[game-notes version here]

XXXII.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

“Running was a dumb move, lass,” Maelen muttered grumpily. The warrior peered out of the smoked glass of the chandlery, the window speckled with old wax and soot. The smell of tallow and beeswax hung heavily in the air.

“You’ve only said it half a dozen times,” Vessa replied sourly, crossing her arms. “And okay… I panicked.”

“Not like you,” Maelen squinted. “You’ve had a warrant on your head before.”

“It wasn’t the warrant,” she whispered fiercely. Vessa’s eyes darted to the chandlery’s proprietor, a balding, middle-aged man with a long neck like a turtle. He saw her looking and swallowed hard, turning to needlessly busy himself with shelves crowded with candles, blocks of wax, and little jars of resin. They’d paid him a handful of silver to let the two of them stand in his store and watch the Heart & Dagger’s front door, but she still worried what he might say to a City Watch official if questioned.

An older woman in flowing red robes entered the chandlery with the tinkle of a bell. Maelen and Vessa pretended to be looking at candles as she passed them. She paused and regarded them.

“Ah, Sister Hestara!” the chandler said in greeting, his voice nasal. “A little early for your monthly visit, isn’t it?”

Vessa’s back was to the woman as she did her best to look innocuous. The customer said nothing for a long while, then exhaled audibly. When she spoke, her voice was rich and full. “Yes, Mister Fenn, it is. I was… well, you might say I felt inspired as I passed by this evening. Do you mind if I browse?”

The conversation went on behind them and Vessa leaned close to Maelen. “It wasn’t the warrant,” she repeated in a low whisper. “It was the man! This Brannic, he was there that night, in the alley, don’t you remember?”

Maelen scowled and turned away from the window. “What? Part of the merchant boy’s crew?”

Vessa waved a no and shook her head. “No, just in the alley. I think maybe he was their mark.”

The warrior thought about it, frowning. She leaned over and peered again out of the smudged window, to watch those entering the tavern next door. Eventually, she muttered. “Why would a book merchant’s son try to beat up an Iron Thorn agent? It makes no sense. Anyway, running was still dumb. Who cares if he was in the alley?”

Vessa sighed and took a step to where she could see out between two thick white candles upon a shelf. With the evening twilight and the smudgy glass, it wasn’t the easiest view, but she figured either Alric or Brannic would be easy enough to spot. Her eyes flicked left. Near the Lakeshore Walk, a narrow stone-and-plank promenade that curved around the perimeter of Lake Miran, sat a worn stone bench. Reclining against the bench, arms folded in the chill air, was Rusk. Vessa thought that, if they were going to quickly intercept Alric, it would be best if the hired thug wasn’t with them. Besides, an extra pair of eyes outside always helped.

“Excuse me? Ma’am?” that full, rich voice said from a stride away. Both Maelen and Vessa turned to see the woman in red robes. She was an attractive older woman, perhaps of fifty years, with a defined jaw and intense, pale blue eyes framed by brown hair pulled back in a braid. The clothes were exceptionally well-made, heavy wool with a faint sheen, with black silk cuffs and hood, and cut asymmetrically to cover the left side of her body while leaving her pale right arm and lower leg tastefully exposed. A small brass pendant in the shape of a flame hung at her throat. Ah, Vessa realized. A priestess of the Flame, then, a small religious order who worshipped the Ash Queen. Vessa had never met one who didn’t unsettle her with their zealotry.

The woman’s gaze fell fully on Maelen. The warrior frowned and took her in from head to toe, same as Vessa.

“Yeah?” she grunted.

“That… weapon on your belt,” the woman nodded her head towards the black mace. “Do you mind if I ask how it came into your possession?”

“Listen, lady,” Maelen said dismissively, doing her best to look every bit the street tough. “I do mind. Go away.” And with that, the warrior turned her back on the priestess and crouched to peer again through the window. Somewhere out of sight, the chandler gasped.

The woman looked startled, then a line formed between her eyes and she pressed her lips together, clearly irritated. She cleared her throat. “I am afraid I cannot do that,” she said curtly. “That weapon is demon-born. Give it to me now, in the name of the gods.”

Silence fell in the chandlery. Maelen stood upright, slowly, and turned to regard the priestess. “Excuse me?” she growled, low and mean.

“Mae…” Vessa whispered urgently, reaching to place a calming hand upon her shoulder. Ever since the Starless Rift, her friend had been… angry. Maelen had always been a bruiser by nature, but one of the things that impressed Vessa early on was the warrior’s ability to reason her way out of a situation. Recently, it was as if she were a beaten dog tied to a post, snapping at anyone who came near. Which, she realized uncomfortably, was very much like the description the seer Wink had given her.

Maelen shrugged off Vessa’s touch and stepped towards the priestess. “You want it?” she sneered, slowly pulling the black mace from her belt loop. “Come take it from me, then.”

Vessa gave the robed woman credit; if the priestess was intimidated, she masked it well. Her eyes momentarily widened at Maelen’s advance and then her face set in determination. “I see,” she said simply. She raised her voice without taking eyes off Maelen. “Mister Fenn? I will not bring trouble to your shop. I might suggest you close up for the evening, however, and call the City Watch if these two trouble you.”

The woman’s posture straightened imperiously as she addressed Maelen. Her friend stopped her advance but tensed, growling low in her throat. “I tell you this now plainly: That weapon is an instrument of destruction. Shadows and darkness follow it, and has likely,” she looked Maelen up and down. “darkened your soul. Bring it to the Temple of the Flame and you can be rid of this burden. I give you two days.”

“Or what?” Maelen snarled, muscles flexing.

The woman’s eyes swung to Vessa. “Two days,” she intoned, and the words struck her like a weight. Then, in a swirl of red fabric, turned and swept out of the chandlery.

The little bell tinkled, and the sound of the door shutting echoed in the small shop. Vessa was stunned, while Maelen panted, mace gripped tightly in her hand. Silence reigned for several heartbeats, and then the shop owner cleared his throat nervously.

“I– I think I will close up now,” he squeaked. “It’s about time.”

“Of course,” Vessa said immediately, before Maelen could yell at the man. “We’re sorry for any trouble.” She moved towards the door. “Come on, Mae.”

Outside, the evening gloom had swallowed the lakeside, and all around them lanterns were being lit upon the street and in windows. Across the street, Rusk hunched his shoulders and pushed off from the bench, sauntering slowly towards them.

“What in blazes was that?” Vessa snapped.

Her friend barked back. “What? She wanted to take it!”

“She wanted to talk,” she corrected. “Then you picked a fight. With a priestess! And what if what she said is true?”

“It’s a weapon,” Maelen grunted. “Of course it’s made for destruction.”

“Not that,” Vessa said. “The part about darkness, and demons. And your soul.”

Rusk was within earshot now and Maelen flicked her gaze towards him. “Enough of that. Leave it. Where’s the bloody lad?”

“There,” Rusk whispered as he joined them, jerking his chin towards the road. Maelen and Vessa turned to see a figure robed in black, hood up and shrouding his face, hobbling towards the Heart & Dagger’s entrance with the help of a wooden staff. The robe, staff, and limp all matched Alric, but the figure was too thin and stooped.

“Not him,” Maelen shook her head. “That’s an old man.”

“Wait,” Vessa cautioned. Her eyes were the keenest of them, and she saw the lamplight play off the runes upon the staff. “I think… I think it may be.” Without waiting for the others to respond, she strode towards the frail, bent figure with purpose. Instinctively, she moved quietly, on guard.

“Alric?” she called out when she was within lunging distance. The figure stopped and turned its hood. She could now clearly see the hands gripping the staff, pale and bony.

“Vessa,” he sighed, relieved. Incongruously, it was Alric’s voice, completely unchanged. “I was going to tell you that we should move our meeting to somewhere more private. Brannic is coming, and wants to speak with you.”

A hand went to her mouth in shock. “What happened to you?”

“Ah, yes, well,” Alric chuckled. She could only see vague details beneath the hood, but what she saw looked skeletal. “I may have tried a new spell, to mixed results.”

“Let’s get out of here,” she gasped, reaching to take one of his arms. It felt shockingly thin. “Let me help you.”

“Much obliged,” he nodded once, with relief.

She helped the unsettlingly frail Alric to Vessa’s inn near the docks. She did not speak with him on the trek, and neither did Maelen. Her friend did shoot her a look when she thought Alric wasn’t looking, though, of pressed lips and concern. Rusk, thankfully, said nothing and followed behind, strolling as if alone and without a care in the world.

It was well after dark when they arrived, but thankfully they never saw the Iron Thorn investigator from earlier that day. The inn was a two-story wedge of weathered timber, sitting slightly askew upon on the dock and between shops that were dark and closed up for the night. A row of iron lantern-hooks ran along the eaves, each lit behind smoky and salt-flecked glass. The signboard outside couldn’t be bothered with iconography, and said, simply enough, “The Swaying Lantern” upon it in plain script.

Inside, the common room was dimly lit by the glow of the large iron stove in the back, sitting squatly behind a long, scarred counter. The tables were narrow and communal—not ideal for them talking, but Vessa had chosen this place precisely because the clientele were usually sailors from other cities, other nations, often speaking only a few words of Calvenori. Few people here cared who they were, and more importantly cared not at all for the warrant attached to her.

She led them across sanded planks, Alric’s limp making a scraping sound across them along with the steady thump thump of his staff, and hailed the innkeeper.

“Voss,” she nodded with a crooked smile. He was a neat, polite, and soft-spoken man with close-cropped hair and no beard, a true surprise in this rough-and-tumble place. Indeed, the innkeeper of the Swaying Lantern reminded her somewhat of Alric, and would have fit better in the Inkbinders Lodge than the Oakton docks. He wiped his hands fastidiously on a white apron and nodded to her.

“How many?” he asked without preamble.

“Four of us,” she said. “But just water for one and two ales for another. And do you still have that crab stew from last night?”

He smiled. “I do indeed.”

“Four bowls of that, then. And bread?”

“I’ll bring them over to you,” he confirmed, and then he bowed slightly. Vessa smiled and hurried back over to the table, where Maelen was already grilling Alric in low, urgent tones.

“About Vessa?” Alric was saying, keeping his hood up and shrouding his face in shadows. “He asked about both of you, how I knew you, that sort of thing.”

“Nothing about her warrant, though?” Maelen asked, scowling.

Alric paused, as if thinking. Vessa couldn’t keep her eyes from his wrist and hands, almost skeletal. What had happened to him? Eventually, his rich baritone voice said. “No, nothing about Vessa specifically at all. It felt like he was just making conversation, honestly. What he really wanted to discuss was a woman named Sera Vellorin.”

“Dammit all to the Rootmother’s teats!” Maelen swore. Vessa winced.

“You know her?” he asked.

“Not directly, no,” Maelen frowned, and her eyes tracked over to Rusk. She clearly still wasn’t sure what she could and couldn’t say in the man’s presence. Vessa cleared her throat when it was clear she wasn’t going to offer more.

“She’s a book merchant,” Vessa offered. Maelen shot her a look that she ignored. “And mother of the kid I stabbed.”

“Oh,” Alric said, cocking his hooded head, as if again thinking. “Interesting. Well, the investigator said she’s bribing Lodge members to gain access to hidden archives. The… uh,” and now his head swept over to Rusk as well. “The forbidden ones.”

Silence fell on the table, and in that silence, Voss brought their food and drink upon a wide tray. He carefully placed each mug and bowl in front of each of them, then doled out four iron spoons and slices of bread upon small wooden plates. With another slight bow, he took his leave. Steam rose from the stew, and the inviting smell of crab and vegetables made Vessa’s mouth water. Rusk dove into his meal with abandon, slurping ale and stew with equal enthusiasm. Alric sipped his water and blew on the stew before trying it.

Maelen hadn’t moved, her mind working over what she’d heard. Eventually, she took a long drink from a mug and said, “Too many damned connections. Lad, what happened to your body? Are you two weak to make some coin?”

