[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]

[game-notes version here]

XXVIII.

Duskmarch 29, Wyrdsday, Year 731

Alric lay in his bed, still disbelieving the night’s events. Vessa, snoring lightly, was a warm weight against one side. In truth, his body ached in several places; his injuries were nowhere near healed, and their lovemaking had, he was fairly sure, torn open a wound on his back. Yet they had made love, and that very fact still caused his thoughts to spin wildly. What had possessed Vessa to enter his room? She’d shown no sign of attraction to him their entire journey, he thought, no sense that she would be open to his advances.

Just tonight, she’d said. To banish the darkness. Perhaps it was simply her way of celebrating their survival from the wilds, but why him and not the countless men who’d propositioned her in the common room, particularly that burly bartender? Alric’s good fortune boggled the mind. He would do his best to honor her wishes and not show her undue attention on the day’s journey back to Oakton, he vowed. Though once they were back home and settled, he could call on her… couldn’t he? What would his family make of Vessa Velthorn?

His window shuddered.

Of course, he mused, perhaps they wouldn’t be seeing the Argenoak today. The storm continued to rage outside, rattling the entire inn with wind and unceasing rain. Surely Maelen would want them to wait out the weather before making the trek north to the Lake Gate. Which, he realized, would mean another night in the Brine Spoon… he flicked his gaze to Vessa’s tangle of black hair, resting near his jaw. A small grin touched his lips. She’d said just the one night, of course. But maybe…

With a contented sigh, his eyes drifted to the window. It wasn’t dawn yet, and he could see nothing beyond water droplets littering the glass. The droplets shimmered and danced as more rain pelted the window. He wasn’t sure how long, but he stayed watching the night behind half-lidded eyes, thoughts dancing everywhere about Vessa and their possible future together.

The storm had no lightning, just rain and wind and an almost ravenous darkness. Thus it took long moments for Alric to recognize what looked like a form beyond the window. At first, the shape was nothing more than a smudge of droplets, yet something drew his attention more directly. He blinked and strained his neck awkwardly to see, trying his best not to disturb Vessa. Yes, something was beyond the window, out in the storm a handful of paces from the building. But that made no sense… the Brine Spoon’s rooms were on the second floor, and there was no tree outside his window. How could…?

The form drifted slowly, inexorably closer. Alric rubbed at his eye with his free hand, causing Vessa to stir slightly. He squinted. Two dim, gray lights within a shroud of dark… It moved closer through the storm…

And suddenly, a man was a breath from the window, staring at him with gray eyes.

Alric yelled and flailed, rolling away and off the bed. He hit the floor with a jarring thud, even as Vessa leapt beside him naked and crouched.

“What is it?” she panted.

Alric, also naked, scrambled to one knee, his eyes wide and searching the window.

Nothing. Only droplets dancing upon the glass in the dark night.

He dropped to his hands and knees on the wooden floor, gasping. His throat was dry, terror gripping his jaw and neck and he almost vomited then and there.

“Alric!” Vessa hissed. “What is it?”

“There was…” he managed to pant. “A figure. At the window.”

“We’re on the second–”

“I know!” he spat. “Yet it was– it was there. It was– The Herald help me, it was Hadren Kelthorn.”

“What!?” Vessa goggled. He turned to her and… Even in the darkness, her body was a miracle. He paused, his mind momentarily blank. Then those gray eyes—like Sarin the Night Captain, he realized—rushed back to him. Alric swore and painfully climbed to his feet.

“Dammit all, let’s get Maelen,” he sighed. “Tell her and make a plan. Where are my smallclothes?”

Dawn was just arriving by the time they’d dressed and woken the warrior. Alric relayed the story of the figure outside his window in urgent, hushed tones, his eyes searching the room like a trapped animal.

“Lad…” Maelen sighed heavily, rubbing at her face and looking like she’d been run over by a wagon. Her voice was raw and rough. “It sounds like a nightmare.”

“I– yes, of course I know what it sounds like. But I was awake, Maelen. I rubbed my eyes and saw it clearly. By the Herald’s written words, it was Hadren. Or, or… a ghost of Hadren, come to haunt us. To haunt me.” He was rambling, he realized, and he couldn’t seem to keep the panic out of his voice.

“The worst nightmares are the ones that seem real,” Maelen said, not unkindly. “I’ve seen night terrors from plenty of mercenaries, people who’ve gone through far less horror than you the past week.”

“It was real,” he said fervently, crossing his arms. “But I won’t press the issue.”

The three sat in silence for several breaths. Finally, Vessa said, “What’s the plan today, Mae? Are we going north in this storm?”

“By the Rootmother’s teat, Vess!” Maelen spat sharply. “Let me wake up. I’ve got to make water and…” she looked down on her chest, noticing she was already dressed. “Just go downstairs. I’ll meet you there when I’m ready.”

He and Vessa shuffled out of the room. For just a moment, they stood awkwardly in the dark hallway, the inn creaking from the wind outside.

