“And then!” exclaimed the story teller to his cheering audience, from atop the table he had taken for an impromptu stage, “The young boy and his butler brought their strengths together and as one smote the villain!” he gestured wildly, imitating the act of throwing a bolt of lightning at an imaginary foe. Those nearby gasped. “He fell, clutching his face, hair up in flames, and was never heard from again! Now, the master will become the new lord of that guild!” The crowd cheered at the news, but had they known which guild they were offending, they may have cursed instead. Quicksilver was well loved in that area.
News travelled fast, and as it had a habit of doing so, transformed along the way. It changed and twisted until it became completely unidentifiable. However, one thing remained the same in all versions of the story, no matter whether Azrael was in fact a dragon of Sklaver’s or if Glint was actually a necromancer and had raised all in the manor as undead minions. In all stories, some said in hushed whispers, Glint was leaving the manor he had gotten through strength of arms, and it was being given to one who had no physical strength, was not a psion, nor a magician. The one to inherit the manor and the job of protecting those within it was a former stable boy with a penchant for music.
Some shook their heads at the news, discounting the tale outright. Others said that he would fail miserably, or be killed by the servants in his sleep. And in quiet corners where the walls were not listening too keenly, there were those who rejoiced.