[game-notes version here]

XXXI.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please!” he hissed.

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

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

“Vessa,” Alric offered. “Velthorn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next: Two Days [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXXI.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please!” he hissed.

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

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

“Vessa,” Alric offered. “Velthorn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next: Two Days [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

XXX.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You!” he gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Maelen punched him straight in the face.

Next: Brannic Sootward [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXX.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You!” he gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Maelen punched him straight in the face.

Next: Brannic Sootward [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

XXIX.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s this, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vessa grinned. “Thank you for your sacrifice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next: Surprises [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXIX.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s this, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vessa grinned. “Thank you for your sacrifice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next: Surprises [with game notes]

[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]