“As I told Vessa,” he said after a spoonful. “A spell got away from me, a spell I used to escape the investigator when he began asking about the Lodge. I should recover… I’ll just need to eat. Speaking of which, good stew, Vessa.” Much to her surprise, she felt her cheeks warming in a blush, as if she’d been the one to cook the meal and deserved praise for it.

Flustered, she ran a hand through her hair and said, “Yeah. Voss is a gem. You do think you’ll recover, then?”

He shrugged a thin shoulder. “I suppose. Or, rather, there’s no reason to think that I won’t.” The hood turned again to Maelen. “What did you have in mind, Maelen? For the coin, I mean.”

“I met a guy,” she said, chewing on a piece of bread. “Said he’d found a secret ruin in the city, untouched. Thinks there’s valuables there and promised a cut.”

“Oh, I’m relieved,” Alric chuckled. “That it’s in the city, I mean. I don’t feel up for another trek in the wilds, and I’d like to continue my research.”

“So, that’s a yes, then?” she said, her mouth full. “Vess?”

“I… sure, I guess. But shouldn’t we deal with this Vellorin business?”

Maelen grunted. “It’s too tangled. I can’t see the angle for us. Better we get out of sight for a few days, let it sort itself out. But a secret ruin sounds better to me than running from the Iron Thorn and some shady book dealer.”

And, Vessa thought unkindly, it lets you duck the priestess of the Flame’s attention. Worry knotted in her stomach, then. Could Maelen’s anger issues have to do with the mace? Maelen had said they weren’t related, but maybe her friend’s judgment couldn’t be trusted these days? Her instincts told her that allowing the two-day deadline to pass would lead to trouble, something they already had in vast amounts. Then there was Alric, who—despite his brave words—looked like he should be spending time resting, not tromping through dangerous ruins. Could he even use his magic, now?

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been quiet as these thoughts tumbled through her head. All eyes at the table were fixed on her, waiting. Maelen wouldn’t like her answer, but Vessa thought they should visit the temple of the Flame before making any decisions. She could loan Alric money to continue his research, since she hadn’t managed to spend her spoils from the Starless Rift yet. It might buy him time to recover.

Just then Rusk wiped his mouth and belched. “We’re in,” he said in his low whisper of a voice, thumping his fist on the table for emphasis. “When do we leave?”

Vessa blinked in surprise. Had he just… answered for the both of them? Alric stiffened in his seat, noting the same.

Maelen grinned and nodded at the man. “Tomorrow morning,” she said to them all. “I’ll go now and find Neddy.”

With that, her friend pushed herself from the table, slapped a couple of silver coins onto the table, and stalked out of the inn.

Next …?

[prose-only version here]

XXXII.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

“Running was a dumb move, lass,” Maelen muttered grumpily. The warrior peered out of the smoked glass of the chandlery, the window speckled with old wax and soot. The smell of tallow and beeswax hung heavily in the air.

“You’ve only said it half a dozen times,” Vessa replied sourly, crossing her arms. “And okay… I panicked.”

“Not like you,” Maelen squinted. “You’ve had a warrant on your head before.”

“It wasn’t the warrant,” she whispered fiercely. Vessa’s eyes darted to the chandlery’s proprietor, a balding, middle-aged man with a long neck like a turtle. He saw her looking and swallowed hard, turning to needlessly busy himself with shelves crowded with candles, blocks of wax, and little jars of resin. They’d paid him a handful of silver to let the two of them stand in his store and watch the Heart & Dagger’s front door, but she still worried what he might say to a City Watch official if questioned.

An older woman in flowing red robes entered the chandlery with the tinkle of a bell. Maelen and Vessa pretended to be looking at candles as she passed them. She paused and regarded them.

“Ah, Sister Hestara!” the chandler said in greeting, his voice nasal. “A little early for your monthly visit, isn’t it?”

Vessa’s back was to the woman as she did her best to look innocuous. The customer said nothing for a long while, then exhaled audibly. When she spoke, her voice was rich and full. “Yes, Mister Fenn, it is. I was… well, you might say I felt inspired as I passed by this evening. Do you mind if I browse?”

The conversation went on behind them and Vessa leaned close to Maelen. “It wasn’t the warrant,” she repeated in a low whisper. “It was the man! This Brannic, he was there that night, in the alley, don’t you remember?”

Maelen scowled and turned away from the window. “What? Part of the merchant boy’s crew?”

Vessa waved a no and shook her head. “No, just in the alley. I think maybe he was their mark.”

The warrior thought about it, frowning. She leaned over and peered again out of the smudged window, to watch those entering the tavern next door. Eventually, she muttered. “Why would a book merchant’s son try to beat up an Iron Thorn agent? It makes no sense. Anyway, running was still dumb. Who cares if he was in the alley?”

Vessa sighed and took a step to where she could see out between two thick white candles upon a shelf. With the evening twilight and the smudgy glass, it wasn’t the easiest view, but she figured either Alric or Brannic would be easy enough to spot. Her eyes flicked left. Near the Lakeshore Walk, a narrow stone-and-plank promenade that curved around the perimeter of Lake Miran, sat a worn stone bench. Reclining against the bench, arms folded in the chill air, was Rusk. Vessa thought that, if they were going to quickly intercept Alric, it would be best if the hired thug wasn’t with them. Besides, an extra pair of eyes outside always helped.

“Excuse me? Ma’am?” that full, rich voice said from a stride away. Both Maelen and Vessa turned to see the woman in red robes. She was an attractive older woman, perhaps of fifty years, with a defined jaw and intense, pale blue eyes framed by brown hair pulled back in a braid. The clothes were exceptionally well-made, heavy wool with a faint sheen, with black silk cuffs and hood, and cut asymmetrically to cover the left side of her body while leaving her pale right arm and lower leg tastefully exposed. A small brass pendant in the shape of a flame hung at her throat. Ah, Vessa realized. A priestess of the Flame, then, a small religious order who worshipped the Ash Queen. Vessa had never met one who didn’t unsettle her with their zealotry.

The woman’s gaze fell fully on Maelen. The warrior frowned and took her in from head to toe, same as Vessa.

“Yeah?” she grunted.

“That… weapon on your belt,” the woman nodded her head towards the black mace. “Do you mind if I ask how it came into your possession?”

“Listen, lady,” Maelen said dismissively, doing her best to look every bit the street tough. “I do mind. Go away.” And with that, the warrior turned her back on the priestess and crouched to peer again through the window. Somewhere out of sight, the chandler gasped.

The woman looked startled, then a line formed between her eyes and she pressed her lips together, clearly irritated. She cleared her throat. “I am afraid I cannot do that,” she said curtly. “That weapon is demon-born. Give it to me now, in the name of the gods.”

Silence fell in the chandlery. Maelen stood upright, slowly, and turned to regard the priestess. “Excuse me?” she growled, low and mean.

“Mae…” Vessa whispered urgently, reaching to place a calming hand upon her shoulder. Ever since the Starless Rift, her friend had been… angry. Maelen had always been a bruiser by nature, but one of the things that impressed Vessa early on was the warrior’s ability to reason her way out of a situation. Recently, it was as if she were a beaten dog tied to a post, snapping at anyone who came near. Which, she realized uncomfortably, was very much like the description the seer Wink had given her.

Maelen shrugged off Vessa’s touch and stepped towards the priestess. “You want it?” she sneered, slowly pulling the black mace from her belt loop. “Come take it from me, then.”

Vessa gave the robed woman credit; if the priestess was intimidated, she masked it well. Her eyes momentarily widened at Maelen’s advance and then her face set in determination. “I see,” she said simply. She raised her voice without taking eyes off Maelen. “Mister Fenn? I will not bring trouble to your shop. I might suggest you close up for the evening, however, and call the City Watch if these two trouble you.”

The woman’s posture straightened imperiously as she addressed Maelen. Her friend stopped her advance but tensed, growling low in her throat. “I tell you this now plainly: That weapon is an instrument of destruction. Shadows and darkness follow it, and has likely,” she looked Maelen up and down. “darkened your soul. Bring it to the Temple of the Flame and you can be rid of this burden. I give you two days.”

“Or what?” Maelen snarled, muscles flexing.

The woman’s eyes swung to Vessa. “Two days,” she intoned, and the words struck her like a weight. Then, in a swirl of red fabric, turned and swept out of the chandlery.

The little bell tinkled, and the sound of the door shutting echoed in the small shop. Vessa was stunned, while Maelen panted, mace gripped tightly in her hand. Silence reigned for several heartbeats, and then the shop owner cleared his throat nervously.

“I– I think I will close up now,” he squeaked. “It’s about time.”

“Of course,” Vessa said immediately, before Maelen could yell at the man. “We’re sorry for any trouble.” She moved towards the door. “Come on, Mae.”

Outside, the evening gloom had swallowed the lakeside, and all around them lanterns were being lit upon the street and in windows. Across the street, Rusk hunched his shoulders and pushed off from the bench, sauntering slowly towards them.

“What in blazes was that?” Vessa snapped.

Her friend barked back. “What? She wanted to take it!”

“She wanted to talk,” she corrected. “Then you picked a fight. With a priestess! And what if what she said is true?”

“It’s a weapon,” Maelen grunted. “Of course it’s made for destruction.”

“Not that,” Vessa said. “The part about darkness, and demons. And your soul.”

Rusk was within earshot now and Maelen flicked her gaze towards him. “Enough of that. Leave it. Where’s the bloody lad?”

“There,” Rusk whispered as he joined them, jerking his chin towards the road. Maelen and Vessa turned to see a figure robed in black, hood up and shrouding his face, hobbling towards the Heart & Dagger’s entrance with the help of a wooden staff. The robe, staff, and limp all matched Alric, but the figure was too thin and stooped.

“Not him,” Maelen shook her head. “That’s an old man.”

“Wait,” Vessa cautioned. Her eyes were the keenest of them, and she saw the lamplight play off the runes upon the staff. “I think… I think it may be.” Without waiting for the others to respond, she strode towards the frail, bent figure with purpose. Instinctively, she moved quietly, on guard.

“Alric?” she called out when she was within lunging distance. The figure stopped and turned its hood. She could now clearly see the hands gripping the staff, pale and bony.

“Vessa,” he sighed, relieved. Incongruously, it was Alric’s voice, completely unchanged. “I was going to tell you that we should move our meeting to somewhere more private. Brannic is coming, and wants to speak with you.”

A hand went to her mouth in shock. “What happened to you?”

“Ah, yes, well,” Alric chuckled. She could only see vague details beneath the hood, but what she saw looked skeletal. “I may have tried a new spell, to mixed results.”

“Let’s get out of here,” she gasped, reaching to take one of his arms. It felt shockingly thin. “Let me help you.”

“Much obliged,” he nodded once, with relief.

She helped the unsettlingly frail Alric to Vessa’s inn near the docks. She did not speak with him on the trek, and neither did Maelen. Her friend did shoot her a look when she thought Alric wasn’t looking, though, of pressed lips and concern. Rusk, thankfully, said nothing and followed behind, strolling as if alone and without a care in the world.

It was well after dark when they arrived, but thankfully they never saw the Iron Thorn investigator from earlier that day. The inn was a two-story wedge of weathered timber, sitting slightly askew upon on the dock and between shops that were dark and closed up for the night. A row of iron lantern-hooks ran along the eaves, each lit behind smoky and salt-flecked glass. The signboard outside couldn’t be bothered with iconography, and said, simply enough, “The Swaying Lantern” upon it in plain script.

Inside, the common room was dimly lit by the glow of the large iron stove in the back, sitting squatly behind a long, scarred counter. The tables were narrow and communal—not ideal for them talking, but Vessa had chosen this place precisely because the clientele were usually sailors from other cities, other nations, often speaking only a few words of Calvenori. Few people here cared who they were, and more importantly cared not at all for the warrant attached to her.

She led them across sanded planks, Alric’s limp making a scraping sound across them along with the steady thump thump of his staff, and hailed the innkeeper.

