[game-notes version here]

X.

Frostmere 17, Stillday, Year 731.

A twig cracked nearby. Alric froze, hand reaching for his staff as he listened into the darkness. Nothing. He exhaled but his eyes still searched the surrounding mists.

The scribe sat with his back against a tree. Insects chittered and nightbirds called out mournfully, both sounds distorted by the fog. If he concentrated on it, he could hear Vessa lightly snoring nearby, curled on her side atop a bedroll. He groaned as he pushed himself up wearily, then shuffled his way to Maelen.

The warrior had remained unconscious all day. He knelt, frowning, and listened to her shallow, inconsistent breathing. With his waterskin, Alric dribbled a few drops onto her lips and into the small gap of her open mouth. It was all he or Vessa could do. That and get her to a true healer.

All day and evening, they had dragged Maelen’s litter through the hills of the Greenwood Rise. Her condition had not improved over that time, though neither had it obviously deteriorated. She lay on her back, motionless atop the drag-sled made from scavenged wood, rope, and a Lanternless cloak. Maelen’s scabbarded sword stretched to one side of her, and that alien black mace stretched across the other. Vessa had wrapped the spiked head of the weapon with a second cloak.

Alric pressed fingers to Maelen’s neck. The pulse was there, slow and sporadic. He sighed and returned to sit against the tree, lowering himself painfully.

Every muscle in Alric’s body screamed with exhaustion. But, he mused, perhaps they had successfully evaded Sarin and the Lanternless. Perhaps they would indeed find their way back to Oakton and survive this whole ordeal, safe within the walls of the city. Perhaps, the thought crept in… he’d done it.

For the first time in days, Alric allowed himself to fully reflect on what he’d accomplished. Thanks to his sharp wit and ability to see connections in obscure texts, he had discovered the existence and location of Thornmere Hold. Then, through his Lodge connections, he’d found two trustworthy mercenaries with the skills to find the Hold, offer protection, and break into its inner vault. Moreover, he’d paid them with coin he’d pilfered from his family’s meager holdings, promising more that he didn’t possess.

Alric felt a pang of guilt about that last part, but the gods had seen the matter resolved. Before they’d camped last night, Vessa had dragged the chests from the vault into the glade. There, they’d counted more money than he’d ever seen. The group’s coin purses now bulged heavily, Vessa and Maelen taking the gold and most of the silver. It left Alric with almost seventy thorns for his own purse, plus handfuls of oaks, more than enough to return the money to his family. It was a miraculous thing, to have gambled his inheritance for this mad quest, only to find himself richer for it. He’d had a far more convoluted plan brewing that would allow him to escape the final payment to the mercenaries, but his scheming had proved unnecessary. This entire adventure was an example of why it was best to be bold, then worry about the consequences later.

Vessa hadn’t spoken much all day. It seemed obvious that she had been equal parts giddy at their sudden treasure trove, concerned for Maelen’s well-being, and vigilant against possible threats within the wilds. There was companionship in their shared silence, however. Although she still smelled faintly like a sewer, Alric found himself increasingly fond of the hired thief, Vessa Velthorn. Indeed, he found her sharp features and lithe figure haunting his idle thoughts, and he couldn’t shake the vivid memory of the fierce hug she’d given him. On some level, he knew his attraction was borne from their survival in the face of danger, but it made the feelings no less real. Too often, his eyes lingered on her bent nose and freckled cheeks, wondering what it might be like to kiss those full lips. Alric shook his head grimly. Thoughts for a later day, to be sure.

He flicked open the satchel at his waist. A chill ran down his spine, and for the whisper of a moment he thought he heard something. He snapped his gaze up, listened, but sensed nothing.

Shadows and the night veiled the satchel’s contents, but Alric knew that inside was a small, black leatherbound book. The Tome of Unlit Paths, its title, was written within, in a looping, ancient script that he could decipher with moderate effort. Just briefly flipping through its heavy parchment pages, Alric felt confident that he would expand his understanding of magic significantly with time to fully absorb its contents. He had thus far been tapping into mysterious forces purely on instinct, yet this book would help guide and train him, he was sure of it. He had, he knew with certainty, finally found a teacher to develop his gifts.

