"It feels like Malavarius isn't just remembering something now. I hear a tinge of resignation, but I can't place the whole of it. Is he beseeching Baba Yaga to do something he has been incapable of doing himself? I don't think hats have native languages..."
"....is Zeno his hat?"
Hektir’s eyes bulge with sudden realization. It was something he hadn’t realized before.
He spits. Is Mal a talented ventriloquist? This puts so many pieces together.
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Baba Yaga looks grimly at the old wizard and considers for a few pregnant moments. Finally she nods in assent and makes a shooing gesture.
Zeno takes wing, almost knocking Mal's hat off, as he starts flying away. It looks for a moment as if he's fleeing, especially as the Old Crone says a harsh word, causing a snap as if of magic itself breaking.
Zeno squawks as his feathers start falling off. A moment later, he starts growing ... and growing ... and growing, and it's clear he took flight not to escape but to make sure he didn't crush you. His beak seems to soften, becoming a tooth-filled snout, the white flesh under his former feathers seeming to shimmer as if surrounded by thousands of eddies of astral thought. His wings stretch out, the flesh stretching to thin membranes, and his tail elongates.
Soon enough, instead of the small thrush you've become accustomed to, a huge dragon stands instead.
he exults.
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Malavarius regards his transformed familiar with slack jawed surprise. ”Good heavens! Look at you, Zeno! You’re enormous! Jumping Jehoshaphat, I thought you were some young little wyrmling who’d gotten in over his head. But you- you’re positively gigantic!”
The old wizard then leans over to look around Zeno’s leg and at Baba Yaga. When he meets her gaze, he nods solemnly, ”Thank you kindly, madam.”
His shock fading, he turns back to Zeno and walks around the dragon with undisguised astonishment. ”I have never seen your like in all my years, old friend. How did you ever come to be a little thrush knocking on my window, hmm? Bah, never mind. That’s not important.“ At this point, Malavarius comes to a stop before Zeno’s front and he looks up at the horned head now far above him. ”Well, it’s good to truly meet you at last, Zeno.”
"Holy missing hats, Mister Malavarius!" Pems backpedals and falls flat on his arse. "What the?!? Why the?!? HOW?!?"
Hektir takes in a deep breath. His mouth dries up, having no saliva with which to spit.
Holy piddlespot.
He looks at Mal, then at Zeno, then back at Mal. He slowly back away from Mal, expecting some sort of dragony retribution to be breathed upon the old man and not wanting to get caught in the blast.
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"We could have had a dragon fighting for us, this whole time..?" Tsin shoots Malavarius an imploring look, though she resigns herself to never knowing truly what just occurred before them all.
"Zeno!" Quinn beams cheerily upward at the massive dragon. "I'm sure we can make a nice nest for you on the tavern's roof. You're welcome to stay with us, old chum!"
Baba Yaga lets the frivolity go on for a moment, but then clears her throat.
"If you're all ready, I have a lot to catch up on. Unless you'd rather stay here than return to Golarion, after all?"
”Nah, I’m ready to go back to my summer. I ain’t stayin’ here,” Hektir spits and prepares to place himself under a witch’s power for hopefully the last time.
"I'm well and truly done here. I hope never to return to your Kurgan, Mistressmine, though I will no doubt comply, should you order it." Tsin begins taking a mental inventory, expecting that they'll still have a moment or two before everyone parts ways, upon their return to Golarion.
"I am most certainly, absolutely, and positively ready for summer! Magic might keep the cold from freezing our toes off, but it's no substitute for a warm and lazy summer day."
"I'm ready to head back. I'll miss our time in your Hut-realm, getting nearly murdered again and again and again. Ah memories..."
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Malavarius and Zeno fall into a rather fast paced back-and-forth discussion revolving around the potency of a curse that can turn an astral dragon into a thrush and the wizard's ability to suss out the truth of the matter on his own.
"Little wizard? I beg your pardon! Just because you're mouth's as big as your talk again doesn't mean I'm helpless! Good grief!"
"Well no one said you had to leave just because you're not a shrill little bird any longer you- you- you infuriating iguana!"
"Bah! What I'm trying to say is that there's a clock tower in Whitethrone that's been dragonless for some time and that it'd make for a much finer roost than my hat or my staff!"
The two volley back and forth for a little while longer before they're interrupted, drawing a joint "WHAT?" and from the pair.
Malavarius smooths his beard down his front and bumbles through a quick apology before nodding, "Oh! Oh yes, yes, of course! To Golarion at last!"
