Sarenith 23, 4719
evening
I don’t even know what I’m supposed to put in this thing, so I asked Iskaryn, since this was her idea, and she answered, “The truth,” whatever that is supposed to mean. As that was not a helpful response, I followed it up with, “The truth about what?” and she gave me this funny look—and yes, I know she’s a bird, don’t ask me how I know it’s a funny look, I just know—and she said, “About how you feel. About your experiences.”
Except she knows I don’t want to talk about any of those things—I just want to forget most of it—so I said as much, and she just pointed out that this is how I got here. I didn’t have a response to that. Then it hit me: I was being lectured about the healing power of journaling by a magical bird that can’t even read or write.
And I must have said that out loud because she retorted, “I can do both,” and I just stared at her blankly, because what do you say to that? Which she took as a challenge, and proceeded to demonstrate it to me, promptly scratching out the Sylvan equivalent of “See? I told you so” in the dirt. Which is when I realized there was no escaping this trap she has set for me. And, yes, Iskaryn, I know you are reading over my shoulder as I’m writing this, and please stop it.
She objects to me characterizing it as a trap, and insists that this journal, or diary, or whatever I want to call it, was merely a suggestion.
Here’s what she means by “suggestion”: We’re at this trading post where the river—yes, that river—joins the Profit’s Flow, and I’m trying to buy food and water so I don’t starve over the next few days, and because I need a change from living hand to mouth in the wild. She lands on this book with an oil-skinned cover and starts shrieking at me. I try to shoo her away, and she comes back to it and does it again. This repeats a couple more times, and the shopkeeper, who apparently sees birds do this every day because he doesn’t even flinch, says, “I think they want you to buy that.”
Which, of course they would say that, because it’s expensive and they’d love nothing more than for me to give them money. And I’m looking at how many coins I have and realizing, sure, I could get this and a reed pen, or I could maybe eat for three weeks instead, and I try to explain this to Iskaryn—let’s not even go into what that must have looked like, me standing there, arguing with a bird who’s just shrieking back at me because, I don’t know, actually talking would draw too much attention somehow—and she is not having any of it.
I must look like I’m on the verge of a complete breakdown or something, because the shopkeeper takes pity on me—or maybe he just wants us to leave—and offers me a discounted price on it. And all I really want is for Iskaryn to just stop, so I agree to it, and now I’m going to run out of everything by the time I hit Petitioner’s Port. But at least I’ll be able to document it when it happens.
So, yeah. “Suggestion”.
I am supposed to record “the truth”? Okay, fine. Here’s some truth.
It hurts. It’s been almost four weeks and it hurts. Some days it feels like it just happened. Others, it feels like a lifetime ago. But that ache is always there. They’re gone, and there’s this enormous hole inside of me, and I don’t even know how to begin to fill it. And. It. Hurts.
It took me four days just to get out of the forest—four long days of one step ahead of the other, with Iskaryn flitting between branches above me. Then another day, along the road to here, slipping back into the trees whenever Iskaryn spotted someone approaching, because…I don’t know why. I just wasn’t ready to be seen yet. Or maybe I wasn’t prepared to see others. The walking helped, though. It kept me from replaying events. From wallowing in sorrow. It gave me something to do.
It would be so easy to just…give up. Go to Macridi—it’s not even half a day’s walk from here—and step back into that life. I could do it. It’s so tempting to do it. Only, I’m not that person anymore. She never even existed. She was just someone I made up, a role I could play based on half-truths because it didn’t require any difficult choices. So even though I could go back there, I just can’t. Someday, maybe, but not now.
This trading post has a shelter with small rooms that they let out to travelers. The norns didn’t deign to supply me with a schedule, but the way I figure it, they can see the strings of fate, right? So they’ve already seen all this, which means my time spent here is baked in. I’m just going to assume that however long it takes me to get to Breachill is how much time I have, and not fret over a couple of nights in a real bed for the first time in months. It is far from luxury—far from even a rundown inn—but it’s a bed nonetheless, and I’ll take it.
I’ll worry about the rest of it—how I’m going to get there and, more crucially, whether I’ll be recognized in Alabastrine—in the morning.
Breachill, evening
I've been in Breachill for two nights and… OK. Fine. It’s weird.
