Apple strode boldly towards Lord Maxwell’s front gate. The familiar sight of dark wrought iron rods fused together greeted Apple. The thickest of the them formed the arc of the gate, whilst the leftovers were spread chaotically through its interior, in an attempt to stop folk from slipping through its gaps. If it were not for the stoic silhouettes of two guards standing in front of the flimsy excuse for protection, Apple was positive that even a drunkard could break through the gate in a few minutes. However, the guards were most certainly a problem for him. Apple immediately turned to his left and began to march nonchalantly around the estate walls.

It had not occurred to him that the front gate would still be guarded so late at night, perhaps he was underestimating the value of this alleged mediocre magician. Perhaps he was underestimating the title of magician as a whole. He lamented over the fact that he was unable to experience the worth and prestige of a fully-fledged magical title, since he never graduated from the academy. Apple was at least thankful the elderly magician did not warrant the need for protective walls taller than a common barbarian’s height.

With a few awkward attempts and a couple heave-ho’s, Apple managed to climb over the Lord Maxwell’s protective walls.

He landed softly in a row of well-maintained berry bushes and waited within them in case anyone had heard him intrude. After a few minutes of waiting, he was finally confident he was still undetected and strode confidently from the safety of the brambles. He hurriedly slapped his body all over in case any leaves or twigs that might have clung to him. Apple could not bear the thought of having to explain to Mula that he failed the mission because people were suspicious of his unconventional fashion accessories.

His instincts assaulted him with pleads to carry on his mission in the sanctuary of the foliage whilst he walked. Even the moon-lit darkness appeared to beckon to towards him, wishing for him to find comfort in its solitary comfort. Apple shook his head fiercely as if the action would cause the thoughts to fall from his ears. He reminded himself over and over again that the whole point of stealing a guard uniform would be for naught, should he indulge his primal need to survive.

Apple had only avoided the guards standing watch at the front gate earlier, for he did not want to attempt to explain to them why a fellow guard had started their shift at such a strange time. Should he meet another of the Lord’s men now in the belly of his dominion, he would put the budding charm of his persona: Apple the sly merchant to good use.

Retrieving the torch that was conveniently still strapped to guardsman Mark’s belt, Apple lit the wood with a strike of flint and began to mimic the behaviour of a patrolling guard. He marched up and down the designated garden paths in a manner he remembered seeing his father’s men doing in the past. Slowly and slowly he made his way to a door into the old magician’s manor.

With a few more practiced patrols before gaining enough confidence to believe he was sufficiently alone; ignoring the orange haze of a distant torch. With a calming breath Apple ventured through the door. Inside, under the light of his fire, Apple quickly realised he was in a small storeroom of various barrels and sacks of grain. With no reason to idle in such a mundane room, he pressed on to the next door ten feet in front of him.

Apple placed his free-hand upon the harsh wood of the door and ever so cautiously applied as little pressure as possible to make it move. Every creak the door uttered whilst it was slowly opened caused Apple to wince excessively.

From the narrow gap Apple was now privy to the sight of the manor’s great hall, desolate and barren under the shroud of night. Taking in an exaggerated inhale of air, Apple walked into the empty great hall with the strong straight back of a guardsman.

Apple approached the grand staircase situated at the end of the great hall with confidence. Although the night did blur the features of the manor, Apple could still nor help but compare it to his own. Apple did not know the true title of nobility bestowed upon Lord Maxwell, not that he particularly cared, yet if he had to guess it was doubtful higher than the position of knight. The old man’s manor was obviously smaller than that of his fathers, its great hall barren compared to the decorative splendour of foreign antiquities that his mother collected. Even the staircase was narrower and lacked the comfort of a polished bannister to steady oneself like his father’s.

Amidst every leather-clad footstep echoing off the stone walls, Apple began to lose himself in the memories of his old home.

His father was an Earl – perhaps still was – so the lack of grandeur Apple witnessed in this estate did not surprise him at all, as the gap of rank was large between the two. However, Apple did wonder if grandfather lived in a building similar to this one. The lineage of Apple’s father had always been that of a count for generations so long in time, Apple never bothered to learn of its beginning. His mother on the other hand came from an incredibly juvenile nobility that was only brought into existence by war.

