You know. And technically, that’d be a victory, wouldn’t it?”King Lioncourt inclined his head. “Sorcerers!”Two robed figures emerged from literally nowhere to my left and right. “Hi!” I said, smiling at them.“Strip his flight,” Lioncourt said.“Hah!” I said, grinning. “My flight’s only mostly magical!” I paused. “Wait, that’s most of it, crap.”“You will have it returned on your victory,” Lioncourt said, quietly, as the sorcerers began to incant. They used not only somatic and verbal components that I recognized, but also weird blood magics that seemed to be proprietary Tremere trickery. I felt a cold that went deeper than the air freezing temperatures outside. A cold that penetrated my scales and made me squirm and grit my teeth. It settled right into my flight organs (which, for you non-dragons out there, is kind of like the place where you get a heart burn, but slightly lower) and then started to throb. It throbbed and throbbed ... and suddenly, I felt a horrible weight settle onto. Carpenter’s Walk was notoriously crowded with long wagons carrying everything from tree trunks to planks to finished furniture and the draft horses would be tired and bad-tempered, but I liked the smell of freshly cut wood and sawdust. The small market was open all week, one of the places where those living in the Craftsman’s Quarter could get fresh food. The monotonous “tock, tock” of our canes gave the walk something soothing, and before I knew it, I already smelled Carpenter’s Walk, that aroma of sawdust, wood and horse manure. We were close to Midsummer’s Eve and Storm Harbour was steaming under the unrelenting sun. There was the occasional breeze off the ocean, but by the time it reached into the Quarter, it was heavy with the stink of too many people and hardly refreshing.We ran the gauntlet of overhanging cargo our canes couldn’t detect, bustling loaders not paying attention and bad-tempered horses trying to get a kick out of kicking us.“I wish I had me axe,” Harok grumbled.
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