Chapter 15:

  The carriage stopped in front of a long cobblestone pathway. A crowd of people stood in line waiting for entrance to the u-shaped building surrounding the walkway. 

  Rorik stepped out of the carriage, “This is the nameplate office. As you can see it stays pretty busy all year around.”

Stryg agreed. He enjoyed the high view from the window, but as he walked out he turned his gaze to the two centaurs that hauled the carriage. “The centaurs don’t even look tired.” 

  He hadn’t given it much thought when he was a captive of the poacher, but they really were amazing. They would have been excellent hunters in Vulture Woods.

  “Yes, they are arguably the most useful of the beastkin. They are descended from another beast of burden; an animal called a horse. They are said to be phenomenal creatures,” Rorik said.

“I’ve never seen a horse,” Stryg murmured in thought. He wasn’t even sure what a beastkin was. He remembered Karen had mentioned something about a minotaur. There was so much he didn’t know about this place.

  “I’m not surprised. They don’t exist in the Ebon Realm. Still, all the centaurs of the Realm have been domesticated for centuries so we get by just fine. If you ask me, the other Realms can keep their horses, I’ll take a centaur any day,” Rorik said.

Stryg turned to the crowd, “Wow, that’s a long line.” He felt small looking at so many people. They could be here for hours. 

  “Not to worry. Being a guard has its perks. A different clerk will see us. Follow me,” Rorik grinned.

  He led Stryg away from the crowd and to a door on the other side of the building. Rorik gave a quick series of knocks. A click sounded and the door opened wide. They walked into a spacious room where an orc clerk worked behind a counter and a glass panel. It reminded him of Miss Byrel. Stryg hoped he wouldn’t have to take another test.

  “Good afternoon, welcome to the nameplate office, how can I help?” The clerk smiled, her lower canines in clear view.

  Stryg envied her prominent fangs. She managed to look menacing even when she smiled. His fangs were fairly small and were only noticeable when he hissed.

  “My companion would like to register for a nameplate,” Rorik said.

“I understand. I will get an iron nameplate ready, it’ll take around an hour to have our brown mage down here to get it imprinted. That’ll be two gold coins.” She opened a small window at the bottom of the glass panel. 

  “Ah, sorry, you misunderstand. Stryg, please give her your academy writ,” Rorik said.

Stryg looked at Rorik questioningly but brought out the paper anyway. He slipped it through the small window.

  The clerk took the paper and began to read in a mutter. Her eyes widened and glanced back and forth between the writ and a fidgeting Stryg. 

Rorik had a smug look, iIt was nice to keep seeing the astonished looks on people’s faces. A goblin mage was quite rare if not outright unbelievable to many. 

  The clerk’s eyes reached the end of the document. She cleared her throat, “Stryg is it? Congratulations on entering the magic academy. I will have a silver nameplate ready for you right away. Please, wait a moment while I get our brown mage down here. Excuse me.” The clerk bowed and left in a haste. 

  “That went well. People really underestimate goblins, though. Gotta be rough,” Rorik said absentmindedly.

“I’m used to it,” Stryg said.

  No one had ever expected anything from Stryg, except failure. It was refreshing to see the clerk’s reaction. “By the way, she mentioned an iron and silver nameplate. Are there different kinds?”

  “That’s right,” Rorik pulled out a bronze nameplate from his pocket. “The nameplate’s material denotes its ranking in society. The more precious the metal the greater the nameplate. The cheapest and most common nameplate is made of iron, the majority of people in the city have one. Bronze like mine are only given to high ranking officials and soldiers, wealthy merchants, or members of named houses. Silver, like the one you are getting, is given to all magi and members of great houses. Gold nameplates are given to only the wealthiest and most powerful individuals, usually a lord or lady. The most valuable of all, are the black orichalcum nameplates. But, you don’t have to worry about those, only the city council has them.” 

  Stryg paid attention to every word, he needed to learn as much as he could. “...So, silver nameplates are quite good then?”

