To Cause Trouble

Ervin's hands ached as he gripped the railing of the ferry. He wasn't squeezing them, no, if he was the metal would contort under his grip. The cold weather of lake Michigan was starting to sink into his old bones. As a child he loved the cold, but now that he was getting older he was starting to think of living in a warmer climate, maybe Bora Bora.

He shrugged. Thoughts of the future were thin. What money would he use to get there? Would he just die alone, without family? ...of course he would. His grip increased on the railing. It slowly started to screech as his hands clenched like a vice. With a deep breath he stopped it's advance. He would get back at the people that harmed him oh, so much. He would kill them all. Pictures of them burning eased his mind a bit as happiness seeped in and a smile creeped across his face.

The boat came to a halt as the crew of the ferry tied off to a dock in the middle of lake Michigan. He had to pay extra for the luxury of stopping here, a fine he would have to take up with his friend later down the road. For now he heaved his large green seabag over his shoulder, lifted his hand over his shoulder to absently wave goodbye to the sailors behind him, and stepped off the gangplank and onto the small island.

There was only one structure here, a rather large foreboding building smack dab in the middle of the rocky and heavily wooded island. Pine and maple trees marked the age of the area as Ervin made his way through a narrow winding path. He would have missed it if it was his first time here for sure, maybe thinking it for a deer run. Ervin passed the old oak that signaled a sharp turn to his right. There used to be a pained mark on the tree to remind him, but that has since been overgrown and beaten away with time. A large boulder marked another turn, the rocks here where easier to walk on as it met with a paved block or two that opened up to two large wooden doors.

He took a breath. It had been a long time since he met up with his old friend. Ervin painted a smile across his face, the best he could do in the circumstances and pounded four times on the large doors, then ran his fingers down the old wood. Where has time gone? He thought.

The deeper into the forest the more the woods grew grim, as if still tainted by the evil that dwelled within. The bark of the trees had a dark tint to it, the ground was absent of grass and fungi reigned over the ground. The canopy above seemed to weave together to fully shut out the mid-day sun, leaving the forest floor significantly cooler. Still, the sorcerer of the North hardly had the same grasp on his domain as he once did. Pleasant birds chirped up above, and even now patches of dandelions and other weeds had trickled in.

Despite this, the castle had remained stalwart all these years, the last bastion of the Sorcerer's presence. The monolithic walls of stone jutting from the ground were built into simple, square pillars surrounding the main anteroom. As Odin watched over the battlefield, the walls were carved with depictions of Vikings clashing with caped heroes. At the top of each tower were a pair of Gargoyles, or at least their shattered remains. It seems even the lair of the magician had been toppled.

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Morgan was started awake by a loud banging from deep within his home. As he gathered his thoughts, he realized he had dozed off reading a grimoire, the same grimoire that had put him to sleep every time this week. The one man grumbled to himself as he reached for his cane, An old oak staff with an Iron snake coiling around the tip and arcing its head to hiss, the arch of its head was the perfect grip for his slender hands. With a strain he eased himself to his feet, cursing the Norns for every pain in his back.

Morgan hobbled over to a circular table littered with various items: more grimoires, empty mugs and a calendar with a date circled multiple times. he pushed these aside in frustration to reveal a crystal ball embedded in the table. With a wave of his hand, he saw just outside of his home. Morgan realized then that he did not have his glasses on, and fumbled about until he found them.

When he saw Ervin, Morgan seemed perplexed. Then, as he racked his vast memory it clicked. Ervin was the only one who had accepted his offer to meet up.

"oh dear," he stated, looking at his home's mess. His library had become his nest, and dust covered the halls. He had hoped to prepare for the get-together but had grown tired. Still, he had a guest waiting for him and knew better than to keep Mr. Imfurious waiting. A wave of his hand an Afghan rug sat beneath the wrinkly old man. Another flick of the wrist and he was flying down the halls.

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There was a long pause in the wake of the pounding on the castle doors. Silence met the massive man for long enough that the sounds of the forest returned. Then, as if by some unseen force, gears shifted and the doors opened to the entrance. Inside, a foyer awaited, classically adorned with a chandelier and two stairways leading to a balcony. Paintings of villains from across the years adorned the room, as well as the tattered masks of fallen heroes.

