The Age of Undeath

10. At least there's wine - Trill

Smoke clung to the air, inescapable. It marred the gloss of his feathers. It stung his nose. Trill perched on the domed roof of the Indoor Market and tried to comprehend the madness. The mob who had chased him were below, hidden from his view by the stone roof but he heard them. Looting. Shouting. Their interest in him had already shifted to the allure of filling their pockets with luxuries.

Alone for the first time all evening, Trill felt hit with anguish, it filled his hollow bones. He looked out over Tucapon's exquisite skyline and found he could not breathe. A beast had grown over Northern Low Town out of thick, roiling smoke. He had never seen something so simple blot out the skystream, nor had he ever seen how fast fire could grow and consume. Even with his power over water, Trill didn't think he could win against such destruction. He slumped, feeling helpless and outraged and disgusted and afraid. All these people, equal parts hurting and wicked... How could they think violence was the answer?

Trill looked behind him to the summit of the Star Metal Mountains, the peaks unclear through the haze. He thought of home and stretched his wings, tempted. It would be so easy. He could leave now, and no one here would be able to follow. His people lived so humbly, depending on each other, raising each other... And if he returned, they would be aghast at his behaviour. He would have to tell them he had spent the last two years living like a noble, meddling in flightless politics, and ignoring his mission to unravel the skystream's omens.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Trill turned his back on home yet again. He had done good things here, and he could do more. Perched between the affluent districts of Tucapon and its middle-class sector, he clung to the pain he felt upon seeing it suffer. He loved Tucapon, its grandiose architecture and regal blue rooftops, carved into the thrashing water currents with the grace of a dancer born to wear flowing silk dresses. He loved being 'the only bird in Tucapon', and he adored being swept into their complex dramas because he was good at dealing with people.

The sound of shouting made him take a deep breath. Across the Watchward Bridge, he saw Tatiana make a passionate speech. He couldn't catch what she was saying but he ground his talons against the rooftop. They should not have let a gladiator take point in negotiations. Trill's heart dropped when Stariel escaped and fighting erupted.

"Get ahold of yourself." Trill shook out his feathers and spread his wings. The people needed him before the Guard House turned into another blood-sport Arena. He launched into the air and approached with more caution this time, hovering far above the courtyard and dropping closer inch-by-inch.

They were beating each other senseless. He saw guards pummelling people into the ground and citizens fighting back with anything and everything they had to hand. It was primitive and brutal. He began to shake, afraid those fallen to the floor were beyond help. He spotted Tatiana as she whirled to confront an elf shrieking in pain. He clutched his head with one hand and took a clumsy swing with the other. Tatiana easily disarmed his hammer and kneed him in the groin. Trill winced but noticed, with no small amount of curiosity, that she left him there. There was no killing blow, nor a final strike to at least send him sprawled across the ground.

Stariel did not look so merciful. She lunged at Tatiana's exposed back.

"No!" Trill hurled his magic into the fountain and clutched the water in its ethereal grip. As he willed it, the water obeyed, engulfing Stariel's feet and then freezing solid. She would have toppled off the fountain completely had her lower legs not been so utterly trapped. So it began. As fast as his fingers could sketch the required patterns over and over again, Trill solidified boots to the cobbles until every drop of water from the fountain was gone. Most of it he directed at the rebels, but when it did not stop some guards from delivering heavy punches or slashing with swords, he aimed for them too.