I’d been holding out hope—perhaps optimistically—that it would feel something like Macridi, which is the only place I truly felt at home after leaving Kerse. I know now that the life I built there was largely a facade, but the town wasn’t. Macridi was earnest. The people were practical and mostly decent, and the town had a kind of grounded honesty to it.
There are parallels. I feel like I can walk the streets of Breachill without looking over my shoulder. In Macridi, I felt safe from the people (most of them, anyway), though the Forest loomed over everything, and if you valued your safety, you always kept that in the back of your mind.
Macridi was, at its heart, a logging town. Every settlement near a forest cuts timber, of course, but there it was an entire industry and everything revolved around it. That gave the town a rougher edge: people worked hard, drank hard, and expected the same from everyone else. In contrast, Breachill is so polite, civic-minded, and community-oriented that it’s almost wholesome. Folks here talk about council meetings and public notices the way others talk about the weather. It’s hard to believe a town like this exists at all, much less in Isger.
So I guess you could say that it is like Macridi in the ways that matter, and different in ways that are probably better, or don't matter at all.
I still don’t know why I’m here. I spent so much time fretting over getting to Breachill that I forgot to fret over what I was supposed to do once I arrived.
The only lead I have is something the town calls “The Call for Heroes”, which is about as vainglorious a title as I can imagine. And rather ironic given what it really is. According to those I’ve spoken to, it’s just a glorified work-for-hire notice for tasks the city needs handled, but which fall outside the scope of the town guard. It happens monthly. In a town of barely 1300 people.
You might be asking, “What sorts of monthly, heroic tasks have they contracted out in the past?” Well, I asked that, too, and received less-than-heroic answers. They include—and I can’t stress enough that these are the highlights—a merchant whose expected shipment of goods didn’t arrive on time, a shepherd whose herd of goats mysteriously died in the night, and a farmer whose entire season’s harvest was ruined.
As near as I can tell, not a single person has achieved great fame or fortune by answering this call. Tradition seems to be to get paid, then blow their earnings at the Wizard’s Grace, the most expensive tavern in town.
I don’t know what to make of this. If I’m being honest, I don’t feel particularly heroic. There’s nothing valiant about climbing a tree to survive the disaster that killed everyone I cared about. It feels very much like the opposite.
On the other hand, I find it hard to believe that norns sent me on a journey of some 400 miles so that I, and some unknown number of fated strangers, could solve mundane problems of agriculture.
Breachill, Afternoon
I am reasonably certain that my life is cursed. We didn’t make it five minutes into the Call for Heroes before someone literally tried to burn the building down. While I was still inside it.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
As the norns predicted, I met others carrying Harrow cards, and all six of them seemed just as confused about why they were sent here as I was. Of the seven of us, four received their cards from a fortune teller, one got his from a rat “that was probably sent by a dead goblin”, another one had his literally drop in the lap when he took up the family’s ancestral sword, and, of course, I was visited by towering fey beings of fate.
We are a rather colorful group.
The first person I met was Gath. This actually happened a couple of days ago, and I am pretty sure that Iskaryn set it up, because causing a scene in the middle of the Magdh-be-damned street in the middle of the Magdh-be-damned day is exactly the kind of s#$# she would pull when she thinks I need a nudge. He describes himself as a hunter and tracker of sorts, but the real kicker is that he speaks Sylvan, despite the fact that he’s a human that was raised by goblins. And, no, I am not making that up. He’s the one whose card was given to him by the rat.
Shortly after that, we both met Trip, full name Qantrip, who is a goblin woman and witch that refers to herself in the third person: “A witch is glad to meet you” and “A witch has pickled ears.” And, yes, she was glad to meet us. And yes, she had pickled ears. She offered me some. I politely declined.
This morning, the three of us met the other four.
Tarsius, another human man, is some kind of warrior priest of Nethys, and is “trained in weapon arts”. Which seems a sensible qualification for a warrior priest. He’s the one with the ancestral sword. When it was given to him, he unwrapped the cloths it was kept inside, and the Harrow card fell out.
Liberte is a half-orc gentleman—and yes, that is a deliberate word choice—and scholar—again, I swear, I am not making this up—that is researching Hellknights. There’s an abandoned Hellknight fortress, Citadel Altaerein, about a mile from town, hence why he’s here. His standout line was, “I do this and that. I can usually find a solution other than hitting someone with a morningstar, but there are times when that’s what works best.” Which was kind of an odd way to answer the question, “What do you do?”, but it got the message across.