“Voss,” she nodded with a crooked smile. He was a neat, polite, and soft-spoken man with close-cropped hair and no beard, a true surprise in this rough-and-tumble place. Indeed, the innkeeper of the Swaying Lantern reminded her somewhat of Alric, and would have fit better in the Inkbinders Lodge than the Oakton docks. He wiped his hands fastidiously on a white apron and nodded to her.

“How many?” he asked without preamble.

“Four of us,” she said. “But just water for one and two ales for another. And do you still have that crab stew from last night?”

He smiled. “I do indeed.”

“Four bowls of that, then. And bread?”

“I’ll bring them over to you,” he confirmed, and then he bowed slightly. Vessa smiled and hurried back over to the table, where Maelen was already grilling Alric in low, urgent tones.

“About Vessa?” Alric was saying, keeping his hood up and shrouding his face in shadows. “He asked about both of you, how I knew you, that sort of thing.”

“Nothing about her warrant, though?” Maelen asked, scowling.

Alric paused, as if thinking. Vessa couldn’t keep her eyes from his wrist and hands, almost skeletal. What had happened to him? Eventually, his rich baritone voice said. “No, nothing about Vessa specifically at all. It felt like he was just making conversation, honestly. What he really wanted to discuss was a woman named Sera Vellorin.”

“Dammit all to the Rootmother’s teats!” Maelen swore. Vessa winced.

“You know her?” he asked.

“Not directly, no,” Maelen frowned, and her eyes tracked over to Rusk. She clearly still wasn’t sure what she could and couldn’t say in the man’s presence. Vessa cleared her throat when it was clear she wasn’t going to offer more.

“She’s a book merchant,” Vessa offered. Maelen shot her a look that she ignored. “And mother of the kid I stabbed.”

“Oh,” Alric said, cocking his hooded head, as if again thinking. “Interesting. Well, the investigator said she’s bribing Lodge members to gain access to hidden archives. The… uh,” and now his head swept over to Rusk as well. “The forbidden ones.”

Silence fell on the table, and in that silence, Voss brought their food and drink upon a wide tray. He carefully placed each mug and bowl in front of each of them, then doled out four iron spoons and slices of bread upon small wooden plates. With another slight bow, he took his leave. Steam rose from the stew, and the inviting smell of crab and vegetables made Vessa’s mouth water. Rusk dove into his meal with abandon, slurping ale and stew with equal enthusiasm. Alric sipped his water and blew on the stew before trying it.

Maelen hadn’t moved, her mind working over what she’d heard. Eventually, she took a long drink from a mug and said, “Too many damned connections. Lad, what happened to your body? Are you two weak to make some coin?”

“As I told Vessa,” he said after a spoonful. “A spell got away from me, a spell I used to escape the investigator when he began asking about the Lodge. I should recover… I’ll just need to eat. Speaking of which, good stew, Vessa.” Much to her surprise, she felt her cheeks warming in a blush, as if she’d been the one to cook the meal and deserved praise for it.

Flustered, she ran a hand through her hair and said, “Yeah. Voss is a gem. You do think you’ll recover, then?”

He shrugged a thin shoulder. “I suppose. Or, rather, there’s no reason to think that I won’t.” The hood turned again to Maelen. “What did you have in mind, Maelen? For the coin, I mean.”

“I met a guy,” she said, chewing on a piece of bread. “Said he’d found a secret ruin in the city, untouched. Thinks there’s valuables there and promised a cut.”

“Oh, I’m relieved,” Alric chuckled. “That it’s in the city, I mean. I don’t feel up for another trek in the wilds, and I’d like to continue my research.”

“So, that’s a yes, then?” she said, her mouth full. “Vess?”

“I… sure, I guess. But shouldn’t we deal with this Vellorin business?”

Maelen grunted. “It’s too tangled. I can’t see the angle for us. Better we get out of sight for a few days, let it sort itself out. But a secret ruin sounds better to me than running from the Iron Thorn and some shady book dealer.”

And, Vessa thought unkindly, it lets you duck the priestess of the Flame’s attention. Worry knotted in her stomach, then. Could Maelen’s anger issues have to do with the mace? Maelen had said they weren’t related, but maybe her friend’s judgment couldn’t be trusted these days? Her instincts told her that allowing the two-day deadline to pass would lead to trouble, something they already had in vast amounts. Then there was Alric, who—despite his brave words—looked like he should be spending time resting, not tromping through dangerous ruins. Could he even use his magic, now?

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been quiet as these thoughts tumbled through her head. All eyes at the table were fixed on her, waiting. Maelen wouldn’t like her answer, but Vessa thought they should visit the temple of the Flame before making any decisions. She could loan Alric money to continue his research, since she hadn’t managed to spend her spoils from the Starless Rift yet. It might buy him time to recover.

Just then Rusk wiped his mouth and belched. “We’re in,” he said in his low whisper of a voice, thumping his fist on the table for emphasis. “When do we leave?”

Vessa blinked in surprise. Had he just… answered for the both of them? Alric stiffened in his seat, noting the same.

Maelen grinned and nodded at the man. “Tomorrow morning,” she said to them all. “I’ll go now and find Neddy.”

With that, her friend pushed herself from the table, slapped a couple of silver coins onto the table, and stalked out of the inn.

Next …?

[game-notes version here]

XXXI.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

Alric stumbled out of the alleyway and into a warehouse district street. Squinting—his eyes still watery from the smoke cloud—he saw the black-clad, Iron Thorn agent across the street, his back to a three-story warehouse. Maelen faced him, fists balled, and to his shock she lunged at him.

The man was her match in speed, however. He turned with the punch, letting it glance off. Maelen overbalanced, hit one knee, and came up cursing.

“Stop!” Alric shouted, limping across the street as quickly as his leg and staff would allow. “Stop, Maelen… stop!”

The man was rubbing his jaw with one hand, eyes flicking between the two of them. His other hand, Alric noted with alarm, had dropped to touch the hilt of his sword. Thankfully Maelen hadn’t reached for her spiked mace, but Alric thought it was only a heartbeat away.

“What’s going on?” Alric asked desperately.

“Shut it, lad,” the warrior spat, meaty fists still up and ready. “He’ll pay for hunting Vess.”

“Pay? Maelen, please! He’s an Iron Thorn agent! He’s the law! We’re not in the wilds anymore!”

The man grunted and threw them both a half grin. “Listen to your friend… Maelen, was it? I’ll give you the punch for free, seein’ as we got off on the wrong foot. Don’t push it, girl.”

“Girl!?” Maelen roared, but Alric put a hand on her shoulder.

“Please!” he hissed.

The warrior growled, low and… hungry? Whatever the sound was, it disturbed him. But she did, after several ragged breaths, back down. With obvious effort, Maelen unclenched her fists.

“Good,” the man winked. “Now, I must say: This whole situation’s makin’ my brain itch. You say the runner’s name is Vess?”

“Vessa,” Alric offered. “Velthorn.”

“Shut it!” Maelen smacked him on the shoulder, causing Alric to stumble.

“And you, young scribe? What’s your name?” the man asked, his gray eyes’ intensity in sharp contrast to his easy smile. His face was a maze of scars, the most pronounced tugging at one side of his mouth.

“A-Alric, sir,” he stammered and stepped out of Maelen’s reach. She growled again, like a caged animal.

“Mistsong, yes?” he said, nodding once, as if confirming a detail. “Just the man I wanted to meet. Good. Maelen?” the Iron Thorn agent said, stepping up to Alric and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you run along and go find your friend Vessa. Tell her that Brannic Sootward will be callin’ upon her later this evenin’ to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Alric,” Maelen hissed through clenched teeth. “Do not share information with this filthy rat.”

“Maelen, it’s fine. He’s just doing his job!” Alric pleaded. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“There, see?” Brannic said, lifting a finger to his jaw where Maelen had struck him. “Civility.”

Maelen didn’t spare a glance at the man. Her eyes were locked on Alric’s. “We’ll meet you for dinner at the regular spot, yeah?”

“And what spot would that be?” Brannic asked.

“The Heart & Dagger,” Alric said, then winced. Maelen threw up her hands in exasperation, looking skyward as if seeking divine aid.

Just then, Rusk stepped out of the alleyway. He certainly hadn’t run after them, and seemed not at all out of breath.

Brannic’s eyes snapped up. “Friend of yours?” he asked.

“No,” Alric said immediately. “We only just met.”

“I’ll go,” Maelen said. “Lad: Be smart,” she pointed a calloused finger accusingly at him. “Use that brain of yours. And you,” the finger swiveled to Brannic. “If he ends up beaten or in a cell somewhere, I’m coming for you.”

Brannic laughed and hauled Alric around, retracing their steps away from the warehouses and back towards the civic rise and the Inkbinders Lodge. His arm was like an iron band, holding Alric in place. Maelen yelled a curse after Brannic, but the man ignored it as if he hadn’t heard.

Alric barely noticed the path they walked. His throat had gone dry… beaten up or in a cell? Could this be about his ongoing bribery of a clerk to gain access to the forbidden stacks? The debt he owed his family for the Thornmere Hold expedition? Could Brannic be an agent of Orthuun? If the mage had a heartbeat, it would be racing. Instead, he found his thoughts jumbled and breath ragged.

The Iron Thorn agent, meanwhile, seemed to eventually realize that Alric couldn’t outrun him even if he tried, so he let go of his shoulder and walked easily beside him. To anyone watching, it might have looked like two longtime friends taking a brisk winter walk through the streets, content in their silence. Only as they’d almost reached the Lodge did Alric realize that Brannic was scanning the foot traffic carefully, looking at rooftops and empty alleyways. Ah. He thought that Alric’s friends might double back to free him and was staying vigilant. At this point, Alric couldn’t tell if he hoped they did so or left him to his fate. He felt off balance and anxious… what was this all about?

Back at the Quiet Margin, the tavern seemed to have recovered from the commotion caused by Vessa’s flight. If anyone recognized Alric or Brannic from before, they didn’t let on, and soon Alric found himself seated across from the scarred investigator, the man’s gray eyes considering him carefully.

“So, Alric. You’re a scribe, then? Part of the Lodge?” he asked, taking such a long a draught of his ale that he must have half-finished it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Y-yes sir,” Alric bobbed his head. He lifted the lapel of his robe as if it helped verify the profession. “A-and I must get back to work, I’m afraid. I had only taken lunch to meet my friends.”

“Mmm,” the man said, taking a long drink to consider. “Friends, is it? How is it you became friends with a couple of mercenaries?”

Alric chuckled nervously. “‘Friends’ might be overstating it. I hired the two of them as bodyguards awhile back, and we’ve stayed in touch. We gathered today after not seeing each other in weeks.”

“Bodyguards?” Brannic quirked a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Now what do you need bodyguards for, boy?”

Inwardly, Alric cursed. Somehow this man was able to pry details from him that he didn’t want to share. It was maddening, and he felt awkward and slow. Somehow, he mused grimly, he was able to lie repeatedly about his whereabouts and activities to those within the Lodge, but a single Iron Thorn agent caused him to stutter and jumble his thoughts. It was that damned man Rusk, he thought. Why did Vessa bring him to their lunch? Everything about their reunion had been a mess, and so different from what he’d envisioned.

He brought himself back to the present. Brannic was studying him intently. Use that brain of yours, Maelen had urged him. Right. Stall. Reset. Find an exit.

“You look as if you’ve finished your ale,” Alric pointed out. “Shall I order another round?”

Brannic didn’t speak for a long beat, then smirked. “Sure. Don’t run.”

“Please,” Alric said without humor. “I know my limitations.” With weariness, he stood and leaned on his rune-carved staff. He nodded to the man and, with his limp exaggerated, moved to the bar. His mind whirled. Why was Brannic asking these questions? Had Vessa recognized him and bolted, or was she simply assuming it had something to do with her warrant? More urgently: How could he leave this conversation quickly, and without revealing everything he’d learned about the Silent Compact? About Orthuun?

