The Colours of Magic

After travelling by horse and wagon from the outlying village of Scarborough, through the cattle ranching hamlet of Far-Haven and Iron mining village of Eisen-Heart, the Party eventually gain entry to the larger, wool-farming and spinning town of Thorn-Flek. Once there, Chape and Ringo leave their brother; Locket behind to stand guard, while they head off to the local garrison to announce their arrival and to grease the wheels with the local authority.

Ringo looks a little sheepish on his return, as he hands out the three cuts of coloured cloth to Banaal, Liga Bur and Rifkin. The material squares are all about six inches by six inches and come with a cunningly designed silver pin. 

“Attach these onto yourselves, somewhere that they’ll show.”

Liga Bur looks confused by this request but both Banaal and Rifkin accept theirs gracefully, if not gratefully.

The rough Halfling hesitates though.

“What’s this?”

Ringo takes a breath before trying to explain.

“It’s the law of the land. It didn’t really matter in the outer hamlets and villages, but now we’re in a larger town, we have to adhere to the rules. Magic isn’t forbidden here as such, but spell-casters must register at the town magistrate and present their colours in public.”

Rifkin, wrinkles his normally straight nose at the thought of it. He knew the rule and understood the reasoning, but still slightly objected to it.

“I thought Bards were exempt?”

Ringo shrugs.

“The general opinion of the people is that ‘Bard’s don’t really count’ but I’d rather not risk it. Using spells will draw attention that I’d rather avoid and cause conflict with this garrison, regardless of Captain DeLeón’s letter of safe passage.

Each of the three use their silver pins to attach their specific coloured cloth to themselves. Banaal looks heavenward, as he pins his white square to his leather belt. Rifkin pins his pink one to his breast, directly over his poetic heart and Liga Bur attaches his, dangerously flammable, brown one to his left shoulder, furthest away from where he generally grasps the sturdy wooden shaft of flaming Dijonn.

Noticing Fortu’s slightly disappointed expression at being the only one of them left out, Rifkin whispers.

“No coloured square for you just yet, as your connection to Mother Fissa is still in its infancy. If and when you can access the magic of the wilds, your cloth square will be the green of the forest.”