Her father was a mere aspiring esquire at his birth. A man who quickly gained fame in a time before the popularising of the idea that magicians had to fight idly and stoically, to somehow prove themselves superior to those who fought with iron. Apple’s grandfather: Drust, became a knight in just a couple of years due to his mastery of his famed war-pick, wielded in one hand whilst his other hand would cast flame upon swathes of his enemies. He would eventually go on to be known as Sir Drust the Lion, due to his large size and great mane of hair apparently redder than Apple’s own. His fame and magical lineage were evidently great enough that even an Earl of Loncia would request his one and only daughter in marriage.

Apple sighed, his ascent finally coming to an end now that he had reached the top of the stairs. He thought it was a great shame he never got to meet the man, for he had passed a few years before Apple was born, although he doubted his meek self would have got on with the man.

“What are you doing here?” Asked a sudden voice from behind Apple.

Apple jumped. He was so lost in thought that the sudden voice had startled him to such an extent that his body jolted into the air.

Apple turned around hurriedly and tried to steady his breath. “Who me?” He stammered, “Sorry you startled me. I’m on patrol just like you – of course.”

“Yeah, then why haven’t I seen you around before?” The guardsman challenged.

“This is my first shift, name’s Saxon by the way.”

“I don’t give a shit what your name is,” he spat. “How come no one told me there was a new bloke starting?”

Apple could tell, even in the hazy light of his torch, that the guardsman in front of him had refused to weaken his grip on his spear they he first spoke, in fact it seemed tenser. “My hiring was a bit sudden – it was. Mark recommended me.”

“Mark, aye? A recommendation from that pot of piss is like a cheap whore telling you she don’t have no diseases; it don’t mean shit.”

Apple forced a laugh, “Yeah, Mark’s not the finest of chaps I’ll admit, but we go back and I needed a new job.”

The guardsman grunted in response and looked Apple up and down. “Why the fuck does you have a sword?” He cursed. “I’ve been working here three years and old maggot brains has never given me anything other than this bleeding spear – he hasn’t.”

Apple was unsure on how to respond. He knew that swords were whilst no longer rare were still uncommon, with only the wealthy, accomplished, or thieves typically owning them. Still, he had no idea the fact that he possessed one would anger a man to this degree. “I wasn’t given this sword,” he eventually said. “I found it on my travels many moons ago I did.”

“So, you stole it, is that right?”

“No, I found it, honest word.” Apple grimanced.

“Bullshit! Give it me, thief.” The guardsman commended with an open palm and gritted teeth.

Apple was stunned. The man now seemed to believe he indeed a fellow guard, yet still wished to rob him, “well, if he wants it so badly...”

Apple faked a growing fear in his eyes and began to stutter, “fine, just take my sword and just leave me be.”

The guardsman appeared all too pleased with Apple’s compliance and cowardice. “That’s a good welp. Now hurry up and hand it over.”

Apple did as he was ordered and slowly unsheathed his blade.

He held it submissively, with one open palm below the handle and the other below the flat of the blade.

“Bronze,” the guardsman purred. He shuffled forward hungrily with his freehand edging closer to his new weapon.

As soon as he was close enough to satisfy Apple; his hand almost about to grip the sword’s shaft, Apple’s fingers coiled around it instead. His other hand pinched the blade as tightly as possible and shoved its horizontal edge into the guardsman’s exposed throat.

His eyes bulged grotesquely whilst the force of the sword crushed and severed the protrusion of his masculine throat. He staggered backwards, clutching tightly at his neck as the last dregs of air were devoured within his lungs. Not one to make someone suffer unnecessarily, Apple gripped the handle of his short sword correctly and plunged it into the man’s heart.

Life left him in a blink, his body collapsing to the floor ungraciously, his hands still wrapped tightly around his throat.

“Look at me, I’m a big scary guard that bullies newbies because I barely make any money and have a small cock, that my wife makes fun of me for...” Apple mocked in a whisper, whilst he wiped the blood off his sword with the fallen guard’s surcoat.