He returned with one mug and placed it in front of Brannic, who waited with casual ease.

“Not another for you?” he said, raising the mug in salute before taking another long drink.

“It goes to my head,” Alric shrugged. “And I must be getting back to my duties at the Lodge. Might we get to why you wanted to speak with me, sir?”

“In a bit,” he smiled, waving a hand. “First, you were tellin’ me why you needed Maelen and Vessa as bodyguards? Not usual for a scribe, is it?”

“It’s not,” Alric admitted, exhaling and trying to regain his wits. “I was exploring a rumor I’d discovered in a scroll—a reputed hidden tomb in the wilds. They were to keep me safe on the journey.”

“In the wilds? My my. Dangerous business to be sure. What did you find?” he asked casually.

“Only a rumor,” Alric said, with practiced disappointment. Brannic narrowed his eyes, and Alric had no idea if the lie had landed well. “But they did their jobs, which is why I’m still here.” He smiled.

“Hmph. Well, Alric, if you don’t mind my sayin’, the Lodge has you workin’ too hard. You look about to fall over and like you haven’t slept in days.”

Alric said nothing. His fingers were intertwined atop the table’s surface to calm his nerves.

Another pause, and then Brannic asked. “Do you know the name Sera Vellorin?”

Alric blinked, suddenly off guard again. “No,” he said truthfully. “Should I?”

“Mmm,” the scarred man said, picking idly with a finger at a crease in the wood of the table. “She’s been bribin’ some people within your Lodge to gain access to some secret archives or somethin’. What would you–”

Brannic continued to speak but Alric lost the words as he panicked. The mention of “secret archives” made him certain that this Iron Thorn investigator had come to arrest him for his own bribery, to link him somehow to this Sera person. The crowd around them swam in his vision, and Alric suddenly felt dizzy. Without realizing he was doing so, he began muttering beneath his breath, feeling his limbs deaden as he drew on the power of the demon Orthuun. His fingers moved with purpose as the magic took form.

Brannic was quite correct when he said that Alric needed sleep. He’d spent his recent weeks in Oakton uncovering the history of the Silent Compact, but those were his daytime activities. At night, his weary eyes had been buried in the Tome of Unlit Paths, desperately attempting to learn how to harness the power of the demon without losing himself to darkness. In doing so, he’d realized how Hadren Kelthorn had escaped their tavern meeting months before when they’d first met the man, the precise spell he’d cast.

Alric hissed the final, sibilant words and the world around him lost all color. Across the table, a black-and-white Brannic stood abruptly, a sudden knife in one hand. Others in the tavern saw the weapon and screamed, pushing themselves away from the Iron Thorn agent. None of them saw Alric, however, as, to them, he’d disappeared in a sudden circle of ash.

“Alric Darkheart…” a voice rasped. Near him was the shade of Hadren, watching him with grey lights in his eye sockets and floating above the tavern floor. He did not move his slack lips, but somehow the words still whispered directly into Alric’s ears.

Something had gone wild and unchecked from the spell he’d cast. It was as if Orthuun’s power not only deadened his body but was pulling his very essence away. He swung his wide eyes from Hadren to the door of the tavern, stumbling through the startled crowd.

“Dark… heart…” the voice echoed, more distantly now. Alric spared a look over his shoulder. Hadren hadn’t moved. The shade floated within a press of individuals pushing away from Brannic, the investigator scanning the table and looking wholly unnerved. A group of robed bystanders were pointing at the circle of ash around Alric’s former chair.

Three young clerks blocked his way to the exit. With an exasperated shove, he broke through them as they felt themselves tossed aside by an invisible force. Alric hurled himself bodily against the door, opening it and gasping into a grayscale Oakton. The force of the spell was still pulling at him, eating away at something he knew was vital. But he couldn’t appear out of nowhere in front of the Inkbinders Lodge, with all to see. He kept his invisibility intact as he limped towards a narrow alleyway, feeling his life drain away with every step. Get out of sight, he thought desperately, and then end the spell.

With a groan, the young man pulled himself into shelter and released Orthuun’s power. As soon as it ended, he doubled over, panting and clinging to his staff.

He did not yet see his shadow, moving independently and raising its arms in triumph beside him.

Next: Two Days [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXXI.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

Alric stumbled out of the alleyway and into a warehouse district street. Squinting—his eyes still watery from the smoke cloud—he saw the black-clad, Iron Thorn agent across the street, his back to a three-story warehouse. Maelen faced him, fists balled, and to his shock she lunged at him.

The man was her match in speed, however. He turned with the punch, letting it glance off. Maelen overbalanced, hit one knee, and came up cursing.

“Stop!” Alric shouted, limping across the street as quickly as his leg and staff would allow. “Stop, Maelen… stop!”

The man was rubbing his jaw with one hand, eyes flicking between the two of them. His other hand, Alric noted with alarm, had dropped to touch the hilt of his sword. Thankfully Maelen hadn’t reached for her spiked mace, but Alric thought it was only a heartbeat away.

“What’s going on?” Alric asked desperately.

“Shut it, lad,” the warrior spat, meaty fists still up and ready. “He’ll pay for hunting Vess.”

“Pay? Maelen, please! He’s an Iron Thorn agent! He’s the law! We’re not in the wilds anymore!”

The man grunted and threw them both a half grin. “Listen to your friend… Maelen, was it? I’ll give you the punch for free, seein’ as we got off on the wrong foot. Don’t push it, girl.”

“Girl!?” Maelen roared, but Alric put a hand on her shoulder.

“Please!” he hissed.

The warrior growled, low and… hungry? Whatever the sound was, it disturbed him. But she did, after several ragged breaths, back down. With obvious effort, Maelen unclenched her fists.

“Good,” the man winked. “Now, I must say: This whole situation’s makin’ my brain itch. You say the runner’s name is Vess?”

“Vessa,” Alric offered. “Velthorn.”

“Shut it!” Maelen smacked him on the shoulder, causing Alric to stumble.

“And you, young scribe? What’s your name?” the man asked, his gray eyes’ intensity in sharp contrast to his easy smile. His face was a maze of scars, the most pronounced tugging at one side of his mouth.

“A-Alric, sir,” he stammered and stepped out of Maelen’s reach. She growled again, like a caged animal.

“Mistsong, yes?” he said, nodding once, as if confirming a detail. “Just the man I wanted to meet. Good. Maelen?” the Iron Thorn agent said, stepping up to Alric and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you run along and go find your friend Vessa. Tell her that Brannic Sootward will be callin’ upon her later this evenin’ to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Alric,” Maelen hissed through clenched teeth. “Do not share information with this filthy rat.”

“Maelen, it’s fine. He’s just doing his job!” Alric pleaded. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“There, see?” Brannic said, lifting a finger to his jaw where Maelen had struck him. “Civility.”

Maelen didn’t spare a glance at the man. Her eyes were locked on Alric’s. “We’ll meet you for dinner at the regular spot, yeah?”

“And what spot would that be?” Brannic asked.

“The Heart & Dagger,” Alric said, then winced. Maelen threw up her hands in exasperation, looking skyward as if seeking divine aid.

Just then, Rusk stepped out of the alleyway. He certainly hadn’t run after them, and seemed not at all out of breath.

Brannic’s eyes snapped up. “Friend of yours?” he asked.

“No,” Alric said immediately. “We only just met.”

“I’ll go,” Maelen said. “Lad: Be smart,” she pointed a calloused finger accusingly at him. “Use that brain of yours. And you,” the finger swiveled to Brannic. “If he ends up beaten or in a cell somewhere, I’m coming for you.”

Brannic laughed and hauled Alric around, retracing their steps away from the warehouses and back towards the civic rise and the Inkbinders Lodge. His arm was like an iron band, holding Alric in place. Maelen yelled a curse after Brannic, but the man ignored it as if he hadn’t heard.

Alric barely noticed the path they walked. His throat had gone dry… beaten up or in a cell? Could this be about his ongoing bribery of a clerk to gain access to the forbidden stacks? The debt he owed his family for the Thornmere Hold expedition? Could Brannic be an agent of Orthuun? If the mage had a heartbeat, it would be racing. Instead, he found his thoughts jumbled and breath ragged.

The Iron Thorn agent, meanwhile, seemed to eventually realize that Alric couldn’t outrun him even if he tried, so he let go of his shoulder and walked easily beside him. To anyone watching, it might have looked like two longtime friends taking a brisk winter walk through the streets, content in their silence. Only as they’d almost reached the Lodge did Alric realize that Brannic was scanning the foot traffic carefully, looking at rooftops and empty alleyways. Ah. He thought that Alric’s friends might double back to free him and was staying vigilant. At this point, Alric couldn’t tell if he hoped they did so or left him to his fate. He felt off balance and anxious… what was this all about?

Back at the Quiet Margin, the tavern seemed to have recovered from the commotion caused by Vessa’s flight. If anyone recognized Alric or Brannic from before, they didn’t let on, and soon Alric found himself seated across from the scarred investigator, the man’s gray eyes considering him carefully.

“So, Alric. You’re a scribe, then? Part of the Lodge?” he asked, taking such a long a draught of his ale that he must have half-finished it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Y-yes sir,” Alric bobbed his head. He lifted the lapel of his robe as if it helped verify the profession. “A-and I must get back to work, I’m afraid. I had only taken lunch to meet my friends.”

“Mmm,” the man said, taking a long drink to consider. “Friends, is it? How is it you became friends with a couple of mercenaries?”

Alric chuckled nervously. “‘Friends’ might be overstating it. I hired the two of them as bodyguards awhile back, and we’ve stayed in touch. We gathered today after not seeing each other in weeks.”

“Bodyguards?” Brannic quirked a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Now what do you need bodyguards for, boy?”

Inwardly, Alric cursed. Somehow this man was able to pry details from him that he didn’t want to share. It was maddening, and he felt awkward and slow. Somehow, he mused grimly, he was able to lie repeatedly about his whereabouts and activities to those within the Lodge, but a single Iron Thorn agent caused him to stutter and jumble his thoughts. It was that damned man Rusk, he thought. Why did Vessa bring him to their lunch? Everything about their reunion had been a mess, and so different from what he’d envisioned.

He brought himself back to the present. Brannic was studying him intently. Use that brain of yours, Maelen had urged him. Right. Stall. Reset. Find an exit.

“You look as if you’ve finished your ale,” Alric pointed out. “Shall I order another round?”

Brannic didn’t speak for a long beat, then smirked. “Sure. Don’t run.”

“Please,” Alric said without humor. “I know my limitations.” With weariness, he stood and leaned on his rune-carved staff. He nodded to the man and, with his limp exaggerated, moved to the bar. His mind whirled. Why was Brannic asking these questions? Had Vessa recognized him and bolted, or was she simply assuming it had something to do with her warrant? More urgently: How could he leave this conversation quickly, and without revealing everything he’d learned about the Silent Compact? About Orthuun?

He returned with one mug and placed it in front of Brannic, who waited with casual ease.

“Not another for you?” he said, raising the mug in salute before taking another long drink.

“It goes to my head,” Alric shrugged. “And I must be getting back to my duties at the Lodge. Might we get to why you wanted to speak with me, sir?”

“In a bit,” he smiled, waving a hand. “First, you were tellin’ me why you needed Maelen and Vessa as bodyguards? Not usual for a scribe, is it?”

“It’s not,” Alric admitted, exhaling and trying to regain his wits. “I was exploring a rumor I’d discovered in a scroll—a reputed hidden tomb in the wilds. They were to keep me safe on the journey.”

“In the wilds? My my. Dangerous business to be sure. What did you find?” he asked casually.

“Only a rumor,” Alric said, with practiced disappointment. Brannic narrowed his eyes, and Alric had no idea if the lie had landed well. “But they did their jobs, which is why I’m still here.” He smiled.

“Hmph. Well, Alric, if you don’t mind my sayin’, the Lodge has you workin’ too hard. You look about to fall over and like you haven’t slept in days.”