Marcus, our third human man, is what you might call a mystic or miracle worker. A person marked by the gods, both blessed and cursed. He says he speaks a strange tongue when under stress. He’s been living here a while, working as a lumberjack. Because I guess there’s a call for mystic lumberjacks in a town founded by amnesiacs.
Last was Kyira, a half-elven woman from Kyonin, who somehow ended up smuggling refugees out of Galt, a country that seems to be in a state of perpetual revolution. She’s a second mark Firebrand and champion of Milani, which is even more extraordinary for someone who grew up where she did. I imagine her life choices are not especially popular with her elven ancestors.
And then there was me: “I sing and play music.” I have never felt so f$~%ing out of place.
The day started in the Wizard’s Grace, because of course the tradition is for the “heroes” to gather there ahead of the call so they can all eat a hearty bowl of boar stew and lentils, which I could not really afford. There’s something about a tradition where you are expected to pay before you have earned anything that really rubs me the wrong way. (The server actually said to me, “And perhaps afterwards, you can come here and buy a grand meal, when fame and fortune are yours.” Nine Hells. I feel like I’m back in Druma.)
While we’re sitting at this table, looking at each other’s cards, I saw a flash of blue and looked up just in time to see Iskaryn land in the middle of everything. How did she get inside? I have no idea. But she’s never cared about rules before, and there’s no reason for her to start now.
She was studying the cards, so I asked, “What do you see?”
“It’s hardly a coincidence,” she said.
“I didn’t think it would be. We knew to expect this.”
She looked like she was going to say something, but then she saw the server heading over with a broom, clearly intent on chasing her off, and she took the hint.
The others found this curious, and it’s not like it wasn’t going to come out later, anyway, so I hastily explained that she was my familiar. Then the obvious question came.
Tarsius, the warrior priest, asked me, “So you’re a wizard then, too?”
“No.” He didn’t look convinced. “I don’t really understand it, either.”
“The bird seems tame.”
If only. “You keep thinking that. Go ahead and tell her that and see how it goes.”
We continued talking, trying to get to know one another, and it was going as well as you’d expect, which is to say, awkwardly, when Marcus tosses out this gem:
“So, did any of the rest of you have visions of this town burning?”
Um, no? But he’s a mystic, and well, maybe that’s the sort of thing we should pay attention to. Especially when he added “At the hands of Dahak.” The god of all the vile, ill-tempered dragons of the world.
So definitely not an agriculture problem, then.
When the Call time arrived, we headed to the town hall where there was a crowd of townsfolk waiting outside for the doors to open, because people actually attend town hall meetings here. And that’s where we met Warbal, a goblin woman wearing a white dress and what I swear was a mortarboard—by Magdh this town is weird—with silver jewelry, including a butterfly necklace very much in the style of Desna. She was pacing back and forth in fits of worry, almost to the point of outright panic.
We talked to her, and learned she’s the ambassador to a local goblin tribe named the Bumblebrashers (all goblin tribes have names like that), who get along pretty well with the town. They live in the old citadel on Hellknight Hill, because no one else does. The last time Warbal went to meet with them, they didn’t show. So she went all the way out to the citadel herself, and saw red smoke rising from the battlements and interpreted it as a distress signal.
It didn’t take long to figure out that Warbal was at the Call to ask for someone to check on the Bumblebrashers. Especially after she told us as much.
The doors to the town hall opened, and everyone filed in, including Iskaryn because rules don’t apply to her, and when the meeting started, that is exactly what Warbal did. Except she didn’t get a chance to finish, or hardly even get started, because a guard burst into the hall from a side door and yelled, “Fire!”, and flames erupted into the room from behind him. Then panic set in.
Lots of people froze. And I understand that. I’ve been in a situation I’d rather not remember, and I froze, too. The best thing you can do for people who freeze up like that is what was done for me, then: tell them what to do.
So I stood and yelled, “Everybody out the main hall door!” And I even cast a spell to light up the exit, because it solves the problem of people looking around in a panic, and because panic makes even obvious exits hard to see, especially once the smoke sets in.
Then a fiery elemental creature came in through the open doorway, and then a door from the back of the hall opened up and a second one came in, and they were spreading flames everywhere they moved. And then the real panic set in.
Our newly formed group of fated heroes, or whatever you want to call us, split into two. Half of us helped get people out of the building before they died from smoke inhalation (and directed them to form a bucket brigade), and the other half went to confront both the fire and the elementals that were spreading it. The first went well. The second? Did not.