Rorik laughed, but this time it was like a cheap imitation. “Yeah, you could say that. Most people here spend their lives just trying to get a bronze nameplate. A silver will open many doors for you.”

  The clerk returned with a drow mage in tow, “Sorry, for the wait.”

The brown mage held a silver nameplate in his hands. “Ok, so how do you spell the name?” He asked the clerk.

  “S-t-r-y-g.” Stryg answered first.

The mage looked at him in surprise, “Okay. One moment then.” He placed his finger on the silver rectangular plate. The metal became tinted where his finger passed by, forming the symbols for the goblin’s name. 

  “Stryg. Sounds foreign. Are you from Undergrowth by any chance?” The mage asked while working.

“No, I’m from Vulture Woods. The Blood Fang tribe.” Stryg shook his head.

  “Ah, I see. One of the sylvan tribes deep in the forest, yes?” The mage asked.

“Have you been there?” Stryg asked. Could this man know the way back to the village? 

  “No, I doubt most magi would dare travel so far into such dangerous woods. But, I grew up in Undergrowth city, so I’ve heard of the goblins nestled deep in the heart of Vulture Woods. I never expected to meet one though.” He finished engraving the name and held his hand over the coin size magestone embedded on the nameplate. The clear gem turned a soft shade of brown. 

“All done. The nameplate is now active.” He handed the plate over to Stryg through the small glass window. “Place your hand over the gem for ten seconds.”

  Stryg followed his instructions. The plate was lighter than he had imagined. 

  “Good, now the plate is officially linked to your person. No one else will be able to use it,” the mage stated.

“Free of charge of course. The city will pay the yearly costs throughout your time as a student,” the clerk mentioned.

  “And when I finish being a student?” Stryg asked.

“Then you will have to pay the nameplate yearly tax, like everyone else. Failure to do so will result in the repossession of your nameplate,” the clerk recited. “But, you won’t have to worry about that. A mage’s salary can easily pay the tax.”

  “Right. I understand.” Stryg nodded. “What if I lose the nameplate?”

“The academy will pay for a new one to be made. But, please, don’t lose it.” The clerk spoke in a serious tone. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?” The clerk asked with a smile.

  “No, that’ll be all.” Rorik said. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Stryg bowed his head to the clerk and mage before leaving.

  As they walked out Rorik pointed to Stryg’s nameplate, “You should put that away, keep it safe. Just because others can’t use it as their own, doesn’t mean they can’t melt it down for silver.”

“Right.” Stryg tucked it into his pocket.

  “Now my part is basically done. All you need to do is get your books. But first, let's get a drink. My treat.” Rorik offered.

---

  Stryg had never been to a tavern, he hadn’t been to most places. He had never drank any alcohol either. Rorik assured him that it was delicious and everyone loved it. He prattled on and on about the different flavors of spirits and which he enjoyed most on the carriage ride over. Stryg opted to read his class schedule. There seemed to be some kind of bell that would ring at the start and end of classes. He asked Rorik about it and other questions concerning the academy. Rorik answered aptly and went straight back to talking about alcohol. Stryg stayed silent, the promise of drink only served to remind him of Karen's betrayal.

  They stopped at Rorik’s favorite tavern, “The Merry Crescent.” A sign hung from above the tavern’s door. It depicted a crescent moon with shapely feminine legs, chugging down an ale. Stryg felt uncomfortable at the impious sign. Lunae, the mother moon, was meant to be respected, revered. What in all the Realms were these people thinking? Should he even enter this place? He was still technically a follower of the moon, even if she had practically cursed him as the bane of his tribe.

  “It may not be a fancy place, but they serve the best honey mead this side of the commoner district.” Rorik ushered him on.

  Stryg smelled something delicious wafting through the door. Then again, the moon had basically cursed him, he thought. As the odd goblin walked into the tavern he was assaulted by an uproar of sound that echoed off the walls and bounced into his sensitive ears. Tables were sprawled all around the wooden establishment. People of all different shades and sizes sat, drinking and eating, but most of all shouting. A multitude of torches hung on the walls, along with a few mounted heads of creatures Stryg didn’t recognize. The whole thing reminded him of his village. He grinned.

