
Glisterblanc did his best to keep away from any noxious surfaces on his way out. Even so, there was the lingering taste of wrought iron when he reconstituted himself in Hir Majesty's waiting room.
He cast silence on hir before ze could scream for the guards.
"I know you want to throw me back in there, but consider... I got out in less than a week. How sure are you that you could keep me at all? This is what you might call a courtesy visit. I will show you my secrets if you come alone to the Grove of Regrets. I'll be waiting there." He let the silence spell drop.
"That's all I have to do? Be alone in a place a month's travel away?"
"You ride on your own. Incognito is allowed, of course. If I see anyone else in your wake, I vanish. Just like I vanished from my cell. Those are my only terms." Once more, he became mist, and took his leave.
A month passed, Glistablanc went to the grove a great deal faster than the Monarch. He spent the extra time freshening the runes that made the entire area into a zone of compelled truth.
The Monarch Ysaben arrived alone. She had a horse and a cart full of supplies meant to provide for the journey back. Optimistic.
Ze didn't even see the runes as they fired. "I want your sacred oath that whatever you teach me will never be taught to anyone else. I want to make something exclusive. Something that will be renowned throughout the world but unobtainable anywhere else. I want uniqueness and marketability."
"Do you?" said Glistablanc.
"Yes. And I want it as soon as possible."
"How many people have died for the sake of what you want?" he asked.
"I've killed seventy-four myself," Ysaben blurted, unable to stop hirself. "Ordered the executions of one thousand, four hundred and thirty-eight, and sent assassins after three hundred and twelve. That's a total of one thousand, five hundred and forty-four." Ze snarled at him. "What have you done to me?"
Glistablanc grinned. "No less than you deserve, I'm sure. Is there anyone in the line of succession who could be better for your people than you?"
"I killed most of them," said Ysaben. "There's rumours of a scion in Western Haverbrooke, but nobody's been able to find them."
"I must holiday there," murmured Glistablanc. "One last question. If given the chance to redeem yourself - would you?"
"Absolutely not! I'd send assassins after you, first thing. And what makes you think that you have any kind of power over me to even do that?"
Wrong question. Glistablanc stood and stretched. And stretched. Hands and feet alike became claws. Wings burst out of his back and became big enough to be circus tents. A nose and mouth became a snout filled with big, sharp teeth. Big enough to squash a pony. "What do you think," said the glittering white Dragon, his snout an inch from the Monarch's face.
"I think I'm in very big trouble," answered Ysaben.
There was no point in running. Yet ze ran anyway. One pounce, one snap, and a power-hungry dictator was removed from the world.
Glistablanc resumed his human guise, took the reins of his new horse, and turned his new wagon around. By the time he reached the nearest settlement, the bad taste would be thoroughly out of his mouth.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / leafsomen]
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