Alric said nothing. His fingers were intertwined atop the table’s surface to calm his nerves.

Another pause, and then Brannic asked. “Do you know the name Sera Vellorin?”

Alric blinked, suddenly off guard again. “No,” he said truthfully. “Should I?”

“Mmm,” the scarred man said, picking idly with a finger at a crease in the wood of the table. “She’s been bribin’ some people within your Lodge to gain access to some secret archives or somethin’. What would you–”

Brannic continued to speak but Alric lost the words as he panicked. The mention of “secret archives” made him certain that this Iron Thorn investigator had come to arrest him for his own bribery, to link him somehow to this Sera person. The crowd around them swam in his vision, and Alric suddenly felt dizzy. Without realizing he was doing so, he began muttering beneath his breath, feeling his limbs deaden as he drew on the power of the demon Orthuun. His fingers moved with purpose as the magic took form.

Brannic was quite correct when he said that Alric needed sleep. He’d spent his recent weeks in Oakton uncovering the history of the Silent Compact, but those were his daytime activities. At night, his weary eyes had been buried in the Tome of Unlit Paths, desperately attempting to learn how to harness the power of the demon without losing himself to darkness. In doing so, he’d realized how Hadren Kelthorn had escaped their tavern meeting months before when they’d first met the man, the precise spell he’d cast.

Alric hissed the final, sibilant words and the world around him lost all color. Across the table, a black-and-white Brannic stood abruptly, a sudden knife in one hand. Others in the tavern saw the weapon and screamed, pushing themselves away from the Iron Thorn agent. None of them saw Alric, however, as, to them, he’d disappeared in a sudden circle of ash.

“Alric Darkheart…” a voice rasped. Near him was the shade of Hadren, watching him with grey lights in his eye sockets and floating above the tavern floor. He did not move his slack lips, but somehow the words still whispered directly into Alric’s ears.

Something had gone wild and unchecked from the spell he’d cast. It was as if Orthuun’s power not only deadened his body but was pulling his very essence away. He swung his wide eyes from Hadren to the door of the tavern, stumbling through the startled crowd.

“Dark… heart…” the voice echoed, more distantly now. Alric spared a look over his shoulder. Hadren hadn’t moved. The shade floated within a press of individuals pushing away from Brannic, the investigator scanning the table and looking wholly unnerved. A group of robed bystanders were pointing at the circle of ash around Alric’s former chair.

Three young clerks blocked his way to the exit. With an exasperated shove, he broke through them as they felt themselves tossed aside by an invisible force. Alric hurled himself bodily against the door, opening it and gasping into a grayscale Oakton. The force of the spell was still pulling at him, eating away at something he knew was vital. But he couldn’t appear out of nowhere in front of the Inkbinders Lodge, with all to see. He kept his invisibility intact as he limped towards a narrow alleyway, feeling his life drain away with every step. Get out of sight, he thought desperately, and then end the spell.

With a groan, the young man pulled himself into shelter and released Orthuun’s power. As soon as it ended, he doubled over, panting and clinging to his staff.

He did not yet see his shadow, moving independently and raising its arms in triumph beside him.

Next: Two Days [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

XXX.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

Maelen looked from the lad to the lass and frowned. Dammit all and young people’s urges. It was clear that the two of them had kindled some sort of romantic connection when returning from the Starless Rift, and it was equally clear that Rusk, the fellow Vessa had brought, was now a rival in his eyes. The mage’s intense stare was fixed on the blocky man, and he returned the gaze with a smirk. Vessa swallowed and looked uncomfortable. Meanwhile, as the awkward silence stretched on, patrons in the tavern were beginning to mumble and whisper all around them. This bloody mess was not something she needed. Maelen silently cursed and tried to rein in the situation.

“Nice to see you, lad,” she said. He blinked and seemed to see her for the first time. Maelen took her chair, swiveled it around, and sat. “How’s the ale here?”

“Oh! Maelen. It’s good to see you too. And Vessa,” he looked at her and nodded once, swallowing hard. “You too. Who’s this?”

Vessa sat next to Alric, leaving the chair across from her for Rusk. The thug dropped into it heavily.

“Alric, this is Rusk. Rusk, Alric,” Vessa said with a too-wide smile. Maelen spotted beads of sweat on the lass’ forehead.

“Rusk then,” Alric nodded at the man, his face carefully neutral. “How do you know these two? An old associate, perhaps?”

Rusk smirked. “Nah,” he said in a harsh whisper barely audible over the din of the tavern. “You could say Vessa and I are…” he smiled. “New friends.”

It was as if someone had slapped the mage. He went rigid, his jaw clenching. “What is that supposed–” he began to say angrily, but Vessa cut him off.

“Anyway!” she slapped the table. “Let’s get some ale, like Mae said. We’ve got business to discuss.” She fished into a pouch and produced a small handful of copper oaks. “Rusk, can you grab us four, please?”

His broad, blunt face looked like he was about to argue, but after a heartbeat the man shrugged, grunted, took the coins, and sauntered off lazily.

“What in the Herald’s name–” the lad began again, and once again Vessa cut him off, this time with a sharp wave of her hand and an exasperated sigh.

“Alric, please! Not here, not now. I thought it would be helpful to have some extra muscle for… whatever it is you’re about to drag us into. Rusk is good in a fight.”

He blinked, confused. “What I’m about to drag you into?”

“You have to admit, lad,” Maelen chuckled, trying to lighten the mood although she could feel her temper rising. She still couldn’t believe she had to deal with this nonsense. “That when we all meet in a tavern, it usually leads us into some sort of terrible danger. I’m not complaining, mind you—it also tends to lead to coin. So, spill it… What have you been doing these past two weeks that you wanted to tell us?”

Alric looked truly torn, whether to pursue his interrogation of Vessa or say whatever he’d planned to say. He studied the lass’ features, his own face suddenly drawn and haunted. Then his eyes flicked to the bar, where Rusk was waiting for their mugs. He pressed his lips together and seemed to make up his mind. With a nod, he brushed a hand through his long hair and blew out a breath.

“Okay, yes. Well. I have been busy, and yes there’s quite a lot. It took me several days and not a small sum of silver to gain access to,” he glanced around and lowered his voice. “The scrolls I’ve been wanting to read. It’s been fascinating!” A bright glint entered his eyes, and inwardly Maelen shook her head. She simply didn’t understand people who got joy out of reading in dark rooms.

“Maybe the quick version, lad,” Maelen interrupted, leaning over the table. “Vess says that Rusk is trustworthy, but only share what you’re happy to have him hear once he comes back.”

Vessa didn’t look happy at the comment, and Alric paused, thinking. His eyes flicked again over to the thug at the bar. “Yes, alright. Have you heard of the Silent Compact?” he asked, almost too quietly to hear.

She and Vessa stared at him. He nodded. “I didn’t think so. It was…” he licked his lips, as if looking for the right words, “A secret crusade, hundreds of years ago, by three separate religious orders here in the city. They are the ones that led the defeat of…” his gaze wandered over the surrounding tables to see if anyone was listening. “You-know-who. They built Thornmere Hold! They trapped the demon’s generals! They saved Oakton!” He leaned back, blowing out another long breath. “I’ve discovered what orders were involved, but not the individuals. And everything written from this mysterious group is innuendo and code, so I still don’t know where the other hidden locations are or what they contain. But I’m getting closer. I just,” he brushed a hand through his hair again. “I just need more time.”

As he quieted, Vessa frowned. “So… you’re not sending us back out into the wilds?”

Maelen burst out in an unexpected belly laugh. Tables around her quieted and began whispering. “You sound disappointed, lass! I thought you said you weren’t leaving the city for a good long while.”

Vessa crossed her arms and stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. “I’m not disappointed, just surprised. So why are we here, Alric?”

“I… need more silver. If you have it. To bribe the scribe who’s giving me access.”

Vessa’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve spent your share? Already?”

Maelen crossed her arms, temper rising again. “How much are we talking, lad? We’re here to gain coin, not give it away.”

Before he could answer, Vessa tapped her chin with a thin finger. “Hey, Mae. Maybe we go after this merchant’s brat, then? While we’ve got Rusk’s services?”

Maelen rolled her eyes. “No, dammit. I said leave it alone and it’ll pass. But I do have a lead on a job if you’re bored. And we don’t even have to leave the city.”

“Wait, whose son?” Alric said, seemingly annoyed by the change in subject. “I’m talking about saving us all, not wealth! I may eventually have information that even the Castellan should hear!” he hissed.

Maelen glowered. “I’ve said it before, lad: We’re not heroes. Find your info and warn the city officials, if that’s your goal. But pay for it yourself. Vess and I are here to–”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, dove,” a wry, harsh voice interjected. “But the scribe here and I’re overdue a conversation.”

Maelen turned to see a middle-aged man in black leather, with close-cropped dark hair going gray at the temples, heavy salt-and-pepper stubble on his sharp jaw. He was lean and muscled, with a sword at his hip, and every bit of him bore scars. The long line of an old knife wound pulled one side of his mouth, it looked like a divot had been taken out of the side of his neck, and long-ago burns pitted the skin of one forearm—and those were just the ones she took in with a glance. Everywhere there were thin white lines of old wounds. This man was a dangerous one, she saw immediately, but that realization didn’t stay her temper. Rage bloomed in her chest, making her cheeks hot.

For his part, Alric seemed to have no recognition of the man at all. He blinked in surprise. “Me? Who are–”

“Get in line, old man,” Maelen growled from her chair. “We’re talking to the lad, and you can wait your turn outside.” The urge to fight and spill blood rose, her fingers aching to pull loose her mace and throttle this intruder, city watch be damned.

“Ah,” he smiled easily, spreading his calloused hands. “Can’t, see.” His hard eyes flicked down to his left breast, then back up to meet hers. She looked where he indicated. A beaten metal symbol shone in the dim light at the back of the tavern, looking like a cat’s claw. It was the sign of the Iron Thorn, Oakton’s for-hire law enforcement. Maelen narrowed her eyes and he grinned, turning his attention back to Alric smugly. “This fellow and I’re gonna talk. Now.”

The man’s eyes flicked casually to Vessa, taking in the table. Then his head whipped back and fixed on her. His expression melted into disbelief.

“You!” he gasped.

Without a word, Vessa vaulted from her seat and ran for the door.

The Iron Thorn man wasn’t surprised for long. He snarled something and dashed after Vessa, both of them weaving through wailing clerks and scribes.

“What is happening!?” Alric yelled into the chaos.

“After her! Let’s go!” she barked, and threw her chair aside to pursue.

Unlike Vessa and the man, Maelen didn’t try to avoid anyone. She tossed pale, robed figures aside and pushed her way through abandoned chairs. As she passed Rusk, holding four mugs precariously, foam slopping over the rims, she beckoned him to follow. All the while, Maelen kept her eyes on Vessa and the door to the tavern.

Vessa stumbled and the scarred man almost caught her at the door, but with a burst of speed she launched herself outside, the yawning doorway shedding light across the room’s interior. The man slipped out as well, and then both figured disappeared from view. Maelen cursed and redoubled her efforts, hoping that Alric and Rusk were close behind.

By the time Maelen was out into open air, the rage in her chest was tinting her vision red. She breathed hard like a bellows, and her knuckles tingled as if she’d punched someone. Had she done so, to clear the way? Maelen didn’t remember. Huffing, she scanned the streets. Many passerby had stopped to gawk at whatever was happening, including a decent crowd in front of the Inkbinders Lodge.

She spied the man in black on a street to her right just as Rusk and Alric burst from the door, panting. “There!” she barked, then stomped after them. Maelen didn’t think there was any way she—or especially Alric—would catch Vessa in a footrace, but she hoped that the gray-templed man was less spry. Tackling him to the ground was just as good. She kept the man in black within her sights as she ran, ready to throttle his scarred face if she could reach it.