  “Let’s find a table.” Rorik led him to a small wooden table that seemed decently clean. Rorik raised his hand as soon as they sat down. 

  Stryg scanned the area for threats. He was still on edge after the last time he went out to get a drink with a stranger. He wasn’t about to allow himself to get jumped by a bunch of goblins again. Those thoughts flew out the door when his eyes landed on the most beautiful human he had seen. Her long hair was a dark shade of purple, it reminded him of the berries that grew around his village. He didn’t know humans could have purple hair. She had chestnut colored eyes, a narrow nose, and luscious lips, framed over a small heart shaped face. Her olive skin was covered with a light sheen of sweat. She wore a white apron over a long red skirt. A black corset hugged her waist, which only helped accentuate her busty cleavage that threatened to spill out from her shoulderless white blouse. His heart began to beat faster as he realized she was coming this way.

  “Good afternoon, captain. What can I get you and your friend?” The woman asked with a bright smile. 

“Can I get two mugs of your finest honey mead and two plates of whatever the cook has made for dinner.” Rorik gave her a few copper coins.

  “Coming right up.” 

“Thank you,” Rorik said.

  “Uh, t-thanks,” Stryg stammered. 

She gave a warm smile of understanding, “You’re welcome.”

  Stryg stared at her figure as she left. 

  Rorik grinned, “Her name is Feli. She’s the tavern’s local celebrity you could say. People love her around here. She’s drop dead gorgeous, kind, and most importantly single.”

“What do you mean single?”

  “She isn’t with anybody.”

Stryg tilted his head, he still didn’t understand.

  “It means she doesn’t have a sexual partner. She isn’t banging anyone. I mean don’t get me wrong, plenty of people would want to if they got the chance. Some idiots have even offered to pay for a single night with her, though they were beaten up by the tavern master’s wife and banned from the tavern for their troubles. No, Feli seems to be looking for the ‘right man,’ or so the rumors go. Doubtful, since she has turned down every suitor, and believe me there have been tons,” Rorik explained. 

“I see,” Stryg said. He guessed that folk from Hollow Shade didn’t participate in night challenges. 

  “I think half the people come here to see her rather than get something to eat or drink,” Rorik whispered. 

Feli returned with two bowls of potato soup and mugs of honey mead. “Here you are. Careful with the soup, it’s quite hot.” She rested her hand on Rorik’s shoulder. “Enjoy,” she whispered. Her hand slipped away as she shuffled to another table. 

  Rorik mourned her departure. He sighed. 

  Stryg smirked, “I take it you’re one of those half of people, huh?”

Rorik shook his head, “Doesn’t matter. I’m a married man.” He blew another sigh into his mug. “Well, let's drink shall we? To your new life.” He held out his mug.

  Stryg took his own mug, it was a bit too large for his hands, and took a sip. He held back the urge to cough. It burned and the taste was just average. He had drunk worse; boiled dire bear blood was definitely far worse.

“You're supposed to clink mugs, but it doesn’t really matter. How’s the taste?” Rorik asked.

  “It’s fine.” Stryg shrugged.

Rorik laughed, “Well, just don’t drink too much. Someone of your size can’t handle too much alcohol.”

  Stryg was tired of being underestimated for his size. This was the beginning of his new life after all. “Just because I’m small doesn’t mean I can’t handle some juice.”

“I mean if you were a dwarf I wouldn’t say anything. But goblins aren’t exactly known for being able to hold their alcohol.”

  “Oh, so it’s because I’m a goblin? I bet I can drink more of this alcohol stuff than you,” Stryg challenged the man. He wouldn’t back down, not after his honor had been contested.

Rorik smiled, “Alright, you’re on.” He raised his arm high, “Two shots of Fire Breath please!”