This is farther along than it looks!
I’d never been to Chillicothe before, but I could tell that the damn place was going downhill, fast. I got nothing against mages – I try not to be stupid – and I’m not saying that mage-kings are any worse than any other kind of politician. But mage-warlords aren’t real nice to be around. People who get off on wearing spikes and skulls to work get even worse when they can also set fire to people with their minds. They usually flame out pretty quick, which is great if you take the long view but not so great when all you can see is the nasty grin and the staff of lightning powering up.
Kragnor didn’t seem to be too far along his personal narrative arc, either (and more’s the pity): he was setting up the area around the ruins of the Old American city on strict ‘slave plantation’ lines, and about the only thing you could say about his rule was that the man seemed to understand that cholera and ringworm were things. The slaves in the fields were only slightly underweight, but their overseers seemed to make up for it with regular beatings. From where I sat (Wilkinson and I had both gotten driver/guard duty on one of the wagons), the place looked like it would go from “tense, but controlled” to “screaming slave revolt” in about two hours. Which gave us a nice rule of thumb of how fast to get out of Chillicothe once I finished the job.
One thing I noticed right away: no other mages. Wilkinson shrugged when I discreetly pointed it out. “I heard that this guy doesn’t like the competition,” he said. “He thinks there’s only room for one mage around here, and it’s gonna be him. No exceptions, either.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “What does he do with any mages he does nab? Kill ‘em?”
“Worse.” Wilkinson shook his head in disgust. “He sells ‘em to the Dominion.”