Baba Yaga gestures and a moment later you find yourselves back in Whitethrone, in the ice palace. Anastasia appears next to you, eyes wide as she suddenly finds herself in a new, strange place.
"Now then, my former Riders. Our time together is done, our obligations to each other finished," she says, dismissing you.
She turns to Tsin.
"As for you, we have work to do. Let us begin..."
Pems turns to the awestruck girl and speak in slow and steady Russian. "So, there's some things we need to discuss. It's about your future and whether you choose to become a Queen, or create your own life. Either way, I am Pemsworth Smith and I will be here to help you. So, first let's talk about the Throne of Irrisen and what the cost is for one hundred years of rule..." He takes her aside and begins the process of explanation. He anticipates this might take a while...
”Where are we?” Hektir asks, looking around. ”Oh, we back in Whitethrone?” Hektir brrs. ”Can’t wait to leave this place, but want to make sure you’re set here Pems. I hate to leave you in a lurch and if this isn’t what you want, we’ll get out of here.”
Hektir may or may not like the not-gnome, but he’s loyal because of all the things they have done together.
”Say Pems. And if you’re set here, are you...are you keeping Flash still? I haven’t seen him around much.”
The hare poked his head out of Pems' backpack and made a coughing sound. Pems laughed and shook his head. "He says he's been keeping out of sight because you always look hungry. I think you make him nervous, Hektir. And yes, I think I'm set here. There will be a lot of work to do, but I think we'll be up to it. But I'll keep in touch. And if you ever feel the urge to visit the North, I'll be here!"
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Tsin regards her fellow journeymen one last time. She sees bright futures for each of them, though some futures come to an end sooner than others.
"And if you ever feel the urge to visit the North, I'll be here!"
"We'll hold you to that, Adviser. Do your best to council a queen who will find no reason to take your head, and you should be just fine."
With Quinn and Hektir, she takes some comfort that they'll at least have each other, and will return to their rutting season armed with a Traveling Tavern which must certainly have bedposts to notch. "Quinn, your presence has been a supreme comfort. Perhaps I was overly confident, knowing that you were about, so I will have to adjust my expectations during future conflicts. Unless one of my fellow Riders has your capacity to restore life, as you have." Tsin smiles politely at Hektir, understanding very little of his new motivations, him having failed to ask Baba Yaga for anything that would give them away. "Look after our Quinn, Hektir. There is method in his madness, and you'll have a longer life if you remain his constant companion."
Lastly, Tsin approaches Malavarius. She brushes a couple of stray greys from his shoulder, before settling on his countenance. "I would call you a strange bird, master Malavarius, but that ship has sailed, has it not? A wizened chameleon, maybe? So many colors..." Tsin looks over his shoulder, and up into Zeno's reptilian eyes, before returning to look at the elder wizard. "I worry about you the least, now. When a wyrm worries about you, you will be well looked after. I have enjoyed our conversations, and will remember you fondly. I know not how much longer you have to live. You could have asked Baba Yaga to become fey yourself, rather than free Zeno, which undoubtedly speaks to your character. Should my nature ever grow powerful enough for me to bestow the luck of a long life, you may find me on your doorstep to offer it. Until then, heed your dragon's counsel, unless you find yourself the target of a curse which turns you into sparrow against your will. Then, perhaps, take his advice with a grain of salt."
...
Tsin lets the color in her face subside a little, before stepping from the heavily forested acre behind her family's estate. She understands Baba Yaga's impatience, but it would only be a handful of minutes for what she was asking. She only wished the witch's temper would, well, temper a bit, given that she would likely never see her family again.
Striding across the lawn in the moonlight, she arrives at the stable, where she finds both Orwyne and Melisande waiting for her. No one else, as promised. The evening air is biting, but it refreshes the Rider while it chills her sisters. Orwyne is quick to see the change, the opalescent color of Tsin's irises first, then the strange litheness in her frame when they hug. She gives both of them a succinct recounting of her journey, then presents them with several items. The Hyperboreal Robe, a miniature fey crossbow, a mantis eye shard, and the Snowshoes of Northern Pursuit. Every item produced makes her feel like she needs to produce another in support of her wild tales, but she realizes the time draws nigh.
Both sisters step in for another pair of hugs. Melisande recognizes the otherness of her once human sister, so disengages from their embrace in a polite window of time. Orwyne the Younger tries desperately to hold onto her older sister. She yelps in surprise, as Tsin slips from the hug like a greased pig. The Rider wiggles her finger, demonstrating her prized Ring, and laughs lightly to ease the furrow in her sister's brow.