Vessa must have turned down a narrow alleyway and dropped one of her smoke bombs, because Maelen skidded to her right and found herself choking on bitter mist that burned her eyes. Growling, she pushed forward and through the cloud and into an empty alleyway. She paused and heard footsteps slapping the cobblestones around a bend, and dashed ahead. Behind her, at least one of her companions followed several paces behind, though she didn’t turn to see who.

All of Maelen’s instincts told her she was being rash, that she didn’t even know what relationship this man had to Vessa, much less Alric. Besides, pummeling an Iron Thorn agent was a fast way to finding oneself in shackles in a dungeon somewhere. The man was likely in pursuit of Vessa because of her warrant, and while it was fine for Vessa to dodge the authorities, actually interfering—by assaulting the legal officer, no less—wasn’t the smart move. And yet, she redoubled her effort, panting and sweating, her hands tight fists. Screw smart moves. She needed to hit that man, like a fish needed water.

Maelen burst from an alleyway into a largely empty street somewhere in the warehouse district. The man in black stood across the street with his back to her, looking up and examining one of the windows. He was also panting, but not nearly as hard as Maelen, and as she jogged towards him he turned.

“You’re an associate of hers–?” he began to ask.

But Maelen punched him straight in the face.

Next: Brannic Sootward [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXX.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

Maelen looked from the lad to the lass and frowned. Dammit all and young people’s urges. It was clear that the two of them had kindled some sort of romantic connection when returning from the Starless Rift, and it was equally clear that Rusk, the fellow Vessa had brought, was now a rival in his eyes. The mage’s intense stare was fixed on the blocky man, and he returned the gaze with a smirk. Vessa swallowed and looked uncomfortable. Meanwhile, as the awkward silence stretched on, patrons in the tavern were beginning to mumble and whisper all around them. This bloody mess was not something she needed. Maelen silently cursed and tried to rein in the situation.

“Nice to see you, lad,” she said. He blinked and seemed to see her for the first time. Maelen took her chair, swiveled it around, and sat. “How’s the ale here?”

“Oh! Maelen. It’s good to see you too. And Vessa,” he looked at her and nodded once, swallowing hard. “You too. Who’s this?”

Vessa sat next to Alric, leaving the chair across from her for Rusk. The thug dropped into it heavily.

“Alric, this is Rusk. Rusk, Alric,” Vessa said with a too-wide smile. Maelen spotted beads of sweat on the lass’ forehead.

“Rusk then,” Alric nodded at the man, his face carefully neutral. “How do you know these two? An old associate, perhaps?”

Rusk smirked. “Nah,” he said in a harsh whisper barely audible over the din of the tavern. “You could say Vessa and I are…” he smiled. “New friends.”

It was as if someone had slapped the mage. He went rigid, his jaw clenching. “What is that supposed–” he began to say angrily, but Vessa cut him off.

“Anyway!” she slapped the table. “Let’s get some ale, like Mae said. We’ve got business to discuss.” She fished into a pouch and produced a small handful of copper oaks. “Rusk, can you grab us four, please?”

His broad, blunt face looked like he was about to argue, but after a heartbeat the man shrugged, grunted, took the coins, and sauntered off lazily.

“What in the Herald’s name–” the lad began again, and once again Vessa cut him off, this time with a sharp wave of her hand and an exasperated sigh.

“Alric, please! Not here, not now. I thought it would be helpful to have some extra muscle for… whatever it is you’re about to drag us into. Rusk is good in a fight.”

He blinked, confused. “What I’m about to drag you into?”

“You have to admit, lad,” Maelen chuckled, trying to lighten the mood although she could feel her temper rising. She still couldn’t believe she had to deal with this nonsense. “That when we all meet in a tavern, it usually leads us into some sort of terrible danger. I’m not complaining, mind you—it also tends to lead to coin. So, spill it… What have you been doing these past two weeks that you wanted to tell us?”

Alric looked truly torn, whether to pursue his interrogation of Vessa or say whatever he’d planned to say. He studied the lass’ features, his own face suddenly drawn and haunted. Then his eyes flicked to the bar, where Rusk was waiting for their mugs. He pressed his lips together and seemed to make up his mind. With a nod, he brushed a hand through his long hair and blew out a breath.

“Okay, yes. Well. I have been busy, and yes there’s quite a lot. It took me several days and not a small sum of silver to gain access to,” he glanced around and lowered his voice. “The scrolls I’ve been wanting to read. It’s been fascinating!” A bright glint entered his eyes, and inwardly Maelen shook her head. She simply didn’t understand people who got joy out of reading in dark rooms.

“Maybe the quick version, lad,” Maelen interrupted, leaning over the table. “Vess says that Rusk is trustworthy, but only share what you’re happy to have him hear once he comes back.”

Vessa didn’t look happy at the comment, and Alric paused, thinking. His eyes flicked again over to the thug at the bar. “Yes, alright. Have you heard of the Silent Compact?” he asked, almost too quietly to hear.

She and Vessa stared at him. He nodded. “I didn’t think so. It was…” he licked his lips, as if looking for the right words, “A secret crusade, hundreds of years ago, by three separate religious orders here in the city. They are the ones that led the defeat of…” his gaze wandered over the surrounding tables to see if anyone was listening. “You-know-who. They built Thornmere Hold! They trapped the demon’s generals! They saved Oakton!” He leaned back, blowing out another long breath. “I’ve discovered what orders were involved, but not the individuals. And everything written from this mysterious group is innuendo and code, so I still don’t know where the other hidden locations are or what they contain. But I’m getting closer. I just,” he brushed a hand through his hair again. “I just need more time.”

As he quieted, Vessa frowned. “So… you’re not sending us back out into the wilds?”

Maelen burst out in an unexpected belly laugh. Tables around her quieted and began whispering. “You sound disappointed, lass! I thought you said you weren’t leaving the city for a good long while.”

Vessa crossed her arms and stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. “I’m not disappointed, just surprised. So why are we here, Alric?”

“I… need more silver. If you have it. To bribe the scribe who’s giving me access.”

Vessa’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve spent your share? Already?”

Maelen crossed her arms, temper rising again. “How much are we talking, lad? We’re here to gain coin, not give it away.”

Before he could answer, Vessa tapped her chin with a thin finger. “Hey, Mae. Maybe we go after this merchant’s brat, then? While we’ve got Rusk’s services?”

Maelen rolled her eyes. “No, dammit. I said leave it alone and it’ll pass. But I do have a lead on a job if you’re bored. And we don’t even have to leave the city.”

“Wait, whose son?” Alric said, seemingly annoyed by the change in subject. “I’m talking about saving us all, not wealth! I may eventually have information that even the Castellan should hear!” he hissed.

Maelen glowered. “I’ve said it before, lad: We’re not heroes. Find your info and warn the city officials, if that’s your goal. But pay for it yourself. Vess and I are here to–”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, dove,” a wry, harsh voice interjected. “But the scribe here and I’re overdue a conversation.”

Maelen turned to see a middle-aged man in black leather, with close-cropped dark hair going gray at the temples, heavy salt-and-pepper stubble on his sharp jaw. He was lean and muscled, with a sword at his hip, and every bit of him bore scars. The long line of an old knife wound pulled one side of his mouth, it looked like a divot had been taken out of the side of his neck, and long-ago burns pitted the skin of one forearm—and those were just the ones she took in with a glance. Everywhere there were thin white lines of old wounds. This man was a dangerous one, she saw immediately, but that realization didn’t stay her temper. Rage bloomed in her chest, making her cheeks hot.

For his part, Alric seemed to have no recognition of the man at all. He blinked in surprise. “Me? Who are–”

“Get in line, old man,” Maelen growled from her chair. “We’re talking to the lad, and you can wait your turn outside.” The urge to fight and spill blood rose, her fingers aching to pull loose her mace and throttle this intruder, city watch be damned.

“Ah,” he smiled easily, spreading his calloused hands. “Can’t, see.” His hard eyes flicked down to his left breast, then back up to meet hers. She looked where he indicated. A beaten metal symbol shone in the dim light at the back of the tavern, looking like a cat’s claw. It was the sign of the Iron Thorn, Oakton’s for-hire law enforcement. Maelen narrowed her eyes and he grinned, turning his attention back to Alric smugly. “This fellow and I’re gonna talk. Now.”

The man’s eyes flicked casually to Vessa, taking in the table. Then his head whipped back and fixed on her. His expression melted into disbelief.

“You!” he gasped.

Without a word, Vessa vaulted from her seat and ran for the door.

The Iron Thorn man wasn’t surprised for long. He snarled something and dashed after Vessa, both of them weaving through wailing clerks and scribes.

“What is happening!?” Alric yelled into the chaos.

“After her! Let’s go!” she barked, and threw her chair aside to pursue.

Unlike Vessa and the man, Maelen didn’t try to avoid anyone. She tossed pale, robed figures aside and pushed her way through abandoned chairs. As she passed Rusk, holding four mugs precariously, foam slopping over the rims, she beckoned him to follow. All the while, Maelen kept her eyes on Vessa and the door to the tavern.

Vessa stumbled and the scarred man almost caught her at the door, but with a burst of speed she launched herself outside, the yawning doorway shedding light across the room’s interior. The man slipped out as well, and then both figured disappeared from view. Maelen cursed and redoubled her efforts, hoping that Alric and Rusk were close behind.

By the time Maelen was out into open air, the rage in her chest was tinting her vision red. She breathed hard like a bellows, and her knuckles tingled as if she’d punched someone. Had she done so, to clear the way? Maelen didn’t remember. Huffing, she scanned the streets. Many passerby had stopped to gawk at whatever was happening, including a decent crowd in front of the Inkbinders Lodge.

She spied the man in black on a street to her right just as Rusk and Alric burst from the door, panting. “There!” she barked, then stomped after them. Maelen didn’t think there was any way she—or especially Alric—would catch Vessa in a footrace, but she hoped that the gray-templed man was less spry. Tackling him to the ground was just as good. She kept the man in black within her sights as she ran, ready to throttle his scarred face if she could reach it.

Vessa must have turned down a narrow alleyway and dropped one of her smoke bombs, because Maelen skidded to her right and found herself choking on bitter mist that burned her eyes. Growling, she pushed forward and through the cloud and into an empty alleyway. She paused and heard footsteps slapping the cobblestones around a bend, and dashed ahead. Behind her, at least one of her companions followed several paces behind, though she didn’t turn to see who.

All of Maelen’s instincts told her she was being rash, that she didn’t even know what relationship this man had to Vessa, much less Alric. Besides, pummeling an Iron Thorn agent was a fast way to finding oneself in shackles in a dungeon somewhere. The man was likely in pursuit of Vessa because of her warrant, and while it was fine for Vessa to dodge the authorities, actually interfering—by assaulting the legal officer, no less—wasn’t the smart move. And yet, she redoubled her effort, panting and sweating, her hands tight fists. Screw smart moves. She needed to hit that man, like a fish needed water.

Maelen burst from an alleyway into a largely empty street somewhere in the warehouse district. The man in black stood across the street with his back to her, looking up and examining one of the windows. He was also panting, but not nearly as hard as Maelen, and as she jogged towards him he turned.

“You’re an associate of hers–?” he began to ask.

But Maelen punched him straight in the face.

Next: Brannic Sootward [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

XXIX.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

Vessa cinched her belt as she entered the small bedroom. She froze, surprised, then groaned in frustration. Smoothly, she wove her way through discarded clothes and empty bottles to the bed and looked down on the figure there. He was pale and barrel-chested. His left ear, the one facing her as he softly snored on his side, had a cauliflower look to it, clearly the result of some fight. The man kept his head shaved down to stubble, but eyebrows were blonde and part of a heavy brow.

“Rusk,” she said roughly, patting his broad cheek. “We’re going to be late. Let’s go.”

He stirred and blinked wearily, raising a scarred, beefy hand to shield squinting eyes from a sunbeam.

“Huh?” he grumbled, voice quiet and gravely.

“I said get up,” she sighed, throwing a shirt at him. “You said you were up when I got up. If you want in on this job, we leave now.”