“Ah, well…” he said uncomfortably, trying to organize his thoughts. “Perhaps we should…”

Vessa leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Last night was fun,” she said. “We’ll do it again sometime. But don’t get weird.”

Then, with a quick squeeze to his shoulder, she’d turned and began sauntering towards the stairs. Alric blinked, stunned, as he watched her go. Idly, his fingers reached up to where her warm lips had touched his face and grinned.

“Weird-er!” Vessa called from the end of the hallway, likely waking the inn’s other occupants. “Don’t get weirder!”

Shaking his head, he thumped his rune-carved staff to the wooden floor and limped after her.

They assembled in the common room shortly before the innkeeper arrived. The heavy-set Tideborn man had blue-inked tattoos crawling up and down both thick arms. In these wee hours, he was groggy and surly. Alric wondered if Vessa’s hallway shout had woken him, or perhaps the storm had kept him up, threatening to damage the Brine Spoon in its fury. Whatever the case, he was decidedly less interested in leering at Vessa this morning, and served them porridge and water without ceremony.

“I think,” Maelen said, once they’d eaten. “We brave the storm today and head to the city.”

A flash of memory, Hadren’s face in his window, made Alric wince. “Why? What if this storm is allowing Orthuun’s forces to move? I don’t relish the idea of meeting a hill giant in the dark and rain.”

“Aye, but that’s it exactly,” Maelen said, drinking from her cup. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “I’d rather chance it and be behind sturdy walls than a fishing town right now. That blind crone’s words unsettled me, and your nightmare, lad.”

“It wasn’t–” he started to say, but the warrior held up a calloused hand.

“My point is,” Maelen said, and this time it was Vessa who interrupted.

“Let’s get home,” she said decisively, her face earnest and searching theirs.

“Besides,” Maelen said, nodding to Vessa’s declaration. She lowered her voice to a low rumble. “I’d rather get this coin where I know I can safeguard it.”

Alric ran a hand through his hair and sighed. His eyes scanned the window, now an ominously dark gray outside instead of black. Wind and rain still pelted the glass. The tavern’s front door shuddered in its frame.

“Alright, I suppose,” he said cautiously. “I look forward to a day when I’m not wet or cold. Today is going to be rough.”

“But we’ll be home,” Vessa beamed, slapping the table. Even with her scrapes and bruises, her hair mussed and clothing torn, she was beautiful. Alric couldn’t help but grin at her enthusiasm. More memories came to him then, of the time before Hadren’s visitation. He looked down at his lap, his cheeks growing hot.

When he looked up, Maelen was staring at him hard, then glancing at Vessa. Alric did his best to look guileless as he nodded to her and said, “As Vessa says: let’s go home.”

Her gaze flicked between the two of them and she snorted. “Yeah,” she said. “Okay. I’ll get us some provisions for the road, just in case. Then we leave.”

Maelen haggled with the innkeeper for dried rations and water while Alric spiraled through what felt like an endless cycle of feeling awkward in Vessa’s presence, attempting light conversation, then lapsing into silence and berating himself for “being weird,” as she’d warned him. Much to his relief, she didn’t call him on his behavior but instead sat pleasantly content when quiet and engaged in idle chatter when spoken to. Alric noticed a blemish on her neck where he’d kissed her perhaps a bit too vigorously the night before, and he began the cycle all over again.

“We’re done here,” Maelen’s voice said over his shoulder, making him jump. Both he and Vessa chuckled in unison like schoolchildren caught sneaking a sweet treat. Maelen snorted and shook her head, then headed for the front door of the inn.

The warrior pushed hard against the wind, and the trio were immediately assaulted by lashing rain. They pulled their oiled cloaks close, adjusting the hoods and leaning against the gale. The Brine Spoon’s heavy door slammed, and they stalked towards the Long Road in the storm, across the town square.

It felt more like late evening than morning, and they saw no one else on the streets as they left Leandra’s Rest, not even Wink. Merry lights flickered yellow in windows, protected from the wicked weather. Alric yearned to be back in his bed, with Vessa’s body pressed against his, and those thoughts kept him company through the wet, muddy trek north.

Twice before lunch he thought he spied a black-robed figure standing to one side of the road, staring unmoving at him with eyes that glimmered dimly gray in the darkness. Each time he stopped and whirled to face the figure, squinting and staring hard through the driving rain.

“What is it?” Vessa asked the second instance, her voice raised to be heard over the wind.

Alric blinked and rubbed at his eyes. He frowned. “Nothing. I– it’s nothing,” he said. “Thought I saw something.”

Vessa, always the scout, stayed for several breaths, watching the direction he’d been staring. Apparently satisfied that nothing prowled the storm, she turned and joined them. Alric seethed. Was he going crazy, or was the ghost of Hadren following him? Neither option boded well.