Fortunately, the fire creatures were the result of a summoning, because weapons and spells weren’t really accomplishing much. They disappeared, and the water buckets were able to extinguish the fires before the whole building went up.
Outside the hall, in the aftermath of all this chaos, someone—I think it was a town guard—identified a halfling named Calmont as the arsonist, and said he ran off towards the citadel. Which is enough of a coincidence to raise questions. We were deputized on the spot, given a paltry sum of money that might last me another week if I forwent luxuries like food, and tasked with bringing Calmont back alive for questioning and, I assume, a trial.
Who is Calmont? An excellent question, since we didn’t really know many people in town. Prior to his career in arson, he was an assistant to the local book seller, Voz Lirayne. We all agreed we should pay her a visit before heading out to Hellknight Hill.
I like to multitask, by which I mean, I like to use Iskaryn for something other than giving me a hard time. So I asked her if she would be willing to scout the citadel for us. And, naturally, because there was an audience, she gave me a hard time.
“Do you think these are things that are going to shoot at me?” she asked.
“You look like every other bird, right?”
“I might look like dinner.”
I decided to call her bluff and said, “Yeah.”
“So that’s what you’re saying, then?”
“Yeah.”
“You take a lot of risks with me,” she said in her best, disapproving tone. “Sure. I'll go scout the dangerous castle for you.”
When she gets like this, it’s best to just be polite. “I appreciate it.”
“You don’t pay me enough for this.”
And then I lost my temper. “I don’t pay you at all.”
“That’s my point!”
“You cost me more—”, I started, then cut myself off as I realized we were getting into an argument in the middle of the Magdh-be-damned street. Again. “Never mind.”
“You know,” she said, “I don’t want to hear about it.”
Fine. Whatever. Just go.
I turned to the others and said, “Iskaryn has agreed to scout out the citadel for us.”
Gath said to me, “You know you two do sound like a married couple, right?”
“Let’s go visit the bookseller.”
The Reliant Book Company turned out to be a seller of rare and magical books, and Voz was exactly the sort of pretentious proprietor one expects to find running such a place. Back in Druma, this sort of thing is a familiar sight. I used to think that was the mark of a good merchant. A lot has happened since I left that life behind, though, and now I mostly find it insulting.
Still, we were here to get information, not adjust her attitude.
“Can I help you?” she asked as we filed in.
“Hello! My name is Aemi. We were just at the town hall, and a gentleman by the name of Calmont was directly implicated in trying to burn it down. While people were still inside.”
She took this news about as well as you would expect.
“What?!”
“Yeah. Including us, by the way. We were inside, too. We're just hoping to learn a little bit more about Calmont. The city has tasked us with the investigation.”
“Maybe that’s why that little fool didn’t come to work today.”
Uh-huh, maybe.
Calmont worked for her doing, as she put it, “menial tasks”, which included cleaning, rearranging books, and even some simple book repair. He was a relatively new hire. Lately he’d become unreliable, though we never got a good explanation for what that meant. With a little more questioning, and a bit of “encouragement” from Liberte—who implied that he might actually solve this problem with the application of a morningstar, just in not so many words—Voz agreed to let us search the room he was renting from her.
We didn’t find anything particularly damning, just some scribbles that suggested he was under a great deal of stress, and that his only way out was to “find the ring”. That sounded like desperation more than a plan.
And what ring would that be?
No idea.
Iskaryn returned not long after with her report on the citadel. There were goblins up on the battlements, cowering in fear of something, but she couldn’t see who or what. There were no obvious watchers or guards.
And I could tell right away that she was still in a mood. We were discussing some logistics, including what we’d want to take with us and who would carry what, when she said, “I’m not carrying anything.”
“I don’t expect you to. I don’t even want you in there,” I said.
“Suits me just fine. I’m just glad I didn’t get shot at.”
This again. I rolled my eyes. “You know, you were a scout for a couple of weeks.”
“I’m not forgetting that either.”
Sometimes she's just exhausting.
We agreed to meet up in half an hour, which would give us time to gather what we needed for the trek up the hill. I went back to my space at The Dreamhouse and grabbed my armor, being sure to give Iskaryn the stink eye because she deserved it.
Petty of me? Yes.
Satisfying? Also yes.