“Babe,” he smiled, still shielding his eyes. “Come back to bed, eh?” Rusk never spoke above a whisper. Vessa wasn’t sure if he couldn’t speak louder or simply refused to, but she suspected the latter. He was the kind of guy that tried his best to both blend into the background and intimidate others, excellent occupational skills for a hired thug.

“Your call,” she winked, but her face was irritated. Vessa moved towards the door.

He grunted in exasperation, picking up the rumpled shirt from the bed while swinging his thick legs to sit up. “Fine, fine. I’m coming.”

She watched him dress, arms folded. Rusk stood about the same height as her but probably weighed twice as much. He looked like his grandfather might have been a tree stump, because everything about the man was squat and thick, and he moved with no sense of urgency whatsoever. Twice she threatened to leave if he didn’t hurry, and finally threw open the door and stormed out as he slowly laced up his boots. Now that she considered it, she’d never seen Rusk do anything quickly in their short acquaintance.

But he followed her ably enough and caught up to her as she stopped outside the Swaying Lantern, the dockside inn where she’d stayed the past week. The smell of tar, horse dung, and sweat assaulted her nose upon the damp planks. It was a clear day, but still crisp in winter at the start of a new year. Practical trade-goods shops crowded around the inn, a small mercantile oasis amidst the busy docks. All around, laborers mended nets, walked with crates upon their shoulders, and pulled goods with horse-drawn carts. Gulls cried overhead, and somewhere distant was a chorus of hammering from a construction project. Vessa shaded her eyes with a hand from the bright sun, since the docks received less shade from the sprawling Argenoak’s branches than most of the city.  

“Where’re we going?” Rusk huffed softly at her side.

“First we meet my friend, then we go see the wizard.” Vessa bit her lip when saying that last part. She hadn’t seen Alric since they’d arrived back in Oakton two weeks ago, despite a few attempts by them both. The prospect of a reunion made her stomach flutter.

“Come on,” she set off. “We’re definitely going to be late.”

Vessa strode briskly along the docks, the shops giving way to workers tying up skiffs, with the broad Bay of Mists before them. Larger ships littered the bay, perhaps ten total at a quick glance. True to its name, fog shrouded the horizon, masking the low hills of the peninsula and the Bayren skyline. Why would anyone live in a city that never saw the sun? But the scene was beautiful, even if the enormity of the ocean frightened her.

The mercantile smells became brine and fish as they moved along the docks. Here, gulls clouded overhead, squawking and squabbling over food. Vessa tried to avoid the thickest areas of white bird droppings, but more of the docks looked splattered in paint than not. Rusk, for his part, followed ably and asked no more questions.

Two-thirds of the long walk down the docks they came to a set of worn stone steps descending into the bay. It was as if the steps were made for a giant, wide and each half as tall as Vessa. At the top of the stairs was a large statue of an otter, shielding its eyes with one paw and looking out protectively. Most striking, however, was the enormous iron chain that was bolted to the top step and tumbled down the staircase, disappearing into the dark water. The place was called the Chained Steps, a monument to the Harbormaster, god of sea trade, shipping, and safe harbor. Sailors and dockworkers ritualistically came here to touch the chain either before or after a voyage, and tales abounded of foolhardy captains from other nations ignoring the ritual and drowning shortly thereafter.

Today, no crew members crowded around the chain. Instead, two priests in dark blue robes with heavy iron chains around their necks tended the monument. One of them—a stocky, bearded man with a dour expression—seemed to be instructing a skinny girl of no more than fifteen years. The girl was on her hands and knees, sweating as she scrubbed a brush over the second step from the top. Neither of them paid any mind to Vessa and Rusk as they approached, nor when Maelen stepped out from behind the otter statue and waved them over.

“You’re late,” she said gruffly once they’d reached earshot.

“Sorry Mae,” Vessa said reflexively, but the warrior was eyeing the man at her shoulder.

“Who’s this, then?”

“Ah. This is Rusk Holloway,” Vessa stepped sideways so the two of them could face one another. She waved a hand. “He’s agreed to help us out this time. Rusk, this is Maelen Marrosen.”

Rusk nodded nonchalantly and Maelen scowled. “Help with what?” she asked.

Vessa shrugged. “Whatever mess Alric is dragging us into this time.”

Maelen grunted and pulled Vessa several steps away by the arm, grip firm. She leaned in close, her breath smelling of fish. “You trust him?”

Vessa glanced over to the man, who was leaning against the otter and looking out over the bay with half-lidded eyes. She quirked a grin. “He’s just hired muscle, and anyway owes me a favor. If he gets out of line, just cuff him like you do me.”

The warrior grunted, fingers straying to the black head of her mace. “Hrmph. Fine. Any trouble selling the lantern?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Easy. Sixty silver.”

Maelen blinked. “Oh, nice.” Then she squinted, frowning. “You haven’t spent it all already, have you?”

“What, me? No, I still have…” Vessa rubbed at her nose. “Well, most of it, anyway.”

“Dammit, lass…” Maelen began, but Vessa cut her off.

“How about you? Any luck on my warrant?”

Noise snagged her attention, and Vessa looked up to see a pack of sailors making their way to the Chained Steps. She and Maelen waited for the group to pass. As they did so, they laughed and seemed to take particular pleasure in taunting a young man among them, who Vessa guessed was new to their crew. They moved to the far end of the steps towards the immense chain.

“Yes, actually,” Maelen said, her eyes trained on the sailors. “Hasn’t been easy, though, and I had to drink half my weight in ale to loosen some lips.”

Vessa grinned. “Thank you for your sacrifice.”

A gust of wind sent the gray strand of hair into Maelen’s eyes, and she brushed it away irritably. “Anyway, the lad you poked is named Joryn Vellorin, son of a book merchant. Seems he was in that alleyway to shake down some rival of his mother’s business or something, and we interrupted it. The kid is furious and still talking about gutting you.”

Vessa scoffed. “He was such a prat. Let him try.”

Now it was Maelen’s turn to grin, but it was just a flicker and then her expression turned grave. “But Vess…” she looked over her shoulder to see if Rusk was listening, but the man seemed as disinterested in them as anything else on the docks. She dropped her voice anyway. “This merchant, the mother… she’s been blackmailing guild officials, I hear, throwing a lot of money around.”

“Guild officials?” Vessa frowned. “Which guild?”

“Inkbinders Lodge,” Maelen said the word reluctantly, and like it had a foul taste. “All I could find out was it was something about getting access to parts of the archives she shouldn’t have access to.”

“Forbidden archives…” Vessa said absently, fingers hovering near her nose before dropping away. Her stomach fluttered. “You think it’s the same books Alric has been looking for? About Orthuun or whatever?”

“Damned lad’s got me paranoid,” she spat. “But… yeah. Maybe. We’ll ask him. I don’t like it, though. Too many things crowding together.”

“I mean, Mae,” Vessa grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s probably just a book dealer wanting expensive books to sell. Anyway, maybe I should pay this Joryn a visit. See if I can get him to drop the warrant.”

Her friend scoffed, shaking her head. “I’d just wait it out, lass. A couple of months and he’ll move on.” She squinted up at the sun overhead. “Speaking of which, it’s almost midday. Let’s go see the lad and whatever news he’s got to share.”

Vessa signaled Rusk, who pushed himself from the stone otter and followed in their wake. They left as a great roar erupted from the pack of sailors, some collective joke or accomplishment they celebrated. The sound immediately triggered thoughts of a burning Vastren Hollow, of small packs of people screaming. She glanced over her shoulder. The group crowded around the new member, slapping his back and smiling. She shook her head, trying to banish the images of horror and desperation from her mind.

As they left the bay and entered the warehouse streets, eventually fishmonger carts gave way to stalls selling lamp oil, wax seals, reed pens, and cheap paper. Ledger clerks in robes of muted colors hustled between buildings, competing with horse carts carrying goods from one quarter to another. The streets were just wide enough for the carts, but narrow enough that Vessa scanned for cutpurses and thieves at every corner. The three of them must have looked like the criminals in the quarter, though, as crowds tended to part around Maelen’s grim face and Rusk’s nonchalant swagger.

On one curved street, the buildings momentarily parted, revealing Lake Miran. The body of water sat in the middle of the city, surrounded by a walking path and littered with small stone shrines. Couples sat upon benches, looking out over the water while children tossed bread to birds. The Argenoak’s trunk took up one whole length of the lake, but Vessa couldn’t see it from their brief glimpse. Instead, the Argenoak’s presence came from the twilight hues of the immense canopy overhead. Branches larger than most buildings stretched above them protectively, sunlight escaping only in glittering gems upon the cobblestones.

After the momentary view of open air, the street turned back to crowded structures and away from the lake. For the last third of their walk, the streets climbed gently upwards, the cobblestones turning older and the buildings taller. They entered the oldest part of Oakton, where guildhouses and civic buildings took center stage. Their footsteps echoed on streets less bustling than the docks or warehouse quarter, with fewer strong smells that threatened to overwhelm them.

The tavern Alric had chosen sat across from the Inkbinders Lodge, the tall and narrow building of pale stone that served as the guildhouse for scribes, clerks, historians, messengers, and the like. It was also, not coincidentally, the most sacred building of the Herald, god of news and history. Vessa glanced up, seeing tall slit windows stacked one above another, climbing skyward. Somewhere atop the Lodge was the famed belltower, rung at various times throughout the year. She had never, not once, thought of entering the Lodge. It was a place meant to preserve truth, or at least the truth city officials cared about. It radiated all the warmth of a fortress or prison. Vessa couldn’t imagine that Alric spent every day in that formal, dead place, looking at scrolls and books.

“Lass!” Maelen’s voice called out, breaking her reverie. She looked around and saw Maelen and Rusk flanking the doorway of the tavern across the street, like two bouncers. Her friend jerked her chin impatiently, and Vessa stepped through robed clerks to join them.

They entered into a narrow common room with a low ceiling, well lit by large windows that looked out at the Lodge. The wooden tables were all pale wood and scarred from use, crowded with people talking in low voices, with no music overlaying the general murmuring. Various framed documents and writs adorned the walls, along with a large chalkboard with “House Notices” in large script, with much smaller print below that Vessa couldn’t be bothered to read. A long bar stretched along one wall, and she noted that the waiters and waitresses were adorned in robes of bright blue, showing not an ounce of skin other than their faces and hands. Taken in total, it was by far the least interesting tavern Vessa had ever experienced, and there was no wonder why she’d never spent a night in the Quiet Margin before.

“He’s there, at the back,” Maelen grunted, and led them through the throngs of robed patrons, almost all of them with ink-stained clothes or fingers. Vessa and her two companions weren’t the only ones in leathers and with weapons hanging from their belts, but near enough that low conversations quieted as they passed.

Waiting for them at a table far enough back that it required a candle atop it was Alric, dressed in his gray scribe’s robes instead of his black traveling clothes. The intricate metal headpiece did not adorn his brow either. Indeed, the only recognizable items from their previous expeditions were his rune-carved staff and travel satchel. If Vessa hadn’t spent so much time with him, she likely wouldn’t have been able to pick him out from the general crowd here.

Yet she had spent time with him, hadn’t she? As his dark eyes met hers, her stomach fluttered. He smiled briefly, until he noticed Rusk at her side. Alric’s features flickered with confusion, then knitted into a frown. Vessa swallowed, trying to meet his gaze again, to exude an air of being nonplused. The mage didn’t look her way, though, and instead studied the burly mercenary carefully.

It was only then that Vessa realized bringing Rusk may have been a terrible mistake.

Next: Surprises [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXIX.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

Vessa cinched her belt as she entered the small bedroom. She froze, surprised, then groaned in frustration. Smoothly, she wove her way through discarded clothes and empty bottles to the bed and looked down on the figure there. He was pale and barrel-chested. His left ear, the one facing her as he softly snored on his side, had a cauliflower look to it, clearly the result of some fight. The man kept his head shaved down to stubble, but eyebrows were blonde and part of a heavy brow.

