Osric you awaken, though you do not recall falling asleep. Then, you feel a bruised throbbing on the back of your skull. You realize there is a dark burlap sack over your head.
"Take it off." A familiar voice.
The sack is removed. You wince at the bright room - several candles blur in your aching vision. As the room comes into focus, you see two figures: Capo Grosso, and Pilgar. Grosso, holding a crude sap in his hand, bows slightly to Pilgar. "Just 'oller if 'e needs anotha beating."
Pilgar looks at you a long moment, a sad smile on his lips. When he is sure you are fully aware, he says, "Wish that wasn't necessary, old friend. But no one knows better than me how stubborn you can be." He sighs.
"You've made a big mess of things. Had to have Fatty head off one assassination attempt and bring you to me instead. I'm confident there will be more such attempts."
He lays his hands on the table, palms down. "Like I said, I know you're stubborn, but I hope you're willing to listen."
"I have a job offer for you."
Osric tries to laugh at the situation, but that just makes his head hurt more. "Ha-oww! Was the drubbing really necessary?"
He tries to blink away flashing lights in his vision, convinced he has a concussion. "You're really quite clever, old friend. I never once suspected you of being a criminal element, though in retrospect it explains a lot. Good on you."
he rubs the back of his head, checking for bleeding. "Thanks for saving my life, I guess, though I would've preferred a gentler touch. I do work for hire, of course. My rates are reasonable, and my track record of results has been rather brazen as of late. Surely you wouldn't come to me for anything overtly illegal, but then, you wouldn't have come to me at all unless you thought it was something I was uniquely positioned to be able to accomplish for you. If I had to guess, I'd say you'd like me to infiltrate whatever the new version of the watch is, and inform on it for you. Am I far off?"
He looks around the room, trying to get a feel for where he's being held. "I'm willing to listen to what you have to say, but you must know I'm not keen on corruption as a concept."
Fi blinks, this seems a big decision to make on the fly - but she did not think Locatelli would respond well to a request for time to think.
What did she have to lose, a name? Was she attached to Incarna, it would never have been her place to keep it anyway. She would not have objected to marrying to power, so why her concerns about this? It simply removes an unnecessary step... it would seem her decision is obvious.
"I am too old to be anyone's little girl and I seem to attract more trouble than I'm able to solve - though not for lack of trying... but if you accept me I will swear to take on your name and uphold its honour."
"I... what?" Odebie is stunned for a moment, rocked speechless by the Lieutenant's sudden arrival and his own equally sudden promotion. "Where would we even start?"
Slowly, things begin to fall into place. The power of compartmentalizing. "We have larger problems as well. Find who you can from the other watches and have them meet at the guardhouse; I need to go see about a tree and an elemental rift."
Dove nods, and runs off. Odebie, you make your way back to the tree. It is a few feet larger than the last time you saw it.
"Tribe of Kings! I have plans to get rid of that metallic abomination, do not fret! Have you come to tend the soil?"
"What abomination? And what was that... vision... you gave us before?"
"The iron...ringing...what is it? Bell! Yes, the iron bell. Forged from the bones of little ones like yourself! The vision you saw was their boneless souls, suffering in purgatory! As I said, I have...planted the seeds to take care of that problem. Have you come to tend the soil?"
Fi, Signore Locatelli laughs heartily and says, "I would not ask a little girl to be my heir." He gestures toward Volcano, and the Temple. He looks into your eyes, intently. "Let us do this thing, before Volcano and his land!" He takes his sword and cuts his palm. He holds his bleeding hand out to you, expectantly.
Byron sighs.
"I will go," he says, uncharacteristically briefly.
"Yes."
Fiordelise nods, slicing her own palm, before gripping his hand "Bound by blood before Volcano and Hearth."
Fi, Locatelli grasps your hand hard, and you return his grip with equal strength. He grins again, brimming with exuberence. ”Set your affairs to order in your erstwhile home, then you and your brother will come to be Locatellis. Honor like steel!” He walks off, his long stride making little puffs in the snow.
---
Karina gives no explanation as she takes her packed bags to the door. Enzo asks no questions as he politely opens the door. A quick peck on the cheek, almost sisterly. The door clicks shut. The house is empty...
