[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]