Story : The Poacher and the Long Mynd
From Ars Magica
Warren watched the maga Mnemosyne from the shadows behind the inn’s smoke shack. He was learning more and more about these mages from the time he spent with them, but he'd never seen one so suddenly panicked, and it peaked his interest. Silently, he watched her as she performed her ritual, though he had no idea what it was intended to do. The gentlemen in him knew that a womn should not be out, in the dark, alone like this. The thief in him knew that knowledge is power, and the more he knew about the mages and their people, the better he would be prepared to deal with... eventualities.
On his way to the inn with the magus Phaedrus, he’d noted a couple people that were more in his line of work – not that Warren was a thug or a brigand! Far from it, but... if he is going to operate in this village of Church Stretton at all, professional courtesy dictated he make himself known. He didn’t know what to expect over the next couple days, or even if he was going to stay with this Magus now that he has reached his destination, but they did share a passion for books (though the motivation differed, Warren would wager), but he should be prepared for anything. As Mnemosyne finished the ritual and headed back inside, Warren turned and walked further into the darkness, striking out for the shanty on the far south side of the village where he thought he might find the man he needed to speak with.
It was a fairly rundown looking structure. The wood was old and charred in places as though it had been reclaimed from the remains of a house fire. The log pile to the side of the house was nearly empty, and the few remaining logs were sodden and moldy.
A small curl of smoke was rising from a hole in the roof, and behind a sad, misshapen excuse for a door, there was the odd sign of movement within. A path of shale, now mostly covered by plant growth, led up to the shack from the cart-track to the church.
Warren shook his head. While he may be being played for a fool, he didn’t think so – back home he’d have been spotted by three or four different people by now, and the boss would have been at the door waiting for him. Here, the plant covered walk had allowed him a nearly silent approach. He considered just walking in, but even in this little vale, they may have a crossbow and an itchy trigger finger. Instead, he stopped about three strides from the doorway and coughed. Loudly.
Within, there came the sound of a fire being put out, and the flickering light visible through cracks in the door diminished. Presently, the door scraped open, and silhouetted against the glowing coals of a fire, stood a middle-aged man. He regarded Warren in silence, taking stock of him before stepping out from behind the door, and closing it behind him.
Motioning Warren to follow him, he headed around to the back of his dwelling.