And the bottle on the table is full. He remembers the blood. The terror. And his promise to himself. His right hand makes a trembling fist. Enzo hurls the bottle against the wall with a shout, red wine splattering on the white paint.
---
Elfie sits quietly at her desk. With a small gesture, the sylph makes a gentle breeze, causing the dozens of windchimes to tinkle twinkle ting.
Smiling to herself, she goes back to her work. After everything that has happened over the last several weeks, she is painfully aware of how short and precious life can be. She does not know how to express herself with words, so music will have to do. Slowly, with patient precision, she scratches down several more notes. The flute part is done.
She writes the title across the top. Not very original, but she never claimed to be a writer: Elfie's Love Song.
Odebie, the dirt beneath you suddenly gives way. You feel a friendly 'well, let's be on with it then!' radiate from the tree. You communicate your fears about the rift as you burrow down. The tree sends you pictures: roots are making their way to the boundaries of the rift, slowly surrounding it. You are filled with gentle reassurances that all will be right, as long as the soil is tended.
Down you go. You have a vague map of the tree's root system in your mind now – it seems to be covering half the Steam (Root?) Slums already. After you pass the majority of the thick roots, only the tap root remains. Encouraged by the tree, you follow it down, down down...
You are deeper underground than you have ever been before.
Down, down, down...
Time seems suspended. You wonder how long you have been burrowing. You are surprised by an image of Dove – he has not even arrived at the Dims Watch yet.
Down, down, down...
It is difficult to tell, but you seem to be gaining speed, propelled by the gnarled tap root in some way.
Finally, you break through a hard-pack ceiling. You fall, but a soft pile of dirt softens the impact. You are in a cavern, or a stone tunnel. The tap root hangs from the ceiling.
An elen, thirty feet away, lets out a happy cry. In broken Oread, he says, ”You, come from the burning bright!” He gestures reverently toward the tap root. ”Finger of God told us the tale!”
He inches closer, as if afraid of offending you. As he approaches, you notice his odd appearance. The...oread? is completely bald, and his beard resembles small stalactites. His pale brown skin is covered in a variety of fungal blooms: tiny caps on his neck, flat leaves on his arms, and even some that resemble red puckered flowers on the backs of his hands.
In those hands, he holds an intricately carved bone. ”Come! Come! Tell us how to tend the soil!”
Byron, Instra...smiles. For a moment, she looks like a grandmother, delighted to see her grandson taking his first steps. Then her face collapses into frowning calculation. She nods. ”Very good. There is no time to waste.”
She quickly gathers her things from her office, including a generous supply of invisibility and flight potions. She ties a cord around her wrist and yours. ”Nothing sinister, I simply don't want us to become separated.”
Instra gives brief instructions to the silver golem to meet at a specified location in six hours. The rounded figure turns, and walks toward the exit, showing distorted reflections of the chairs, tables, and windows.
Imbibing the clear, cold potions, you silently fly over the city with Instra. You almost feel like cwmwl yourself – a cloud drifting in the winter wind. The Temple, the statue of the Cauldron Lady, and the entire city slowly fade from view. Miles of wheat and barley stretch in every direction.
You think of Eldon, and wonder what awaits you in Light.
Osric, Pilgar says nothing for a moment. He is assessing your words, and your body language. Those little hints of the mind behind the landlord facade have always been there...you briefly muse on the power of expectations and assumptions.
”Still with me? Good. I don't want you for the Watch – every guard in a ten mile radius knows your face, and you haven't exactly been making friends lately.” He laughs, not unkindly.
”No, I'm talking about infiltrating a different organization entirely. It's a real challenge, and a risk – the two things in life you seem to actually enjoy.”
He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket. ”And you know what they say...the sylph's curse,” he unfolds the paper, and smooths it on the table, ”is curiosity.”
On the paper is the smiling rune.
Smeared on the obsidian wall is the smiling rune. The sacred room, where the most delicate sacrifices are held, has become a charnel house. Dead ifrit inquisitors are heaped into indiscriminate piles. Satisfied with his work, Inquisitor Người Kỳ lạ magicks the filth from his robes, and walks out into the early bright. There is more to be done.
There are other cities to help.