They took their midday meal—dried meat, oat cakes, and water—behind the shelter of a large boulder a hundred paces from the road. Alric appreciated the relief from the buffeting wind, but he was still wet and chilled to his bones. His memories of Vessa from the night before seemed hazy and distant now, though they still brought a disbelieving grin to his lips as he mechanically ate. With little conversation among the three of them, they shouldered their travel packs and left their meager sanctuary. Immediately, the wind struck Alric and tossed his hood from his head. He pulled it back into place and leaned into the slanting rain, his boots sloshing in water and mud.

He had no sense of how much slower their pace was now than when they first traveled down to Leandra’s Rest from Oakton, and he was too lost in his thoughts to properly track the time of day. At some point that afternoon, he felt a crawling feeling of someone watching him and whipped around to see… nothing. Maelen shouted something lost in the wind at him, her face glowering. He stumbled forward, glancing around at the storm with a face numbed from the cold.

The Lake Gate surprised him when it appeared. He’d lapsed into what felt like a death march, head lowered, one hand gripping his staff and the other keeping his hood in place. His feet had long since lost feeling, and he stumbled forward with sloshing steps. He hadn’t looked up, and even if he had done so he wouldn’t have been able to see the towering Argenoak through the storm as they approached. One moment Alric was plodding through the driving rain, and the next he’d reached a small throng of travelers huddled near the arched gatehouse and shadowed walls of Oakton.

Someone tugged at his shoulder, and he turned to see Vessa, hunching her posture unnaturally. She pulled him close enough that he could have kissed her, and said so only he could hear, “I’ve still got a warrant on my head for that business before we left. If they catch me, don’t interfere.”

“Wait, what?” he blinked, and then, still stooping, she limped forward into the crowd waiting to be let into the city.

Then he remembered: Vessa had… stabbed someone important’s son, in a fight she said Maelen had started? He’d never gotten the details, and Vessa had tried to brush it off. Whatever had happened, it was still on her mind, though, despite everything that had happened since.

His breath became more ragged, his mind whirling at the implications. The throng around them was a fraction of the one when they’d left Oakton, likely because of the storm. Surely the smaller crowd meant that each entrant would receive more scrutiny. Vessa, then, would go to jail. For how long? Could their silver somehow bribe or bail her out, or would they assume the coins were unlawfully gained and the city watch would take it? Dammit all, he was about to lose Vessa as soon as he’d seen a possible future with her! The injustice of it raged within his skull.

And then, bewilderingly, the gate swallowed them and they were past it, inside the city.

The guards waved the crowd forward, asking no questions of the press of travelers. Alric could have sworn the guard he’d been closest to—a young, bearded Dunfolk man—had a mask of pity upon his face. Pity and concern.

He glanced around at his fellow travelers for the first time. Few had cloaks as oiled and protective as his own. Villagers of all ages clutched scraps of cloth to their heads and breasts, attempting some respite from the storm. They all had identical worried expressions, haunted like those he’d seen on the survivors’ faces of Vastren Hollow. Could these people be, in fact, from that doomed settlement? Or were other settlements also under siege? Alric suspected the latter, and with a growing sense of dread realized that Oakton would likely be bursting with refugees from the wider Redwood Marches. Scrutiny at the gates, it seemed, had been replaced by triage.

“Alric…” a voice rasped, as clearly as if the lips had been caressing his ear. He jumped and looked around.

“Alric Darkheart…”

He whirled again, and travelers near him began to give him a wider berth. He saw Maelen and Vessa, standing shoulder to shoulder, staring at him from the side of the road. Maelen’s expression was furious, Vessa’s concerned.

“Alric?” she mouthed, careful not to call attention to herself by shouting.

And a stone’s throw behind them, in the driving rain, was a bedraggled man in black robes. He stood motionless, seemingly unaffected by the storm. His eyes glinted softly gray in the gloom and, Alric noted with shock, where his robes ended there were no feet, only shifting, oily smoke.

Alric pointed frantically and, with as much speed as his numbed body could muster, limped to join them. Maelen and Vessa turned as one to see what he was gesturing about.

As they did, the figure simply… vanished.

END STORY 2: THE STARLESS RIFT

Next: Level 3 (warning: all game notes)

Then: The Chained Steps [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXVIII.

Duskmarch 29, Wyrdsday, Year 731

Alric lay in his bed, still disbelieving the night’s events. Vessa, snoring lightly, was a warm weight against one side. In truth, his body ached in several places; his injuries were nowhere near healed, and their lovemaking had, he was fairly sure, torn open a wound on his back. Yet they had made love, and that very fact still caused his thoughts to spin wildly. What had possessed Vessa to enter his room? She’d shown no sign of attraction to him their entire journey, he thought, no sense that she would be open to his advances.

Just tonight, she’d said. To banish the darkness. Perhaps it was simply her way of celebrating their survival from the wilds, but why him and not the countless men who’d propositioned her in the common room, particularly that burly bartender? Alric’s good fortune boggled the mind. He would do his best to honor her wishes and not show her undue attention on the day’s journey back to Oakton, he vowed. Though once they were back home and settled, he could call on her… couldn’t he? What would his family make of Vessa Velthorn?

His window shuddered.

