“If learning about this power is so dangerous, then why won’t you warn us about it?” I asked.

“Because you’re young and foolish. I can tell by the way that you impatiently twiddle your thumbs that you’ll run head first into danger. If they find my involvement in letting in an outsider, then it’ll be my head on the chopping block.”

“Who? The church?”

“As if the Church runs this city. No, the adjudicator controls who gets access to the font of power. Every allotment is given out based on a number of criteria only known to him. That is all I will tell you.”

“You can’t be serious! I came all this way to your magic hut, and that's all the information I’m going to get? Do you get off on stealing dead pigeons from paying customers!” I shouted.

Azog pulled me back.

“I told you magic isn’t real.” Rose added, smugly.

Urna face scrunched up. Her pride for her work meant it was difficult for her to take payment without giving adequate services. It was also difficult to give up the Pigeon, which would make for a fine stew with the right Urban veggies she managed to scavenge from vendors.

“Fine. If you want to know about the power of Nosturdam, swear to me that the information won’t leave this tent. If anyone ever asks you where you learned about this city’s secret, don’t tell them you even remotely know me.”

I nodded.

“The power of Nosturdam is an ancient magic that goes back to the time when wizards ruled the city. While it's debated whether or not they were ethical, it can’t be argued that their legacy and advancement of magic has been unparalleled. This was a time before the Church, before the Barbarians of Rost, before the Azmorillians and their crusade across the continent. Among the numerous bright minds that were the hallmark of this high society of wizards stood out the Enlightened Of Armure.”

“The Saint?” I asked. I remembered he was the old decrepit person whose vial of blood I needed to collect.

“The Enlightened of Armure was never a Saint. The church will tell he was, but the Enlightened of Armure lived long before the Church found a foothold in this cursed land. The Church likes to retconn old legends and myths into their fabric to give themselves legitimacy. At the time, before the Azmorillians, the Church hadn’t left the Isles of Iscar yet.

The Enlightened of Armure came from the small village of Armure. It wasn’t exactly a breeding ground of intellectual thought, but his abundant talent turned eyes until the council of Nosturdam caught wind of the boy. He was enrolled in the old academy, where he excelled, creating ground-breaking discovery after ground-breaking discovery.

One of his inventions was the font of Nosturdam, which lies in between reality and an alternate dimension. The adjudicator wields the power of the font, making sure that the power that can only be found in Nosturdam is shared equitably. He plays no sides, except his own. Those with a Vorpal Key have the right to seek his power, but beware. If you aren’t deemed worthy of a key, he’ll pry it off your dead corpse.”

“So I just need to get myself a Vorpal Key?”

“Listen to me! Even if you manage to find a Vorpal Key, that won’t be enough to leave his chambers alive.”

“What else does one of these keys get you?” I asked.

“There is a meeting every month with other owners to network with one another. It just so happens that the next meeting is a few days from now.”

“And do you know anything about a vial of blood from the Enlightened of Armure?” I asked. I figured it didn’t hurt to get any leads.

“I don’t. I don’t pay attention to random artifacts and historical relics from the past. The ecosystem of the city lives on and doesn’t wait around for the dead.”

“Speaking of the dead, could I get the bones of that Pigeon once you’re done chowing down on it?”

The Urban Druid looked taken aback.

“I suppose. What plans do you exactly have with those bones?”

“Make a necklace or something.” I lied.

“Well, if it's a pretty necklace then I suppose so.”