Maia Part 1

Matt rammed his fist into the mirror in his room. Cracks spread from his fist and spread to the edge. He barely felt the blood seep out from the scrapes in his hand, nor the loud cricks of the splitting and spreading glass. His entire focus was aimed at the dying remains of his scrying spell. By the Flaming fires of Flaem, I hate Time Storms. He thought to himself. He opened his eyes. “Reki-Po!” He swore. He withdrew his hand form the shattered mirror. The shards fell, the air filled with the tinkling of shattered glass.

A knock at the door. “I say, is everything all right in there?”

Matt cursed again, under his breath this time. “Everything’s fine!” He called out. He glanced at the broken pieces of the mirror and waved his hand. They quivered for a moment, then liquefied. They flowed up the wall and into the vacant frame, joining seamlessly and flawlessly with the remaining jags of broken glass. He washed his hands in the sink, allowing a bit of power to heal his hand and remove all traces of blood, from his hand and from the sink. He dried them on the towel conveniently provided for that very reason.

He had not intended to stay here. In fact, he never wouldn’t have even noticed this plane if it wasn’t for their spectacular time storm. It was beautiful, the apex of chaos. The people here had no idea, of course, such a wondrous and majestic thing was going on right above their heads. All they knew was odd things would happen to people. The priests would credit the local gods and all was well and good.

For them anyway. Matt headed down to the main room, rather standard as taverns go. He sat down at one of the non-descript tables and tried to observed the process of ordering what was acclaimed to be a meal. Unfortunately, the barmaid had approached him before then.

“Al’ite ser. Wast yoose ta drenk?” Her accent, while not the worst he had heard, it was not at all the clearest.

“I’m sorry, I don’t exactly know.”

She smiled. ” S’al’ite. Wees grot whine, berr, waters, co’milt, an’ som hote appel’press.

“The Appel’Press, please. Now, what type of coins do you use?” He said, pulling a weathered bag out of his vest. He had an approximation of most coinage.

She laughed. “N’ser. T’mple eyes t’ coin. We’rit yoose name don, and let the T’mple nose wat yoose et. Den yoose cen pay nor works fer dems, Ehnah?”

“Eh. Was fud?” Matt always had a skill with languages.

“Peg cut wit w’ld grens. Or sup.”

“Soup, huh. Well, I’ll take the pig. How long, you think.”

She walked away laughing. “Nolong, nolong!”

“I wish.” Matt muttered under his breath.