Citadel Altaerein, mid-afternoon
I need to get a handle on these arguments with Iskaryn. I’ve gotten so used to them that I’m getting careless about having them in public, and I’m worried that it’s coloring the others’ perceptions of me. Of us.
Earlier, Liberte said to me, “I’m starting to wonder which one of you is the familiar and which one is the mage.”
“Not a mage,” I corrected.
“Which one of you is the familiar and which one is the… I don’t want to say ‘master’ but—”
“She’s my conscience,” I said sharply, cutting him off.
Which is exactly the sort of thing that I’m talking about. Though I don’t know that my irritated reply was doing me any favors here.
Everyone else has something obvious they bring to the table. Steel. Divine judgment. Combat magic. Me? I have a flute. And meager hunting skills with a bow. My magic isn’t useless, but it’s hard not to think that no one would notice if it simply wasn’t there.
I’m already feeling out of place here. This bickering with Iskaryn isn’t helping.
Still, self-pity isn’t going to solve the problem in front of us. Whatever I think of my qualifications, I am here now. We reached Citadel Altaerein just a few minutes ago.
It sits on the hill above Breachill like a monument to someone’s bad decisions.
Time has not been kind to it. Parts of the walls have collapsed entirely, and greenery is creeping up through the stone as nature slowly reclaims it. When Iskaryn returned from scouting earlier, she said, “I have seen better castles.” Seeing it for myself, I can confirm that description was entirely accurate.
The main gate hung partly open when we reached the outer wall, which wasn’t exactly surprising given that no one has maintained the place for years.
The red smoke we had seen rising from the ruins earlier had finally stopped. Warbal believed it was some sort of distress call. If so, whoever controls the citadel has put an end to it. Or perhaps it simply burned itself out.
We will soon find out.
The Fall of House Sura
Aemi grew up in the minor noble House Sura in Kerse, the capital city of Druma. Her paternal grandmother, Euphema, had a reputation for wisdom and careful judgment, and was widely respected among the city’s merchants and minor nobility. Her grandfather, Mercus, had built the family’s standing from modest beginnings through successful trade and careful investments. When they died unexpectedly, their only son and Aemi’s father, Quaris, inherited their estate.
Quaris moved his family into the manor when Aemi was eight years old. His parents had left behind a respectable inheritance: the house itself, a modest reserve of gold and liquid assets, and several steady sources of income tied to property and investments. For Aemi, Euphema had also established a trust intended to ensure that she would receive a proper education in the cosmopolitan city, with her parents named as its trustees.
But while Quaris inherited the estate, he did not inherit the instincts that had built it. Over the following years the family’s finances began to unravel. At first the problem was simple enough: they spent more than they brought in. But Quaris tried to solve it by chasing new income rather than tightening their spending. He poured money into increasingly risky ventures, and those that were not ill-conceived to begin with faltered under his poor management.
As Aemi grew older, the signs of strain became impossible to miss. The staff was slowly shrinking in size, items were wearing out or breaking without being repaired, the grounds were deteriorating as caretakers were dismissed, and so on. By the time she was fifteen, the manor had developed a shabby appearance, and she could see more clearly the differences between her own standard of living and those of her friends—especially when she visited their homes.
And then there were the fights. At first they had been muffled arguments behind closed doors, but over time even that pretense disappeared, and they grew louder, and more frequent.
During one particularly bitter argument, Quaris accused Verana of stealing from him. The accusation struck Aemi as absurd. Their troubles were plainly the result of his own mismanagement, not some conspiracy involving his wife, and besides, their assets were shared by law. The idea that Verana could somehow steal from him felt less like a claim and more like desperation.
Aemi’s only escape from the chaos at home was the Kerse Conservatory of Music, where she enrolled at the age of eighteen. For a time it offered distance from the tensions of the manor; distance enough that she could almost pretend they didn’t exist.
It didn’t last.
In her second year, her mother appeared at Aemi’s student suite and said to her, “I’m leaving your father. I hope you understand.”
The only thing Aemi didn’t understand was why it had taken so long, but when she asked, “Will you be all right, financially?” she learned a shocking truth.
Her mother had seen the decline of the household years earlier, long before Aemi reached her teens. Unwilling to watch her life collapse alongside it, Verana had spent that time quietly skimming money from the family accounts and placing it into a private reserve for the day she would leave.
