[NoR] - [02] - The Calm Before

Razel stepped out of the pawn shop, his calm demeanor betraying none of the psychic atrocity he had just committed. The bustle of the market quickly overwhelmed the relative quiet of the shop, the cacophony of voices a disjointed chorus in the mortar theatre. He gently closed the door as a courteous habit, turning to face the commerce. A cart rolled past him, missing his toes by less than his arm’s length. The Boothowner across from Derrin’s motioned excitedly to come over, a gesture promptly ignored. Double-checking for passing vehicles, Razel crossed the thoroughfare, ignoring the Boothowner completely and continuing to the square itself on his way back to the local Basilica.

“-so we decided to get six of them...”

“-but not those ones, I need these...”

“-what she said...”

The ‘walker stepped through the crowd, largely ignoring the chatter but quietly listening to each word he caught. More than once coincidence had brought him either great fortune...or great misfortune. Either way, it paid to be aware. The square was busy as always with the daily lunch crowd, many of the patrons carrying a convenient meal. A thousand smells from a thousand places flooded into each other. The sheer number of conversations numbed the ears. Yet, for all the hustle and bustle, the mage smiled. While he began his leisurely trek, a brief spike of nostalgia peaked within him, quickly fading behind the myriad thoughts about his mind.

There is a very specific feel to the Ravnican Markets. In the Safer parts of the city, Markets are more than just a source of economy. They are a meeting place, a home, a way of life. When the world itself is a city, the realms within are thus magnified. As such, the Markets are very much their own ecosystem. In a bizarre way, the natural order is perfectly reflected in business - applicable to all ‘villages’, yet only truly made apparent in the extreme. Ravnica is very much that extreme. The perfect circle of life contained within that metropolis boggles the mind with the infinite possibility, yet in the end I always remember one thing over the flood of existence that is that plane; the way that anyone could feel at home in an inner city market square.

The distinction is unfortunately necessary, as the outskirts are host to Izzet experiments and Rakdos ‘celebrations’. However, in the safer parts of the city the markets exude an atmosphere of comfort and brotherhood. The closest approximation I can make is to the recreational festivals of other planes. Each district is its own effective country, each subdivision an effective city within itself. The Tenth District is home to much of the central function of the plane, and as such has the most welcoming of the markets. Each shopkeep knows each vendor, and each patron knows each worker. These people could make for a wonderful democracy. It seems unfortunate that the power instead lies with the guilds. Ten factions each serve a different yet crucial purpose, functioning as the backbone of Ravnica’s goings on. A guild of Law, a Guild of Deals, a Guild of Shadows, and so on.

My first visit to the plane tied me invariably to one of those guilds. It is a tad disconcerting to one fleeing murderous pursuers to find yourself on a planar metropolis for the first time. Of course, everyone remembers their first time on Ravnica. I had been found by the Academy, and began to ‘walk from world to world, blindly leaping through the multiverse in an effort to leave the most confusing trail possible to prevent the need to open a rift which would consume my path. I eventually backtracked and took a different path, leaving a heavily wooded plane filled with short, fuzzy creatures that looked like small bears to find myself atop a balcony overlooking one of the markets I had mentioned. The stone spires reached higher than any tree I had ever seen. The clearing in the sky above the market square reminded me much of a clearing in a forest. Instead of an expanse of trees, I was surrounded by an expanse of industry. A stone jungle awaited me. As was often necessary before I established my retreat, I prepared myself for a new lifetime on this world.

The Basilica atop the hill overlooked the market imposingly. It was a comparatively moderate, yet grand affair. The building perched atop a raised platform, the sheer walls glowering over the stairway before it. The hill was artificial, since genuine land is nearly impossible to find above the undercity. By Orzhov standards, it was practically an accident. Yet by anyone else’s, it was an impressive cathedral lit by massive censers which constantly spilled a slight cinnamon odor. The windows were stained glass murals depicting local history, although a small fee was charged for closer inspection.

Razel made his way through the pews, passing an occasional servant polishing a random portion of the Basilica. The decorations from a recent festival were mid-removal, and a ladder or two occasionally cast their shadows through the stained light. Stepping past the donation platforms immediately before the altar, he made his way through an unassuming door flanked by two large Thrulls. The awkward constructs paid him no mind, recognizing his energies as those of the church. As he moved out of the chapel, the Church became strictly business.

The hallway was opulent to be sure, but in a much less over the top fashion. Gone were the chandelier sconces, replaced by ornate, magical lights. The spiced scent of the censers slunk sweetly into the rooms beyond. The doors were moderate and professional. At the end of the hallway was an exception: the large, genuine wooden door was open slightly, and the ‘walker heard the tail end of a conversation as he approached.

“-and this is why the church will not approve your little ‘scheme’ to interrogate our...ah. It seems we have a guest.”