Apple cursed himself once the beating of his heart slowed. He never planned to kill someone on this mission and yet had immediately done so to the first person he met. Although, he did struggle to find remorse for killing the man. He had been bullied just far too often in his past, and had experienced things justt far more dangerous than this guard to just allow him to walk all over him.

With a mighty self-pitying sigh, Apple spent a good ten minutes dragging the corpse around in search of a hiding spot for it. He eventually stumbled across a multitude of giant potted plants and hid the body behind them. It was a poor hiding spot and was most certainly going to be discovered, nevertheless all Apple required was for it to remain hidden just long enough until he and Mula had left the city of Kettle.

Putting the murder, he had just committed to the back of his mind, Apple ventured forth in search of the Lord’s bedchamber.

It did not take long to find the room at all, for Apple was well versed in the architecture and layouts of a typical Loncia-style manor.

Apple opened this door in the very same manner he had done so with the storeroom’s door, still cringing at the creakiness of the act once more.

Apple was surprised to discover the room inside was already well lit, with a relaxed fire sitting at the bedside of the old magician. Apple tiptoed cautiously towards the large bed and was met with the sight of a small skeletal looking man peeking out of the blanket. His frail body shivered mercilessly even whilst the fire burned beside him. It would appear the rumours of ancientness were indeed were not exaggerated.

“Who goes there?” The old magician squawked. His eyes darted wide open, yet the pupils remained idle under the blurry grey clouds of time.

Apple froze in place, waiting although he was not sure what for.

“I know you are there. I may be blind but I am not deaf, yet.” He wheezed.

“Just, just coming to put more logs on the fire, my Lord.” Apple explained.

“You are not one of my men, who are you?”

Apple stood completely still, as it doing so would make him invisible to the blind magician. “I’m new my Lord. Another guard of yours...”

“Oh shut up!” He barked with raspiness of a throat clogged with phlegm. “You are the fourth person to break into my bedchamber this past month. My guards are bloody useless. I’d hang them all if I could bring myself to care. So, what you after; gold; jewels?”

“Your spell book.” Apple answered honestly, he saw little reason to attempt to lie to this man.

“Ah, magic you are after. I believe a fellow came in here in a moon ago looking for my wand. I told him over and over that owning a wand does not suddenly make you a magician. The bastard seemed unconvinced, slapped me across the cheek in protest and left. I do wonder where my wand is right now, he probably sold it when a severer lack of elements came out of it.”

“You seem to be handling it well though, did you not tell your guards about these break ins?” Apple asked, curious.

The old magician laughed, until it transformed into a harsh cough. “I told them about the first one, but they think me mad so I stopped bothering. I do not blame them to be honest, in a blink I could be babbling in tongues, whilst my bowels paint my bedsheets, forgetting this conversation ever happened until the next brief moment I regain clarity. Ah, the wonders of growing old.”

“Well, that certainly sounds a bit shit,” Apple admitted. “Although I am begrudged to admit I still intend on stealing from you.”

Lord Maxwell puckered his lips together and exhaled air, Apple assumed he was attempting to whistle. “Check out the stones on you. What did you say you were after again, my spell book?”

“Aye. If you remember where it is, I’d be much obliged.”

“See that chest of drawers next to the window? Left side, third drawer.”

Apple nodded, “thank you.” He hurried over to the drawers and began searching under the light of the Lord’s crackling fire.

“Tell me, burglar, can you even read? Why do you want my grimoire? Surely you are not dwimmer-blessed?”

Apple barely heard the man’s hoarse voice over the sound of him frantically pulling open the large oak drawers. “I might be.” He mumbled.

“If you are you must be a pathetic excuse for a magician to be stealing from my mediocre arse.”

Apple winced, “you’re not wrong. Didn’t really pay attention at school and dropped out, might have been a bit of a hasty descision looking back on it.”

“Dropped out? That kind of behaviour will get you disowned. Is that why you’re robbing me, family cast you out?”

“Something like that...” Apple began searching for the spell book louder and with more force than before.

“Surprisingly common accent for a magician, the blatant smell of the slums is also queer for a dwimmer-blessed.”