She exacts only one promise- that they each stay true to themselves. She promises them nothing in return, only whispering a hope that someday, they may once again enjoy each other's company, however fleeting.
Tsin does her best not to look back, squeezing her eyes with only the lids, to clear the welling tears. She will not let the witch easily know her sorrow. She steps through Baba Yaga's doorway, and returns to her Mistress in Whitethrone.
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Malavarius smiles warmly at Tsin, "Ah, my dear. Earning these aches and wrinkles was troublesome enough the first time through, I'm not about to go through the rigors of earning them all over again." He then holds her at arm's length, with a hand on each of her shoulders, and his warm smile softens with sorrow. "You have been a steadfast and faithful companion, Tsin. I will miss having your strong shoulders and shining sword to lean upon but, more than anything, I will miss your company. Do be well, my dear."
Moving down the line, the wizened old mage comes before Hektir. His bushy eyebrows bunch upon his brow and he purses his lips beneath his beard as he considers the tracksmage for a few moments. "Hektir, we've certainly had our differences, lad. You've been crude and rude and positively unbearable, but we'd have failed in our aims time and time again without your strength to carry us through. Golarion is the better today because of you. And at least half our number wouldn't have made it out of our fight with Rasputin if it weren't for you. You're the finest and most gifted Tracksmage in all the world, Hektir. Don't you forget it, but don't let it go to your head, either." He wags his finger at this last comment, a wry smile playing at his lips and a twinkle in his eye.
Turning to Quinn, Malavarius shakes his head in bewilderment. "Cayden must be well pleased with you, my boy. All those prayers and offerings and ales and he saw fit to grant you a whole new liver after we'd finished with that devil Rasputin." He grins, patting the cleric on the shoulder before he turns more earnest. "I can think of no good advice to offer you, Quinn. Cayden has led you well thus far and I trust he'll remain worthy of you, your worship, and your service. Enjoy your adventures and your tavern, my boy, you've more than earned it."
At the last, Malavarius approaches Pemsworth with a nod. "And to think, not all that long ago you were a simple locksmith, Master Pemsworth. You've come into your own lad, and it's got nothing to do with the new skin you wear. As I said back in the kurgan, if you would like and accept my company, I would be quite happy to help you and young Anastasia for as long as you'll have me."
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Quinn's normal cheer is dampened by the departure of his companions. It felt like they had been together for years and he would miss each of them.
"All of you have to come stay at the tavern! This can't be the last time we see each other! Pems, you can bring the new queen, the exposure to other cultures and customs will increase her wisdom as a ruler, and you can get away from the foolishness of a royal court! Mal, you're like a dad to me, maybe really a dad to me, you and Zeno are always welcome! I'll make sure you have a special chair by the fire and your very own hat hook, so no one can walk off with your good hat! Zeno, we can start building your roof nest right away, just say the word! Tsin, a rider will need a place to stay on their travels, and when your service is up in a hundred years I'll still be wandering the realm and I'll have a room waiting for you! Hektir, don't even think about going wild, that's our tavern, buddy! We can wander where ever you need to go, and surely find you a wife along the way." Quinn embraces each of the companions and presses upon them a bottle of moonshine to remember the cleric.
The Dancing Tavern exceeded Quinn's hopes. Two giant, skinny chicken legs supported the small two story structure built of solid timbers with a high peaked roof. Thick paned windows with shutters and beautiful wooden trim work spoke to the northern architecture. From a small front porch extended a stairway and as Quinn approached the giant chicken legs crouched bringing the steps to ground level. Breathless with excitement Quinn climbed the few stairs and pushed open the door to his new tavern. No light spilled out, no warmth flowed from the open door. The smell of dust and cedar prevailed without a hint of beer or wine. Quinn walked in slowly, like Baba Yaga's hut it was lager inside than it appeared from the outside, but not extravagantly so. The main room was cozy with a large rock fireplace that sat empty and cold. The bar was a wonder of carving and craftsmanship, it's beautiful designs and surface covered in a thick layer of dust. The kitchen and larder were cramped and bereft of food. The upstairs contained eight small rooms and two large rooms, all bare and unfurnished. Quinn grinned with joy as he understood the new path that Cayden had placed before him. "Though my divine gifts are now great, this new task will challenge me in ways I've never been tested! Come on, Hektir, this will be great fun!" Full of enthusiasm Quinn rolled up the sleeves on his noodley arms and set off to gather firewood as he began the quest against his greatest adversary and fear, Hard Work.