Among them all was a robed figure, a dark hood covering their face as they stood above a floating carpet. With their staff in hand, the Mage slowly descended, staggered as he stepped down to the ground, and looked up at Ervin. On the pale, gaunt face of the evil Wizard, there was a thin smile.

"Mr. Imfurious, how long has it been? Please come in, you must be tired from the ride"

Only a few moments had past since Ervin knocked on the door and he was already tapping his foot impatiently. Has his friend forgotten about him? The birds started to chirp and he could hear a squirrel skittering up a tree near by. His fist tightened. He could feel the muscles in his arm starting to plump as anger began to seethe through him. Thoughts of him kicking down the door and marching up to his friend and grabbing him by the throat... vanished as the door started to open.

He walked into a well light room with many pictures on the walls. Heroes. All caped and masked up. Though many would call them villains, these were people he looked up to, people he admired for their courage and daring. Not many would stand in the situations these heroes had found themselves, not to mention to live to tell the tale.

"It's about time. Whatever you were doing must have been damn important to keep me waiting so long." He raised his fist to the man. A smile cracked across his face. This one wasn't like the one he'd painted on before, this one broke his mouth open to show his teeth and was followed by a booming laugh. Ervin shook his fist out, relaxing his muscles. "Too long my friend!" He stepped forwards and opened his arms wide, dropping his bag, as if to hug the man.

"I can go for a drink if you have one. We have a lot to discuss." Mr. Imfurious held up a crumpled letter in one of his hands.

A thin smile crept across the weathered and cracked lips of the small husk of a wizard that stood before Ervin, a rare sight from the devious sorcerer unless he was destroying his foes. The man looked like he had seen better days. Once Morgan had been a burly Viking hardened by the icy north's brutality, the years had eroded his chiseled frame into a gaunt and lithe mockery. His beautifully groomed beard was now snow white and wild. Though his castle remained stoic in the face of time, its owner had not.

Initially, Morgan recoiled from the hug. Human contact had become so foreign to him, and he was never much for showing affection. His apprehension melted away when he saw the smiling face of his old friend. How could he deny his closest comrade at a time like this? Knowing the risks, he rushed forward for the hug, wrapping his brittle arms around his friend.

"A drink, yes!" He yelled out, emphasizing his zeal by pointing a finger up into the air with enthusiasm.
"Now... where was that latch" He mumbled to himself as he shuffled to a nearby torchstand. He tugged on it, before realizing this was not the correct one.
"Oh dear... which one leads to the bar" He asked aloud, already moving to the next torch.

The carpet he had flown in on seemed to move about on its own now. Seeing the wizard walk off it floated gently to his his side and began nudging him away from the torch he was moving to, until it brought him to the right one. With a mighty tug, the stand moved down and the harsh stone wall beside it gave way to a winding staircase coated in dust. The candles lining the stairs lit on their own, the flames making a strange blue hue. Satisfied, Morgan gestured downwards.
"Watch your step. I never did make a railing"

Ervin smiled at the continuing thought of alcohol and continued to look around a bit after his hug.

"I love what you've done to the place... practically nothing at all." He said as he admired an old superhero statue close by. Setting his hand on the old marble he could feel a bit of the dust and grime. Then, with a sad look he looked back over to his fiend. He was struggling to remember which lever it was. Time hasn't been good to us, huh, old friend? he thought. Just as he was about to go over to help, the wizard's carpet started to point him in the right direction.

Maybe this wasn't a good idea after all. They were not as sharp as they used to be. A flash of fire made it past Ervin's imagination. The anger inside of him demanded revenge, and revenge it will have. He was already halfway down the steps when he realized his fist was balled up again. With a twist and crack of his neck his muscles relaxed again.

The stairs opened up to a large bar and lounge area light with old green bar lights above the pool tables to his right, and a long dark oak counter top to his left. Behind the bar was an assortment of all kinds of liquor and decorated taps for the corresponding beers, he wondered if they were even connected to anything anymore. He could see himself in a mirror behind the counter as he walked past. A room sat in the far left corner. As he approached torches on the walls ignited and the table in the middle of the meeting room flickered to life, projecting a beautiful realtime re-construction of the city of Chicago in blue and green wireframe.