The revelation left Aemi stunned. Years of quiet deception sat uneasily beside the image she had always held of her mother. Verana, however, spoke of it as though it were the most practical decision in the world. When she asked Aemi to withdraw from the Conservatory and leave Kerse with her, the request felt less like an invitation and more like the final step in a plan that was years in the making.
Still reeling, Aemi refused.
This response touched off a bitter argument, and what began as disbelief quickly hardened into vitriol on both sides.
“Fine,” Verana snapped at last, the word dripping with contempt. “Then you can stay here with your father.”
She turned and left in a fury.
Aemi didn’t know it then, but that would be the last time she saw her mother.
When the term at the Conservatory ended, Aemi was informed that she would not be allowed to return because her tuition for the coming year had not been paid. Assuming some mistake had been made with the payments from her trust, she arranged a meeting with the trust’s protector. As the explanation unfolded, she could feel her life steadily unraveling. Years earlier, Euphema (believing she was making the responsible choice) had named Verana as sole trustee in the event the marriage dissolved.
Her own mother had modified the trust and assigned a new beneficiary.
Unwilling to live with her father as he spiraled into financial ruin, and even less willing to seek out her mother (assuming she could find her), Aemi was, for the first time in her life, completely on her own. With only her meager accounts and half-completed music education to support her.
Breachill, evening
It’s comforting to know that, no matter where you are, you can always find someone who will shatter your faith in people.
We considered Citadel Altaerein. A hole in the crumbling south wall was large enough for us to walk through, which gave us our choice of entrances. And if there’s anything I learned from Annet and Jaangu, it’s that nothing good ever comes from breaking in through the front door. We chose the hole in the wall.
We spread out in what was obviously a combat training room for the Order of the Nail. As I watched Gath discover a secret door leading to an equally secret room—and nearly get impaled by a spring-loaded spear trap—it occurred to me that what we were doing was actually dangerous. It also occurred to me just how many dangerous situations I had, naively, been in before, where we managed to avoid any consequences like this, until, of course, the day we didn’t.
I don’t really know what point I am trying to make here. I guess I’m just complaining that I didn’t sign up for this. Someone else signed me up for this. But I was there, and he was hurt, and I had a spell that could heal his injuries—not all the way, but enough—so at least I was useful.
We also learned that we weren’t the only ones here: we found an honest-to-Magdh Hellknight in the former Hellknight Citadel. Well, a Hellknight in training, but, eh, close enough.
I don’t know much about Hellknights as we didn’t have them back in Druma. From what I’ve heard, they are a lot like the Mercenary League, just with added layers of zealotry and doctrine. Both are highly trained. Both are well-funded and well-equipped. Both are considered elite fighting forces. But of the two? Hellknights are less likely to get hung up on trivialities like morality and ethics.
This hellknight, whose name we later learned was Alak, was fighting with a pair of imps. Given that the final test of Hellknights-in-training, according to Liberte, involves summoning an actual devil just to kill it, this was a less surprising development than it appeared. The only odd thing about it was, neither of them should be in a castle that was abandoned nearly a decade ago.
The last time I used my bow, I was shooting at small game animals. In fact, the only times I’ve used my bow, it’s been against small game animals. The imps were larger, and thus easier to hit, but for some reason, they were much, much harder to injure. Liberte said something about needing a silver sword, which shows just how much I don’t know about what we are doing, and Gath used the one he found shortly after being impaled by the spear to make quick work of them.
“Congratulations!” I said to Alak afterwards. “You’re officially a Hellknight!”
“No, not quite yet,” Alak answered. “But, thank you.”
So, what was a Hellknight in training doing at the citadel abandoned by the Order of the Nail? It’s a good question, which is why I asked it. The answer was unsatisfying and boiled down to “personal business”. Which is exactly the sort of vague non-answer I usually give to people, and Nine Hells is it annoying to be on the receiving end of it.
He asked us the same, and Iskaryn would be proud of me for not only telling the truth, but telling the truth with details. It’s too bad she wasn’t in here to witness it because I could use the victory.
“There’s a tribe of goblins up on the battlements, apparently being held prisoner or hostage.”
Which sounds like exactly the sort of thing a Hellknight would oppose. Alak didn’t disappoint. But I wasn’t going to trust someone I just met just because he said what I wanted to hear.