Of course, he mused, perhaps they wouldn’t be seeing the Argenoak today. The storm continued to rage outside, rattling the entire inn with wind and unceasing rain. Surely Maelen would want them to wait out the weather before making the trek north to the Lake Gate. Which, he realized, would mean another night in the Brine Spoon… he flicked his gaze to Vessa’s tangle of black hair, resting near his jaw. A small grin touched his lips. She’d said just the one night, of course. But maybe…

With a contented sigh, his eyes drifted to the window. It wasn’t dawn yet, and he could see nothing beyond water droplets littering the glass. The droplets shimmered and danced as more rain pelted the window. He wasn’t sure how long, but he stayed watching the night behind half-lidded eyes, thoughts dancing everywhere about Vessa and their possible future together.

The storm had no lightning, just rain and wind and an almost ravenous darkness. Thus it took long moments for Alric to recognize what looked like a form beyond the window. At first, the shape was nothing more than a smudge of droplets, yet something drew his attention more directly. He blinked and strained his neck awkwardly to see, trying his best not to disturb Vessa. Yes, something was beyond the window, out in the storm a handful of paces from the building. But that made no sense… the Brine Spoon’s rooms were on the second floor, and there was no tree outside his window. How could…?

The form drifted slowly, inexorably closer. Alric rubbed at his eye with his free hand, causing Vessa to stir slightly. He squinted. Two dim, gray lights within a shroud of dark… It moved closer through the storm…

And suddenly, a man was a breath from the window, staring at him with gray eyes.

Alric yelled and flailed, rolling away and off the bed. He hit the floor with a jarring thud, even as Vessa leapt beside him naked and crouched.

“What is it?” she panted.

Alric, also naked, scrambled to one knee, his eyes wide and searching the window.

Nothing. Only droplets dancing upon the glass in the dark night.

He dropped to his hands and knees on the wooden floor, gasping. His throat was dry, terror gripping his jaw and neck and he almost vomited then and there.

“Alric!” Vessa hissed. “What is it?”

“There was…” he managed to pant. “A figure. At the window.”

“We’re on the second–”

“I know!” he spat. “Yet it was– it was there. It was– The Herald help me, it was Hadren Kelthorn.”

“What!?” Vessa goggled. He turned to her and… Even in the darkness, her body was a miracle. He paused, his mind momentarily blank. Then those gray eyes—like Sarin the Night Captain, he realized—rushed back to him. Alric swore and painfully climbed to his feet.

“Dammit all, let’s get Maelen,” he sighed. “Tell her and make a plan. Where are my smallclothes?”

Dawn was just arriving by the time they’d dressed and woken the warrior. Alric relayed the story of the figure outside his window in urgent, hushed tones, his eyes searching the room like a trapped animal.

“Lad…” Maelen sighed heavily, rubbing at her face and looking like she’d been run over by a wagon. Her voice was raw and rough. “It sounds like a nightmare.”

“I– yes, of course I know what it sounds like. But I was awake, Maelen. I rubbed my eyes and saw it clearly. By the Herald’s written words, it was Hadren. Or, or… a ghost of Hadren, come to haunt us. To haunt me.” He was rambling, he realized, and he couldn’t seem to keep the panic out of his voice.

“The worst nightmares are the ones that seem real,” Maelen said, not unkindly. “I’ve seen night terrors from plenty of mercenaries, people who’ve gone through far less horror than you the past week.”

“It was real,” he said fervently, crossing his arms. “But I won’t press the issue.”

The three sat in silence for several breaths. Finally, Vessa said, “What’s the plan today, Mae? Are we going north in this storm?”

“By the Rootmother’s teat, Vess!” Maelen spat sharply. “Let me wake up. I’ve got to make water and…” she looked down on her chest, noticing she was already dressed. “Just go downstairs. I’ll meet you there when I’m ready.”

He and Vessa shuffled out of the room. For just a moment, they stood awkwardly in the dark hallway, the inn creaking from the wind outside.

“Ah, well…” he said uncomfortably, trying to organize his thoughts. “Perhaps we should…”

Vessa leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Last night was fun,” she said. “We’ll do it again sometime. But don’t get weird.”

Then, with a quick squeeze to his shoulder, she’d turned and began sauntering towards the stairs. Alric blinked, stunned, as he watched her go. Idly, his fingers reached up to where her warm lips had touched his face and grinned.

“Weird-er!” Vessa called from the end of the hallway, likely waking the inn’s other occupants. “Don’t get weirder!”

Shaking his head, he thumped his rune-carved staff to the wooden floor and limped after her.

They assembled in the common room shortly before the innkeeper arrived. The heavy-set Tideborn man had blue-inked tattoos crawling up and down both thick arms. In these wee hours, he was groggy and surly. Alric wondered if Vessa’s hallway shout had woken him, or perhaps the storm had kept him up, threatening to damage the Brine Spoon in its fury. Whatever the case, he was decidedly less interested in leering at Vessa this morning, and served them porridge and water without ceremony.

“I think,” Maelen said, once they’d eaten. “We brave the storm today and head to the city.”