The trick would be to avoid its corruption, for he guessed that it was the Tome for which the vault in Thornmere Hold was built, not the black-metal mace, stacks of coin, or the magical scrolls that now lay rolled into his scroll case. It was a theory he had not shared with Vessa, and a topic he hoped to avoid. Within the vault, the book had been bound in its own case of black wood and was the only chest that had been locked. Indeed, his working theory was that it was this book alone that had so twisted the bodies of the two knights entombed within the Hold. Perhaps it was the call of the book that had prevented Sarin from dying long ago, and instead birthed him as the Night Captain. Perhaps even, if his theory about the Tome’s power was correct, a common spider had been unwittingly sealed within the vault, and the eyeless monster Vessa had killed was the result of a century in the book’s presence. All these horrors shared certain traits that made them seem disciples of this… demon, this Orthuun, the Blind Sovereign. Their sightless eyes and silent manner, for example. There were connections here, threads on a tapestry that Alric couldn’t fully comprehend yet. But, with the Tome of Unlit Paths, he now possessed a tool with which to understand.

Then, once filled with the knowledge found therein, he would bury or burn the book and be rid of its demonic influence. After all, hadn’t the corruption he’d witnessed occurred over a hundred years or more? He only needed days with it, no more than a week.

He clung to his vow: be bold, worry later. Thus far, this approach had served him well. Indeed, his life felt blessed by Oakton’s gods. Though Alric was no Nametakers priest, it was as if the Herald himself was using Alric as his mortal instrument for preserving history and uncovering the power within knowledge. The events that had led him here, to the Tome, against all odds, very well could be divine providence.

Amidst his musing, Tatter the mouse crept out from another belt pouch and scampered across Alric’s lap. It looked at him, small eyes twinkling in the moonlight, and squeaked once. Alric smiled and ran a finger across its skull to the base of its furry neck. The fact that the mouse had survived its time with Maelen and her violent lifestyle was its own miracle. At first, he’d thought the idea of a traveling pet for mercenaries bizarre, but Tatter’s presence was comforting, especially after brushes with horror and darkness. He was happy to have the mouse accompany him until Maelen awoke.

Tatter squeaked again, this time with some distress. In a flash, it scampered to his belt pouch and disappeared. Alric blinked and tensed, scanning the darkened campsite and listening intently.

All sounds had ceased. No nightbirds called out. No insect chittered. No trees groaned and cracked in the breeze. Everything had grown still and silent, much like the glade surrounding Thornmere Hold. Patchy mists drifted all around, gilded by silvery moonlight from above, the trees standing like dark, mute sentinels.

Vessa lay three strides away, too far to shake awake. Alric found his throat constricted with sudden fear, unwilling to call out and draw attention to himself. Slowly, slowly, he returned the black book to its pouch—when had he removed it?—and reached for his staff.

The light in the campsite dimmed noticeably. Alric glanced up, and his eyes went wide. The moon had begun to turn black, as if someone had spilled ink upon a white dinner plate. The blackness crept inexorably across its celestial surface, until it was nothing but a black circle, limned ever so subtly in white against the night sky. Was he still awake? His pounding heart insisted he was.

Maelen shifted, the first movement he’d seen from her since the battle with Sarin. Her face twisted as if in pain, her body twitching. It looked as if she were moaning in agony, but Alric could hear nothing.

He pushed himself stiffly up, leaning his staff into the forest floor, his back still against the rough bark of a tree. Once he’d fully stood, the mists parted to reveal dark figures moving outside the campsite. There were four of them that he could see, each tall, black silhouettes, faces hidden beneath heavy cloaks and each holding an unlit lantern. Had Sarin returned, with a host of Nightwights? Alric’s eyes rolled in terror, his breath catching. Knuckles white on his staff, he shuffled through the fallen leaves and dirt towards the silent procession. Why he moved forward and not to wake Vessa, he couldn’t say. He would only later realize that his movements made no sound, as if he’d been struck deaf.

