“Do you know where my sword is, Myrrdin?” Crowlin asked as he layered on his many robes.
“Over here.” Myrrdin answered, dragging Crowlin’s sword, scabbard, and belt in through the door and nudging the door shut behind him. “I think it prudent that you keep it with you at all times. There are rumors going about the Instructory and the city that you had something to do with the massacre.”
Crowlin’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Why would they think that? I was nearly killed in that massacre.”
“Because you are the sole survivor among the staff.” Myrrdin answered as Crowlin belted his sword around his waist. “There was the possibility that you become headmaster if all the other staff died, and so that is seen as possible motive. Additionally, there is your heritage to consider.”
“They’ll never let that alone, will they?” Crowlin sighed.
“Don’t take my warning lightly, Crowlin.” Myrrdin cautioned. “There are those who are actually considering these rumors. There are those who are suspicious of you, and may act on it.”
Crowlin’s eyes widened. “In seriousness? Since when has the gossip mill been a reputable source of information?”
“The Instructory and Arcanis has lost many valued members of their community, ones that matter: strong youth with great potential, and elders with wisdom great enough to teach our region’s defenders.” Myrrdin pointed out. “In my many years as a cat, I have noticed that when something massively tragic happens, humans need to explain it, or find something to pin the blame on. It makes them feel better, if only for a while. In this instance, you are the object they are eyeing to be their scapegoat. Do not be surprised when others look at you in a different light.”
“I’ll be careful.” Crowlin said, pulling his dark gloves on. “Rumors. . . this is ridiculous.”