A flash of memory, Hadren’s face in his window, made Alric wince. “Why? What if this storm is allowing Orthuun’s forces to move? I don’t relish the idea of meeting a hill giant in the dark and rain.”

“Aye, but that’s it exactly,” Maelen said, drinking from her cup. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “I’d rather chance it and be behind sturdy walls than a fishing town right now. That blind crone’s words unsettled me, and your nightmare, lad.”

“It wasn’t–” he started to say, but the warrior held up a calloused hand.

“My point is,” Maelen said, and this time it was Vessa who interrupted.

“Let’s get home,” she said decisively, her face earnest and searching theirs.

“Besides,” Maelen said, nodding to Vessa’s declaration. She lowered her voice to a low rumble. “I’d rather get this coin where I know I can safeguard it.”

Alric ran a hand through his hair and sighed. His eyes scanned the window, now an ominously dark gray outside instead of black. Wind and rain still pelted the glass. The tavern’s front door shuddered in its frame.

“Alright, I suppose,” he said cautiously. “I look forward to a day when I’m not wet or cold. Today is going to be rough.”

“But we’ll be home,” Vessa beamed, slapping the table. Even with her scrapes and bruises, her hair mussed and clothing torn, she was beautiful. Alric couldn’t help but grin at her enthusiasm. More memories came to him then, of the time before Hadren’s visitation. He looked down at his lap, his cheeks growing hot.

When he looked up, Maelen was staring at him hard, then glancing at Vessa. Alric did his best to look guileless as he nodded to her and said, “As Vessa says: let’s go home.”

Her gaze flicked between the two of them and she snorted. “Yeah,” she said. “Okay. I’ll get us some provisions for the road, just in case. Then we leave.”

Maelen haggled with the innkeeper for dried rations and water while Alric spiraled through what felt like an endless cycle of feeling awkward in Vessa’s presence, attempting light conversation, then lapsing into silence and berating himself for “being weird,” as she’d warned him. Much to his relief, she didn’t call him on his behavior but instead sat pleasantly content when quiet and engaged in idle chatter when spoken to. Alric noticed a blemish on her neck where he’d kissed her perhaps a bit too vigorously the night before, and he began the cycle all over again.

“We’re done here,” Maelen’s voice said over his shoulder, making him jump. Both he and Vessa chuckled in unison like schoolchildren caught sneaking a sweet treat. Maelen snorted and shook her head, then headed for the front door of the inn.

The warrior pushed hard against the wind, and the trio were immediately assaulted by lashing rain. They pulled their oiled cloaks close, adjusting the hoods and leaning against the gale. The Brine Spoon’s heavy door slammed, and they stalked towards the Long Road in the storm, across the town square.

It felt more like late evening than morning, and they saw no one else on the streets as they left Leandra’s Rest, not even Wink. Merry lights flickered yellow in windows, protected from the wicked weather. Alric yearned to be back in his bed, with Vessa’s body pressed against his, and those thoughts kept him company through the wet, muddy trek north.

Twice before lunch he thought he spied a black-robed figure standing to one side of the road, staring unmoving at him with eyes that glimmered dimly gray in the darkness. Each time he stopped and whirled to face the figure, squinting and staring hard through the driving rain.

“What is it?” Vessa asked the second instance, her voice raised to be heard over the wind.

Alric blinked and rubbed at his eyes. He frowned. “Nothing. I– it’s nothing,” he said. “Thought I saw something.”

Vessa, always the scout, stayed for several breaths, watching the direction he’d been staring. Apparently satisfied that nothing prowled the storm, she turned and joined them. Alric seethed. Was he going crazy, or was the ghost of Hadren following him? Neither option boded well.

They took their midday meal—dried meat, oat cakes, and water—behind the shelter of a large boulder a hundred paces from the road. Alric appreciated the relief from the buffeting wind, but he was still wet and chilled to his bones. His memories of Vessa from the night before seemed hazy and distant now, though they still brought a disbelieving grin to his lips as he mechanically ate. With little conversation among the three of them, they shouldered their travel packs and left their meager sanctuary. Immediately, the wind struck Alric and tossed his hood from his head. He pulled it back into place and leaned into the slanting rain, his boots sloshing in water and mud.

He had no sense of how much slower their pace was now than when they first traveled down to Leandra’s Rest from Oakton, and he was too lost in his thoughts to properly track the time of day. At some point that afternoon, he felt a crawling feeling of someone watching him and whipped around to see… nothing. Maelen shouted something lost in the wind at him, her face glowering. He stumbled forward, glancing around at the storm with a face numbed from the cold.

The Lake Gate surprised him when it appeared. He’d lapsed into what felt like a death march, head lowered, one hand gripping his staff and the other keeping his hood in place. His feet had long since lost feeling, and he stumbled forward with sloshing steps. He hadn’t looked up, and even if he had done so he wouldn’t have been able to see the towering Argenoak through the storm as they approached. One moment Alric was plodding through the driving rain, and the next he’d reached a small throng of travelers huddled near the arched gatehouse and shadowed walls of Oakton.