“It’s kind of hard to maintain the way you speak when everyone calls you a posh-cunt and then proceeds to rob you because of it. Funny though, cause most surfs still call me a posh-git. The smell however is a personal choice.”

“You are a cheeky one. I would strike you for your insolence if I had to strength to lift my arm.”

“I could hit myself with it if you want? See what’s tougher, your dusty bones or your men’s armour.”

“My-my, the youth of today. So, what element are you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious. Wont you indulge a dying old man?”

Apple sighed, he still could not find the grimoire. “Water, you?”

Maxwell laughed “Hah! Back in the day we used to call your ilk wet-boys, on the account that all most of you can do is get your opponent soggy. I am blessed by the wind elements myself.” He boasted.

“Magic must have been a bit more primitive in your day then. I’ve seen fellows at the academy cut through iron blocks with nothing but thin streams of water, and don’t even get me started on ice.”

“Awfully defensive now are we not? If I was to teach you a few spells however you would learn saw much more of what liquid is capable of.”

Apple stood up and turned to look at the man, “I’m bloody trying to learn! You said the spell book was in the third drawer to the left. I’ve searched that drawer a hundred times and every other and still can’t find it.” Apple bellowed, becoming weary of his conversation with the decrepit magician.

“Spell book? Why, I no longer have it.”

“Excuse me?” Apple barely whispered.

“No longer have it, a friendly little girl came in here earlier and placed a knife to my throat, ordering me to tell her where my grimoire is. I tell you, the youth of today, no manners.”

Apple slapped his scarred hand across his face, dragging it down and pulling his skin along with it. “Mula... Why didn’t you tell me this earlier, old man?”

“You try to steal from me and don’t even threaten me, why the bloody abyss should I help you. Besides, I have little entertainment these days.” Apple could feel him smiling smugly behind him.

Apple stormed towards the man and gripped him by his loose tunic. His foggy eyes stared unblinking at Apple, yet it was clear they failed to register his image.

“It is a bit late now, smelly magician.” Maxwell smirked.

Looking at the frail being held in front of himself, Apple lost all of his rage and instead felt the replacement of shame. “I’m sorry,” he admitted. “Not for trying to steal from you, I’d still do it. I desperately need that spell book, without it I'm a dead man. I am sorry for grabbing you however, I shouldn't have done it. I lost my temper.”

Maxwell’s cracked smile grew wider, “Finally! Some manners,” he coughed. “If you are feeling embarrassed about breaking into my manner empty handed, feel free to take that bottle off the table beside you.”

Apple turned and did indeed see a small glass bottle, full to the brim of green-coloured liquid. “What is it?”

“Some kind of elixir. Supposed to make the body stronger. I sent a request for the stuff months ago to a renowned alchemist and it had only just arrived yesterday, I think. Take it, my desire to cling to life left me a long time ago and I’m too far gone now anyway for it to change anything.”

Slowly, Apple picked up the bottle, “are you sure?”

“Don’t patronise me, lad. Take it and leave. It has been fun but I’m tired, leave me be.”

“It’s not poison is it?”

Maxwell cackled, “Oh yes, the good old convince your burglar to drink poison technique, never fails. I swear, the youth of today...”

Apple was not sure how to respond, an awkward thank you and a slight bow was all that he could muster, but the elderly magician had already fell into the land of dreams to notice.

"So long, dead man."

He left Lord Maxwell’s manor the very same way he came, pretending the mass of potted plants did not exist whilst he walked past them.

He had not acquired a spell book as he had hoped, but at least possessed some strange potion for his efforts. He took solace in the fact that Mula had the grimoire at least, he just now needed to find her. Once he arrived back at Funk Frank’s Tavern, he wanted to find out how Mula had beaten him to the book, he considered his time to get to the bedchamber to be rather impressive.

Once more Apple climbed over Maxwell’s poor excuse for a wall, his hands burning from the winter stone while he did so.

With his mission now somewhat complete, Apple ventured back towards the slums. In one hand was a new beverage of dubious vitality, whilst his other stroked the bristles on his head, missing the warmth his auburn hair used to provide