“Rusk,” she said roughly, patting his broad cheek. “We’re going to be late. Let’s go.”

He stirred and blinked wearily, raising a scarred, beefy hand to shield squinting eyes from a sunbeam.

“Huh?” he grumbled, voice quiet and gravely.

“I said get up,” she sighed, throwing a shirt at him. “You said you were up when I got up. If you want in on this job, we leave now.”

“Babe,” he smiled, still shielding his eyes. “Come back to bed, eh?” Rusk never spoke above a whisper. Vessa wasn’t sure if he couldn’t speak louder or simply refused to, but she suspected the latter. He was the kind of guy that tried his best to both blend into the background and intimidate others, excellent occupational skills for a hired thug.

“Your call,” she winked, but her face was irritated. Vessa moved towards the door.

He grunted in exasperation, picking up the rumpled shirt from the bed while swinging his thick legs to sit up. “Fine, fine. I’m coming.”

She watched him dress, arms folded. Rusk stood about the same height as her but probably weighed twice as much. He looked like his grandfather might have been a tree stump, because everything about the man was squat and thick, and he moved with no sense of urgency whatsoever. Twice she threatened to leave if he didn’t hurry, and finally threw open the door and stormed out as he slowly laced up his boots. Now that she considered it, she’d never seen Rusk do anything quickly in their short acquaintance.

But he followed her ably enough and caught up to her as she stopped outside the Swaying Lantern, the dockside inn where she’d stayed the past week. The smell of tar, horse dung, and sweat assaulted her nose upon the damp planks. It was a clear day, but still crisp in winter at the start of a new year. Practical trade-goods shops crowded around the inn, a small mercantile oasis amidst the busy docks. All around, laborers mended nets, walked with crates upon their shoulders, and pulled goods with horse-drawn carts. Gulls cried overhead, and somewhere distant was a chorus of hammering from a construction project. Vessa shaded her eyes with a hand from the bright sun, since the docks received less shade from the sprawling Argenoak’s branches than most of the city.  

“Where’re we going?” Rusk huffed softly at her side.

“First we meet my friend, then we go see the wizard.” Vessa bit her lip when saying that last part. She hadn’t seen Alric since they’d arrived back in Oakton two weeks ago, despite a few attempts by them both. The prospect of a reunion made her stomach flutter.

“Come on,” she set off. “We’re definitely going to be late.”

Vessa strode briskly along the docks, the shops giving way to workers tying up skiffs, with the broad Bay of Mists before them. Larger ships littered the bay, perhaps ten total at a quick glance. True to its name, fog shrouded the horizon, masking the low hills of the peninsula and the Bayren skyline. Why would anyone live in a city that never saw the sun? But the scene was beautiful, even if the enormity of the ocean frightened her.

The mercantile smells became brine and fish as they moved along the docks. Here, gulls clouded overhead, squawking and squabbling over food. Vessa tried to avoid the thickest areas of white bird droppings, but more of the docks looked splattered in paint than not. Rusk, for his part, followed ably and asked no more questions.

Two-thirds of the long walk down the docks they came to a set of worn stone steps descending into the bay. It was as if the steps were made for a giant, wide and each half as tall as Vessa. At the top of the stairs was a large statue of an otter, shielding its eyes with one paw and looking out protectively. Most striking, however, was the enormous iron chain that was bolted to the top step and tumbled down the staircase, disappearing into the dark water. The place was called the Chained Steps, a monument to the Harbormaster, god of sea trade, shipping, and safe harbor. Sailors and dockworkers ritualistically came here to touch the chain either before or after a voyage, and tales abounded of foolhardy captains from other nations ignoring the ritual and drowning shortly thereafter.

Today, no crew members crowded around the chain. Instead, two priests in dark blue robes with heavy iron chains around their necks tended the monument. One of them—a stocky, bearded man with a dour expression—seemed to be instructing a skinny girl of no more than fifteen years. The girl was on her hands and knees, sweating as she scrubbed a brush over the second step from the top. Neither of them paid any mind to Vessa and Rusk as they approached, nor when Maelen stepped out from behind the otter statue and waved them over.

“You’re late,” she said gruffly once they’d reached earshot.

“Sorry Mae,” Vessa said reflexively, but the warrior was eyeing the man at her shoulder.

“Who’s this, then?”

“Ah. This is Rusk Holloway,” Vessa stepped sideways so the two of them could face one another. She waved a hand. “He’s agreed to help us out this time. Rusk, this is Maelen Marrosen.”

Rusk nodded nonchalantly and Maelen scowled. “Help with what?” she asked.

Vessa shrugged. “Whatever mess Alric is dragging us into this time.”

Maelen grunted and pulled Vessa several steps away by the arm, grip firm. She leaned in close, her breath smelling of fish. “You trust him?”

Vessa glanced over to the man, who was leaning against the otter and looking out over the bay with half-lidded eyes. She quirked a grin. “He’s just hired muscle, and anyway owes me a favor. If he gets out of line, just cuff him like you do me.”

The warrior grunted, fingers straying to the black head of her mace. “Hrmph. Fine. Any trouble selling the lantern?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Easy. Sixty silver.”

Maelen blinked. “Oh, nice.” Then she squinted, frowning. “You haven’t spent it all already, have you?”

“What, me? No, I still have…” Vessa rubbed at her nose. “Well, most of it, anyway.”

“Dammit, lass…” Maelen began, but Vessa cut her off.

“How about you? Any luck on my warrant?”

Noise snagged her attention, and Vessa looked up to see a pack of sailors making their way to the Chained Steps. She and Maelen waited for the group to pass. As they did so, they laughed and seemed to take particular pleasure in taunting a young man among them, who Vessa guessed was new to their crew. They moved to the far end of the steps towards the immense chain.

“Yes, actually,” Maelen said, her eyes trained on the sailors. “Hasn’t been easy, though, and I had to drink half my weight in ale to loosen some lips.”

Vessa grinned. “Thank you for your sacrifice.”

A gust of wind sent the gray strand of hair into Maelen’s eyes, and she brushed it away irritably. “Anyway, the lad you poked is named Joryn Vellorin, son of a book merchant. Seems he was in that alleyway to shake down some rival of his mother’s business or something, and we interrupted it. The kid is furious and still talking about gutting you.”

Vessa scoffed. “He was such a prat. Let him try.”

Now it was Maelen’s turn to grin, but it was just a flicker and then her expression turned grave. “But Vess…” she looked over her shoulder to see if Rusk was listening, but the man seemed as disinterested in them as anything else on the docks. She dropped her voice anyway. “This merchant, the mother… she’s been blackmailing guild officials, I hear, throwing a lot of money around.”

“Guild officials?” Vessa frowned. “Which guild?”

“Inkbinders Lodge,” Maelen said the word reluctantly, and like it had a foul taste. “All I could find out was it was something about getting access to parts of the archives she shouldn’t have access to.”

“Forbidden archives…” Vessa said absently, fingers hovering near her nose before dropping away. Her stomach fluttered. “You think it’s the same books Alric has been looking for? About Orthuun or whatever?”

“Damned lad’s got me paranoid,” she spat. “But… yeah. Maybe. We’ll ask him. I don’t like it, though. Too many things crowding together.”

“I mean, Mae,” Vessa grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s probably just a book dealer wanting expensive books to sell. Anyway, maybe I should pay this Joryn a visit. See if I can get him to drop the warrant.”

Her friend scoffed, shaking her head. “I’d just wait it out, lass. A couple of months and he’ll move on.” She squinted up at the sun overhead. “Speaking of which, it’s almost midday. Let’s go see the lad and whatever news he’s got to share.”

Vessa signaled Rusk, who pushed himself from the stone otter and followed in their wake. They left as a great roar erupted from the pack of sailors, some collective joke or accomplishment they celebrated. The sound immediately triggered thoughts of a burning Vastren Hollow, of small packs of people screaming. She glanced over her shoulder. The group crowded around the new member, slapping his back and smiling. She shook her head, trying to banish the images of horror and desperation from her mind.

As they left the bay and entered the warehouse streets, eventually fishmonger carts gave way to stalls selling lamp oil, wax seals, reed pens, and cheap paper. Ledger clerks in robes of muted colors hustled between buildings, competing with horse carts carrying goods from one quarter to another. The streets were just wide enough for the carts, but narrow enough that Vessa scanned for cutpurses and thieves at every corner. The three of them must have looked like the criminals in the quarter, though, as crowds tended to part around Maelen’s grim face and Rusk’s nonchalant swagger.

On one curved street, the buildings momentarily parted, revealing Lake Miran. The body of water sat in the middle of the city, surrounded by a walking path and littered with small stone shrines. Couples sat upon benches, looking out over the water while children tossed bread to birds. The Argenoak’s trunk took up one whole length of the lake, but Vessa couldn’t see it from their brief glimpse. Instead, the Argenoak’s presence came from the twilight hues of the immense canopy overhead. Branches larger than most buildings stretched above them protectively, sunlight escaping only in glittering gems upon the cobblestones.

After the momentary view of open air, the street turned back to crowded structures and away from the lake. For the last third of their walk, the streets climbed gently upwards, the cobblestones turning older and the buildings taller. They entered the oldest part of Oakton, where guildhouses and civic buildings took center stage. Their footsteps echoed on streets less bustling than the docks or warehouse quarter, with fewer strong smells that threatened to overwhelm them.

The tavern Alric had chosen sat across from the Inkbinders Lodge, the tall and narrow building of pale stone that served as the guildhouse for scribes, clerks, historians, messengers, and the like. It was also, not coincidentally, the most sacred building of the Herald, god of news and history. Vessa glanced up, seeing tall slit windows stacked one above another, climbing skyward. Somewhere atop the Lodge was the famed belltower, rung at various times throughout the year. She had never, not once, thought of entering the Lodge. It was a place meant to preserve truth, or at least the truth city officials cared about. It radiated all the warmth of a fortress or prison. Vessa couldn’t imagine that Alric spent every day in that formal, dead place, looking at scrolls and books.

“Lass!” Maelen’s voice called out, breaking her reverie. She looked around and saw Maelen and Rusk flanking the doorway of the tavern across the street, like two bouncers. Her friend jerked her chin impatiently, and Vessa stepped through robed clerks to join them.

They entered into a narrow common room with a low ceiling, well lit by large windows that looked out at the Lodge. The wooden tables were all pale wood and scarred from use, crowded with people talking in low voices, with no music overlaying the general murmuring. Various framed documents and writs adorned the walls, along with a large chalkboard with “House Notices” in large script, with much smaller print below that Vessa couldn’t be bothered to read. A long bar stretched along one wall, and she noted that the waiters and waitresses were adorned in robes of bright blue, showing not an ounce of skin other than their faces and hands. Taken in total, it was by far the least interesting tavern Vessa had ever experienced, and there was no wonder why she’d never spent a night in the Quiet Margin before.

“He’s there, at the back,” Maelen grunted, and led them through the throngs of robed patrons, almost all of them with ink-stained clothes or fingers. Vessa and her two companions weren’t the only ones in leathers and with weapons hanging from their belts, but near enough that low conversations quieted as they passed.

Waiting for them at a table far enough back that it required a candle atop it was Alric, dressed in his gray scribe’s robes instead of his black traveling clothes. The intricate metal headpiece did not adorn his brow either. Indeed, the only recognizable items from their previous expeditions were his rune-carved staff and travel satchel. If Vessa hadn’t spent so much time with him, she likely wouldn’t have been able to pick him out from the general crowd here.

Yet she had spent time with him, hadn’t she? As his dark eyes met hers, her stomach fluttered. He smiled briefly, until he noticed Rusk at her side. Alric’s features flickered with confusion, then knitted into a frown. Vessa swallowed, trying to meet his gaze again, to exude an air of being nonplused. The mage didn’t look her way, though, and instead studied the burly mercenary carefully.

It was only then that Vessa realized bringing Rusk may have been a terrible mistake.

Next: Surprises [with game notes]