The Pontiff, a rotund man of rippling stature, gestured to the open door. Razel stepped into the chamber with a nonchalance betraying his right to be there. The visiting Azorius Justicar was visibly agitated by his arrival, narrowing her eyes to glare things at him that she couldn’t begin to articulate. The Pontiff motioned for him to join them, pointing to a vacant spot beside the Justice. Razel took his time to approach, savoring the irritation he felt radiating from the law mage. He knew the Azorius had sent her to ‘inquire’ about today’s activities. They usually do. It’s not often that a detective decides to actually show up, although it does happen. More often than not the law mage can be bought off, although in Justicar Myra’s case she wanted to get out of this gig and into a better one as soon as possible. Because of that, she became a stickler for the rules. This meant that as the only one willing, she was sent on the routine, yet invariably futile task of the daily inquiries. As she wanted her promotion, she couldn’t possibly accept the bribe to simply ‘write them off’. The specific and prolific activities of Razel in particular brought many inquiries to her desk, and each one meant more time wasted on the inevitable follow-up. The Justicar spoke to Razel through gritted teeth.

“Strongarm Korr of the Orzhov Syndicate. What brings you to the Pontiff?”

The local slang was clearly meant as an insult, as it always was. Razel looked hurt, feigning a blow to his pride with ease and condescension.

“Boarmage Myra, please! You know my proper title is ‘Inquisitor’. If you must be aware, I am here to report on a routine contract evaluation and adjustment.”

The comment seeped through her forced stoicism, a slight twitch in her cheek hidden behind her helm.

“Well. Then allow me to excuse myself, Pontiff. As my requests to Inquire have been denied, I will return to the precinct. Enjoy the rest of your day, your Grace.”

The Azorius agent rose to her feet, stepping bitterly past the Inquisitor while tossing a passing comment as she went.

“Farewell, Bartermage Korr. Stay out of the Law’s way.”

With a slammed wooden door, she was gone.

“I am to assume the Derrin account will not be an issue then.”

Razel returned the smile to his face, turning and looking innocently at the Pontiff.

“You presume correctly, your grace. His initial impression was less than favorable, however I found a delightful trinket within his shop that I felt could benefit his situation, so I purchased it through a guild deal and presented it to Derrin, with interest, as a sign of goodwill and commitment to our agreement.”

The Pontiff nodded, his large jowls swaying slightly with the movement. He stepped away from his desk, meandering toward his visitor.

“This is a suitable interpretation of the situation as relayed by Justicar Myra. You have done well, Inquisitor Korr. Your local Basilica thanks you.”

The large man gestured to the chest beside his desk, the ornate metal locks releasing as they felt his gaze. Razel stepped blithely to his payment, retrieving from within a moderate coin purse stuffed to the seams. The purse alone was worth far more than the sum of its parts, and was emblazoned with a black sun. A swift motion later, and it found a new home within his robes. The lid fell from Razel’s fingers, clacking loudly against itself. After a brief pause, Razel turned to thank the Pontiff.

Instead, he found an empty room. Noting the cracked door leading to another back office, he casually looked about, mostly surveying for witnesses. Satisfied that he was unobserved, the Planeswalker stepped between spaces, leaving Ravnica for the time being.

I found out quickly that truly being alone was something hard to achieve on Ravnica. My arrival was not without moderate fanfare, as I fear my immediate appearance on a new plane is preceded by visual and possibly audible phenomena. I have never experienced it myself, as obviously I am always on the other end of it; however I have had acquaintances tell me of it.

It is no surprise that the drunken cultists I happened to apparate in front of weren't exactly sure of what to do immediately. I didn’t much care for their second thought either, as I was trying to flee murderous thugs, not run into them. A brief scuffle led to two unconscious cultists, violently robbed of their will to assault me. I sifted through their things, recognizing a sort of money and pocketing it. A brief rummage through their immediate thoughts told me a little bit about where I was. As I stood to gather my bearings, I saw another figure approaching at a much less threatening pace. The white robes were host to a stark black sun, and the beard draped over it lent its silver to the contrast. I faced the man calmly, already ready to deal with him if need be.

‘You handled those two efficiently,’ He had said. ‘You should be in my line of work.’

‘His line of work’, as I came to discover, was Inquisition. Through our initial conversation, he began to suspect I was not a 'local'. After finding out I knew nothing of the Guilds or their purpose, he quickly filled me in on everything I was missing.

Well, not quite.

He realized what I was. I felt his duplicity grow. I heard his tone shift from that of a helpful mentor to a manipulative tool as soon as he caught on, and instead of allowing him to present me before his Debtor I decided to humor him long enough to get behind the old man, where I promptly dissected his mind.

The confirmation that he genuinely was going to betray me, as always, helped to assuage the initial rush of my decision. I learned of his Guild, the Orzhov, and of a great many features of Ravnican society. I proceeded with a regular removal of his memories for the past few hours before placing his unconscious meat atop the two other bodies on the platform. The rush of information left me much better prepared to step from that clearing and into the brick forest about me.

‘You’re right. I do belong in your line of work. Not sure you ever did, though.’