Someone tugged at his shoulder, and he turned to see Vessa, hunching her posture unnaturally. She pulled him close enough that he could have kissed her, and said so only he could hear, “I’ve still got a warrant on my head for that business before we left. If they catch me, don’t interfere.”

“Wait, what?” he blinked, and then, still stooping, she limped forward into the crowd waiting to be let into the city.

Then he remembered: Vessa had… stabbed someone important’s son, in a fight she said Maelen had started? He’d never gotten the details, and Vessa had tried to brush it off. Whatever had happened, it was still on her mind, though, despite everything that had happened since.

His breath became more ragged, his mind whirling at the implications. The throng around them was a fraction of the one when they’d left Oakton, likely because of the storm. Surely the smaller crowd meant that each entrant would receive more scrutiny. Vessa, then, would go to jail. For how long? Could their silver somehow bribe or bail her out, or would they assume the coins were unlawfully gained and the city watch would take it? Dammit all, he was about to lose Vessa as soon as he’d seen a possible future with her! The injustice of it raged within his skull.

And then, bewilderingly, the gate swallowed them and they were past it, inside the city.

The guards waved the crowd forward, asking no questions of the press of travelers. Alric could have sworn the guard he’d been closest to—a young, bearded Dunfolk man—had a mask of pity upon his face. Pity and concern.

He glanced around at his fellow travelers for the first time. Few had cloaks as oiled and protective as his own. Villagers of all ages clutched scraps of cloth to their heads and breasts, attempting some respite from the storm. They all had identical worried expressions, haunted like those he’d seen on the survivors’ faces of Vastren Hollow. Could these people be, in fact, from that doomed settlement? Or were other settlements also under siege? Alric suspected the latter, and with a growing sense of dread realized that Oakton would likely be bursting with refugees from the wider Redwood Marches. Scrutiny at the gates, it seemed, had been replaced by triage.

“Alric…” a voice rasped, as clearly as if the lips had been caressing his ear. He jumped and looked around.

“Alric Darkheart…”

He whirled again, and travelers near him began to give him a wider berth. He saw Maelen and Vessa, standing shoulder to shoulder, staring at him from the side of the road. Maelen’s expression was furious, Vessa’s concerned.

“Alric?” she mouthed, careful not to call attention to herself by shouting.

And a stone’s throw behind them, in the driving rain, was a bedraggled man in black robes. He stood motionless, seemingly unaffected by the storm. His eyes glinted softly gray in the gloom and, Alric noted with shock, where his robes ended there were no feet, only shifting, oily smoke.

Alric pointed frantically and, with as much speed as his numbed body could muster, limped to join them. Maelen and Vessa turned as one to see what he was gesturing about.

As they did, the figure simply… vanished.

END STORY 2: THE STARLESS RIFT

Next: Level 3 (warning: all game notes)

Then: The Chained Steps [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

XXVII.

Duskmarch 28, Ashday, Year 731

Wolves black as night dashed from the trees to the left and right in a stir of branches and fallen leaves. Vessa saw Alric crouch and swing with his staff, two-handed, but then two of the beasts were upon her.

They weren’t larger or faster than common wolves, but they made little sound as they bit and gnashed their white fangs. Their eyes were solid black. No beast’s eyes looked like that… Orthuun’s stain had found them. And, as the first wolf leapt at her, she saw their tongues were equally black, an unnerving detail that would plague her dreams.

She dropped her bow to the ground as she ducked the first wolf, drawing her shortsword from its sheath. Before she could stab at the ebon fur, however, Maelen was there, snarling and clubbing the creature with her spiked mace. Her friend’s bestial noises were a sharp contrast to the silent aggression from the wolves.

Another animal darted in. Vessa turned her blade to fend it off, and Maelen crushed its skull as it veered.

Where was Alric? She turned to see him still grunting and swinging his rune-carved staff. Amazingly, two black-furred bodies lay prone at his feet, but he didn’t see the wolf crouching behind him. In one smooth motion, she dropped her sword and plucked the bow from the ground. Draw, pull, loose, and the arrow took the animal in its throat as it leapt. The soundless body hit Alric’s back, making no sound as it hit. He stumbled, spinning to face the threat. Vessa’s shot had been a good one, though. The wolves that had ambushed them were dead.

The entire encounter had taken mere heartbeats, but Vessa was panting. Her wounds from the Starless Rift were far from healed, and she was not, she realized, prepared to again face death.

“We have to get out of here,” she hissed at Maelen. The warrior gripped her weapon with two hands, eyes wide and searching. Vessa recovered her sword from the leaves and sheathed it, placing a hand upon Maelen’s shoulder. Her friend flinched, breath ragged. Maelen may have physically recovered from her wounds more than Vessa, but her psychological ones were far worse. Vessa squeezed the shoulder.

“Mae, we have to go,” she urged with a fierce whisper.

Maelen blinked, as if seeing her for the first time. She scanned the small clearing, the prone bodies scattered like shadows in the grass. She nodded once.