"Still keeping tabs?" He said as he pointed back at the room with a thumb and walked over to the bar. "I'll take..." He wanted a beer, but due to the states of the taps, all dusty, he didn't want to put off the conversation any longer. His eyes fell on an older bottle of scotch that sat across from him. "Scotch. That'll be just fine." He smiled.

"So, about this letter." Ervin frowned and took a deep breath.Then with a laugh, "When I heard Deagle died I was so happy I almost killed two guards in my excitement... That man took a lot from us." His frown returned. "Now that he is gone, I think it's about time we take it back, huh?" He sipped the liquid fire, letting it burn its way down.

The trip down the stairs would have been torture on Morgan's old bones and an exhaustive journey had he had to walk them. Instead, he floated behind his stalwart ally on his carpet. He noticed the tension in the man, and wicked as it may be he couldn't help but smile. It pleased him to know that even if age had caught up to them both nothing could quell the fire in Ervin's heart. Not the prison system, not the heroes, not even the grating erosion of time. In that clenched fist, he saw the anger that drove him, that once drove him, in its primal, youthful form. It was contagious and the animosity he felt for his current condition invigorated him.

The bar had a similar effect on the old wizard. The memories it brought back washed over him. How they had gallivanted over stolen goods, cheered over fallen foes, and drowned their sorrows in ill-gotten booze. It stood as an untouched relic, a tomb unsealed for the first time in decades, for all their history to be laid bare. Morgan stepped off his Carpet and moved behind the bar. The labels on the liquor were old and he was quick to toss aside opened bottles if wine that would have long since turned to vinegar.

"Still keeping tabs?"

Morgan's head shot up at the question and he turned to the model of Chicago. A smirk covered his face as he saw his magic remained as potent as ever.

“I was for some time,” he said with a melancholic smile.
“It appears the map has kept up with the city better than I have”

Morgan grabbed the bottle of scotch and poured it into a shot glass, a blue crystalline glass shaped like a skull. It was fitting for the crowd. He grabbed a mug and tugged on one of the spouts. It sputtered and coughed before a golden brown liquid seeped out and frothed to the top of the mug. Ale, a special brew he had requested to be made years ago. A single sip confirmed it was still good and Morgan greedily gulped down a hefty fourth of the booze. Wiping the froth from his beard he moved the shot to his friend. Leaving the bottle on the bar.

At the mention of the letter, Morgan seemed confused at first. The mention of Deagle quickly jogged his memory. Despitw the good news he seemed narrowed by the reminder.

“I couldn't agree more my old friend” Morgan replied quickly, though there was sorrow in his voice.
“But it won't be easy” he said before taking another massive swig of booze.

“You weren't the only one I called for. Mister robot was decommissioned. They turned bad horse into glue and fire brand…” Morgan trailed off, taking a deep breath to recompose himself.
“All the more reason to take back what is rightfully ours. If not for our revenge, then for our fallen brethren” he stated as he moved from behind the bar and hobbled to the projection of Chicago. With a wave of his hand as he neared, the projection zoomed in to show a large building downtown. Its sign in bold letters revealed the building’s designation.

“Chicago museum of heroism”

“That frunti cunt, he took one of my magic items for himself after he beat us. One you’d know well” The old wizard snarled. With another wave of his hand, the diagram warped to reveal a Gjermundbu, a traditional Viking helmet. It seemed Deagle had changed the helmet some. The face guard has been altered to look like two massive wings that tapered off behind the ears. The image seemed to rile up the old mage, as now his voice seemed deeper, more intense. A fragment of the vile sorcerer of the north filled his tone with a bitter bite to each and every word.

“The helmet of the berserker. They hold it in the museum like an ancient relic, pah! I say it’s the first thing to reclaim. With it, you’ll be unstoppable once more” The old man swatted at the image again, the way Deagle had defiled the helmet filled him with rage.
“But it’s well guarded. Perhaps the others would be easier to work with?” He added, deflating just as his malice reached its peak. He was old now, and the task seemed insurmountable to him. The odds where simply not in their favor.