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Tsin was the first to depart, almost immediately after you all return to Whitethrone with Baba Yaga, followed several days later by Quinn. He meant to stay longer, to make sure Anastasia was safely on the throne, but nature -- specifically his nature -- called. Whether he got drunk and forgot his plans to stay, or the Dancing Tavern had a mind of its own, he never said, but one day he was simply no longer there, and reports started coming of wild carousing in the countryside, before stopping altogether as he left Irrisen for parts unknown.
Pems, Hektir and Mal remained in the capital, taking the young queen under their wing – literally at times in Zeno’s case. Their impressive stature smoothed the ice for the immigrant sovereign, helping her get her footing as she learned just how real magic was, and that trolls were not merely some story they told of creatures coming to eat bad children.
Soon enough, the days became weeks, and Hektir decided Queen Anasatia was perfectly capable of taking care of herself – especially if she wasn’t even going to listen to him! – and he was the next to depart, heading for the warmer climes of Heldren (where he resolutely stayed out of the War for the Crown that soon broke out; it was certainly silly the idea that a woman would lead the empire, he thought, but as she was unlikely to change the temperature, he couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it).
Warm nights in the south and cold nights in Irrisen passed, one after the other, many with Pems and Mal relaxing together, sharing reminisces in Mal’s extraplanar tower when Anastasia didn’t require their counsel. Soon enough, the weeks became months as they laughed over their good times and mourned the absence of their three companions, even as they wondered what Tsin was up to and whether they would ever see her again.
She did not return – though Hektir and Quinn made their way back – for the wedding, as Anastasia conducted a ceremony for her primary adviser and the white-haired winter wolf woman who’d not forgotten him, or cared about his changed form (though it did take some time for her to forgive him for not keeping their first date, something she’d never let him forget). In truth, she hadn’t noticed the difference at all after the shortness of their first meeting, a source of amusement for the two. The four old friends celebrated, not knowing it would be the last time they would ever do so together.
More months passed, becoming years. A handful of those later, the friends reunited, this time for a much sadder occasion. As he’d wished, despite his magics and a boon that could have given him more time, Mal passed peacefully in Zeno’s watchtower, sleeping with his beloved hat on his head after a rousing final argument in which he again resorted to calling the dragon names in stuttering faux rage. The great wyrm let out an echoing roar – bringing the entire city to a sudden stop, before taking to the skies. When he returned, shortly after Hektir and Quinn responded to his summons, he was accompanied by the swordswoman. They shed tears together as Anastasia laid Malavarius King to rest with royal honors, declaring the day of his passing would be a day of mourning every year in Irrisen. His ice-jeweled tomb bore a graven image of the man, his eyes twinkling and his hat of course placed prominent in an icy block on display. Zeno took flight afterward, soaring across the city, before heading for the clouds. None of the companions ever saw the dragon again.
The sadness was enough for Hektir, who’d never been good at dealing with his emotions, to decide it was in fact time to change. He returned to Heldren, where he managed to persuade the lovely Xanthippe of his interest and his good character. The two married in a ceremony led this time by Quinn (and disrupted only slightly by Hektir having to turn briefly into a wolf to yell at Pems’ children, who were acting up in the absence of their mother, who’d stayed behind to deal with an incursion from the Lands of the Linnorm Kings).
More years passed, and eventually the years became decades. And time, as it does, worked its sad magic. Only two of the companions – the elves Pems and Quinn – were present when they laid Hektir to rest next to his beloved wife, his many, many children and grandchildren clustered around to witness and see the subjects of so many stories, the two people who he resolutely kept alive. This time, Tsin remained absent, and the two mourned more, certain that she must have come to the same fate as the original Black Rider who set their feet on the strange path they trod not too far from where they were laying Hektir to rest. Pems found distraction in an odd fashion as one of his grandsons who’d accompanied him seemed to take a liking to one of Hektir’s granddaughters who had picked up the tracksmage’s teachings. He was too busy making sure the puppy love didn’t go any further to be truly sad.
Finally, decade after decade passed and Pems – forlorn after his own wife joined his best friends in Pharasma’s realm and no longer truly needed by Anastasia’s descendants – found his way to the Dancing Tavern, where Quinn sought to cheer him. The two drunken elves were alone, drinking, not even sure where they were. Somewhere warm, which made it strange when the door banged open and a chill breeze blew in, causing even Pems’ skin to prickle for a moment. All too soon, though, it seemed to warm again, the chill dissipating as they tried to focus on the newcomer.
”Hello, my old friends,” said a familiar voice, their vision clearing to show them a still-youthful woman encumbered by many weapons. ”Let me tell you what I have seen…”