Vessa plucked the arrow from the dead wolf as they left, covering their rear and keeping her eyes sharp for more predators. Out of sight, they could hear the two wolfpacks still battling, though she noted there were far fewer sounds than before. Since only the brown wolves snarled and growled, that could mean both sides were depleted, or it could mean that the Orthuun-tainted ones had almost finished them off. That latter possibility made her breath catch, and she hurried her pace.

Maelen half-carried Alric down the slope of the hill, their steps reckless and stumbling. Almost immediately, Vessa’s chest and legs began protesting, and she uncharacteristically tripped and fell hard on one knee. The jolt sent a stab of pain through her cracked ribs. Maelen paused when she heard her yelp, and through tear-blurred eyes Vessa waved the concern away. Vessa pushed herself up, gritted her teeth, and ran.

They were well out of the forested hills and trudging wearily across grassy plains by the time they collapsed into a brief rest. Alric lay panting and clutching his shoulder. Maelen dropped next to him, her eyes clenched shut in either pain or exhaustion. Vessa sat in a way that gave her ribs some relief, her body slick with sweat.

Her gaze was drawn back to the Greenwood Rise, now on the horizon. She saw no evidence of black-furred shapes darting out of the trees in pursuit. Their quick work of the wolves ambushing them seemed to have kept the party away from the larger pack. Either that, Vessa thought, or the black-eyed animals wanted to stay within the forest.

She shivered. They would definitely not be returning to the wilds anytime soon, she quietly vowed.

“I think…” Vessa panted, catching her breath. “I think we made it out. For now.”

The others nodded, unable to speak, and for some time they sat in depleted silence. Vessa kept her keen eyes on the tree line the entire time, searching for some movement that would signal their pursuit. She saw nothing, and they drank water from yesterday’s stream and ate the last of their dried rations. Vessa hoped they would reach Leandra’s Rest by nightfall, otherwise it would be a lean and hungry night.

As if sensing the thought, Maelen pushed the group up and moving again, far before any of them looked ready. The day remained sunny and warm, and, as they trudged eastward towards the coast, Vessa tried to conjure the feelings of peace and shelter from their shared Rootmother dream. Her thoughts, however, frequently drifted to the empty tomb of Saelith the Vanished, the lone hill giant and its tent, the morning’s swarm of wolves. The Redwood Marches were changing, in ways that made dread settle at the base of her spine. Were demon-led armies massing? Would Oakton soon be under siege? She pictured black-eyed wolves and savage skratts in the city’s alleyways, the City Watch bells ringing in earnest.

Gods but she yearned for a drink, or a smoke of lotus leaf—anything to lessen her anxiety about what was coming.

Late in the afternoon, they reached the Long Road and followed it north. Any travelers they saw steered well wide of them, both because of their bedraggled appearance and, Vessa guessed, Maelen’s scowl. It was just as well… she would rather the word not spread about the coin-laded packs they carried. She did note that the wagons and foot traffic seemed to be headed exclusively north, though. Not a single traveling party moved south, away from the city.

Well before dusk, they’d found Leandra’s Rest, the small fishing hamlet nestled between reed marshes and the road. It was even smaller, she realized, than Vastren Hollow had been, and not nearly as fortified against attack. For a grim moment, Vessa pictured the scattered wood houses on stilts and various docks aflame as creatures of shadow tore the residents apart. She blinked and shook her head to clear it of horror.

Just beyond the town’s low, unmanned wall was the rocky patch of soil the locals called their village square. Beyond it lay the Brine Spoon, where Vessa aimed to eat whatever fish stew was offered, fend off any advances from the lascivious bartender, and sleep. Before they’d taken three weary steps into the square, however, a familiar, dry voice called out to them.

“They live! But lo, you’ve stared into the shadows, haven’t you? The rabid dog is frothing,” she nodded towards Maelen, “the mouse’s tail is stained ink-black,” she frowned at Alric, and then she turned a sad smile to Vessa. “But at least the beaten pup has found love, eh?”

Maelen growled under her breath, but Alric answered with a lopsided grin. “Wink!” he said, as they moved to where the old woman squatted on the same overturned fish crate near a lantern post. She looked just as she had—what was it? Nearly two weeks ago?—her tightly coiled hair bound up in a patched, sea-green shawl, driftwood cane at her side. Her white eyes never left them. Wink’s dark, weathered face crinkled in knowing mirth.

“My boy! A mixed journey for you, eh? The book still plagues your pocket, but at least you took an old crone’s advice and didn’t take the hand that was offered! And you all survived, which I admit I didn’t expect.”

“How did you–?” Alric began, then shook his head. “I do not understand prophecy.”

“The shore speaks tide. The blind speak time!” Wink answered with a cackle, then slapped her knee.

“Leave the bitch,” Maelen growled, her fists clenched. “I’m in need of a meal and a bed.”

“Maelen, please,” Vessa said. “She got us to the Rift, didn’t she?”