The four figures passed by, moving in loping, smooth steps. Alric stood, heart hammering, as they proceeded through the mists, never looking at him. The mountain fog enveloped the procession, one by one, until the last in line remained. Only then did it turn its shadowed, hooded head to look at him. Alric could do nothing but stare as it raised a white, bony hand to point in his direction. Then it too was gone.

Moonlight gradually brightened the woods, and with it the sounds of insects and nightbirds. Alric heard his own gasping, panting breath as he sunk to one knee. Then he vomited into the fallen leaves.

He did not wake Vessa for her watch. As the forest slowly awakened with sound, Alric’s heart pounded and worry gnawed at what the visitation might mean.

Frostmere 18, Moonday, Year 731.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Alric wheezed. He paused for the hundredth time that day to mop his brow and stretch his back.

Proceeding down the hill towards the Root Road had been far easier than traveling up the Greenwood Rise, but keeping Maelen’s unconscious form safe on the way down had been harrowing. He and Vessa were both bruised, bloody from whipping branches, and filthy. To make matters worse, today the fog had settled overhead into a thin, dismal rain. His hair clung to his face and neck, his robes hung heavy, damp, and muddy. Every muscle, tendon, and bone in his body ached with weariness and the need to rest, his lamed leg most of all.

“What is it?” Vessa asked. Without her hair, moisture collected in her eyebrows and spilled down her face. The thief already had the habit of rubbing at her bent nose, but today she also constantly shook her head like a dog to free it of water.

“We’re close,” Alric sighed, nodding with his chin to the road. “Here is where you’d turn up the hills to Skywarden Tower. If it were a clear day, I suspect we’d be able to see the Argenoak already.”

“Great,” Vessa smiled, then shook her head, spraying droplets of water. “I need a warm fire, a dry blanket, and a bed.”

Unwittingly, the vision of a tall, cloaked figure pointing a bony finger at him filled Alric’s mind. He winced and banished the image.

“That makes two of us,” He said wearily. Then, before they began dragging the litter once more, he asked, “What will you do now? With the gold?”

“Mm,” Vessa mused. “Get Maelen a proper healer first, of course. Then… well, we have debts.”

Alric scoffed. “Surely not more debt than you have gold, now?”

Vessa shrugged a thin, pale shoulder. She’d used her cloak to reinforce Maelen’s litter so was unprotected from the rain and chill of the day. “I guess we’ll see. And you’re sure you’re fine with us keeping the gold and mace?”

Alric cocked a grin. “If it will help your debts, yes. I have little need for gold once our expedition is done. I have the scrolls and book, which is more than I could have hoped for.”

Vessa shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve never met a person who refused gold, but I’m thankful for it. Mae will be too. So… that’s what next for you? Reading in an uncomfortable chair in a cramped room somewhere by candlelight?”

“That’s right,” then added somewhat defensively. “It’s a nicer vision than you make it sound.”

She smiled with white teeth, and his attraction stirred. Vessa looked like a drowned cat in this weather, but it made her no less lovely. “If you say so.”

“When Maelen is recovered,” Alric said, returning the smile. “Let’s have dinner, the three of us.”

“Done,” she nodded. “Now let’s get going. It’s not getting drier or warmer out here.”

“And you’re paying!” Alric added as he leaned to pick up his side of the litter.

She laughed. It was a wonderful sound, her laugh, full of surprise and wit, and utterly genuine.

The sound almost pushed the ominous foreboding of the night before out of his mind.

Almost… but the image of that cloaked procession… the pointing white finger… the blackened moon. Those images still sat there, etched into his waking thoughts, all through the dreary slog to Oakton.   

END STORY 1: THORNMERE HOLD

Next: Level 2 (warning: all game notes)

Then: A Message For Alric [with game notes]