“Which lined your pockets in gold, hm?” Wink smiled open-mouthed.

“Keep your bloody voice down!” Maelen hissed, eyes searching the square.

“But at what cost?” the old woman continued. Her face transformed into a tragic frown, and she seemed to be talking to herself more than Alric. “The darkness is spreading, threatening to blot out the sun. The boy will search for answers, but will he find them in time? Will his friends be strong enough to shine the lanterns and banish the shadows? I wouldn’t bet on it, alas. Doom comes.”

A chill shiver crept down Vessa’s spine at her words. Just then, someone with a high-pitched voice yelled, “Look!”

Vessa and the others in earshot raised their heads at the boy, who was no more than ten, in patched overalls at the far side of the square. He was pointing a thin finger westward. Vessa turned to look.

Clouds had gathered over the Greenwood Rise, darker than she could ever remember seeing. Even as she watched, open-mouthed, the black clouds bubbled and expanded over the hills, gathering ominously. Below the heavy clouds, ebon shadows engulfed the forest and began spreading out towards them on the plains. Trees darkened and vanished in the prowling black. Vessa had never seen distant clouds look so threatening or gather so quickly. People around them began murmuring and exclaiming at the coming storm. The parent of the boy who’d called out hustled him inside a nearby building.

“All things happen, in time,” Wink sighed dramatically, even as the square stirred with activity. “The lights go out, only to be lit again, someday, far from now.” She seemed to slump. “We did our best.”

“How do we stop him?” Alric urged, leaning in towards the blind woman. “What do we do, Wink?”

But Vessa saw the blind woman’s white eyes fill with tears, lost in thought. Her lips moved almost imperceptibly as she murmured something below hearing. The woman’s age-gnarled hands clutched between her knees, almost like prayer. In that moment, Vessa recalled vividly the time by the warm column of air, deep within the Starless Rift, when Maelen and Alric had been broken by their defeat. The prophet Wink had the same hopeless, distant feel, and Vessa wasn’t surprised when she didn’t even acknowledge Alric’s words. Once again, fear gripped Vessa’s spine as she felt the threat of helplessness creeping in from all sides.

“Let’s go, lad,” Maelen pulled Alric’s arm roughly, and he stumbled away. He seemed to come to the same conclusion as Vessa and, with a worried look back once more at the distant storm, limped to keep up. Vessa followed more reluctantly, pursing her lips and rubbing at her bent nose in agitation. She hurried her steps and caught her two companions just as Maelen threw open the door of the Brine Spoon.

Late that night, Vessa padded silently on bare feet across the hallway of the inn. As expected, they’d eaten their fish stew, she’d fended off the bartender’s inelegant advances, and she’d even enjoyed a rare sponge bath before bed to free herself of the grime and terror from their journey. Maelen had drunk too much ale and lay snoring on her back, still in her chain shirt. The warrior’s black mace lay at the bedside, close at hand.

Outside, the storm hammered at the Brine Spoon’s windows and roof, lashing rain and wind. Vessa thanked the Rootmother they were indoors, as sleeping in the mud during this night would have been harrowing at best. She could almost picture it, and shuddered.

The door across the hall was locked, but she’d brought her picks. It was a simple lock, and within several heartbeats it clicked. The wooden door’s hinges creaked annoyingly as she swung it open cautiously, but the buffeting storm helped dampen the noise. She paused, hesitated, almost turning back.

The room beyond was far smaller than her and Maelen’s. Square, with only a bed and wash basin as adornment, pegs on the wall for clothes and an unlit iron lantern. A single window rattled with the wind and rain, letting in little light. Even with Vessa’s adjusted night vision, the room was a smudge of vague shapes. There was a lump in the bed, which is what she’d expected. She closed the door softly and stealthily, then carefully approached the bed. Her heartbeat quickened.

“Alric,” she whispered lightly. The lump stirred and he mumbled something. She repeated his name.

“Vessa?” his baritone voice said groggily. “What’s happening?”

“Shhh,” she whispered, leaning close. “Everything’s fine. Listen: The innkeep said it’s the twenty-eighth, which means we missed the Sweet Requital.”

“Wh– what?” he mumbled, confused. She thought she could see him rubbing at his eyes in the gloom.

“It’s my favorite holiday,” she continued. “It must have been while we were underground. I lost track of the days, and now I realize we missed it.” She blew out a soft breath and moved closer. “With everything happening…” she paused, swallowed. “Well, I don’t know that we’ll see another one. So…”

She shrugged out of her shirt, pulling it over her head and trying not to cry out at the protest from her ribs and shoulder. Vessa lay a hand down upon where she thought his chest was. He utterly stilled, saying nothing. The window rattled at a particularly violent assault of wind and water.

Her hand pulled his blanket down slowly and his breath caught. She used the sound to lower her own lips to his. After a hesitant kiss, she whispered. “Just tonight. To banish the darkness.”

“Vessa…”

“Shh. Don’t overthink.”

The next kiss she gave him was not so hesitant.

Next: Haunted [with game notes]