As much as I hate to admit it, Iskaryn can be a good judge of character. I wanted an extra set of eyes on Alak just in case, ones that weren’t as distracted as ours, so I tugged gently at the bond. She would come if she wished. If it were an emergency, there would be no question, but otherwise? I let her decide for herself.
We made our way to the central courtyard, which is where several things happened at once.
First, we found the goblins, who were up on the battlements directly above.
Second, we found Calmont, who was holding one of the goblins at knifepoint and obviously threatening them.
Third, we were attacked by a large, draconic creature with a nasty disposition. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it was big, mean, and had a lot of very sharp teeth. It had been trying, and failing, to find its way up the collapsed stairs to the goblins, and since we were on the ground floor with it, we were much easier targets.
Last, Iskaryn found us. “You wasted no time getting into the thick of trouble, I see.”
I ignored that—this wasn’t the time for bickering—and asked her to watch Alak while we dealt with the dragon thing.
“Dealing with it” was not so easy. Even with all of us on it, and my performance to give us a boost, Tarsius took a nasty bite and dropped right in front of us. The kind of drop where you wouldn’t expect to get up again.
For a moment I thought we’d just watched him die. But Trip and Kyira were close enough to pull him clear and heal him before he succumbed to his injuries. It was a close call.
With the dragon out of the way, we could turn our attention to Calmont. And let me tell you, he is a vile piece of work. Today’s disappointment. If I had to choose between spending time with him or spending time with my mother, I would actually have to think it over.
Our presence was obviously unexpected, which meant Calmont’s plan, and I use that term loosely, was not going to plan. If he started improvising, this could get very ugly, very quickly.
He yelled at us, yelled at the goblins—with a generous helping of racial slurs—and demanded they help him find a way down below so he could retrieve a ring. He threatened to kill them and literally cut them to pieces.
I watched Trip fade into the shadows by the collapsed stairs. I doubted we could talk Calmont down, but we could buy Trip some time. After sending Iskaryn up to keep an eye on him in case he tried to run, I stepped into the courtyard.
“There’s no need to threaten these goblin people. If you want to find a way down there, let them go and we’ll help you find it.”
He was practically raving. “These little freaks know what I’m after! They lived down there for years, they must know! The catacombs or vaults or whatever the hell you call them. I just want Alseta’s Ring!” We didn’t know what that was, but he told us it would make him rich.
“Let’s be reasonable about this,” I said as calmly as I could. “If you hurt them, you lose all your leverage. We can help you.”
“You’d be surprised what pain can achieve,” he said.
Fortunately, he didn’t have a chance to carry out that threat. I couldn’t see where Trip was, but she had gotten close enough to hex him, and he fell unconscious. And that was that.
Once he was manacled, we checked on the goblins and made sure they were safe. Turns out, Calmont wasn’t the only one to visit the Citadel. The lizard-dragon we killed was one of two, and they both came with a group that called themselves the Cinderclaws. Who are The Cinderclaws? No idea. They moved in a few days ago, and declared that they now owned the place. This is what initially sent Helba and her tribe up onto the battlements, and the reason for the red smoke.
Fortunately, the dragon lizards were too heavy for the stairs. They collapsed, burying one in the rubble, and effectively cutting off the stairs to the lower level. The goblins still knew a secret way down, but they weren’t going to admit this to Calmont. They only told us about it because we came with a message from Warbal.
We took Calmont back to town. He talked the entire time. We were going to gag him, but it turned out he was a gold mine of “can’t shut up”.
It didn’t take long for a sad portrait of the man to form: one of a small-time criminal who was gifted with grandiose dreams but none of the resources to realize them. He was also, without a doubt, in completely over his head and too dense to know it. He was trying to bargain with us, or form a partnership, even though he had literally nothing to bargain with.
He was a very angry man with a long list of grievances, and he was especially angry about his boss. “She thinks she’s everything, all ‘Calmont, wash this! Calmont, bind that! Calmont, that’s not how you pronounce Norgorber!’”
Excuse me?
I knew that name, and knew it meant bad news. I asked Iskaryn, quietly, “What do you know about Norgorber?”
“Nasty piece of work. He’s the god of assassins.”
That was something to file away for later.
I played along with him and let the conversation run its course. What he was looking for was something called Alseta’s Ring. Why? Because Voz was looking for it, and he wanted to find it first, and take control of it. He said it was capable of moving people or things, possibly moving even entire armies, across great distances. It would make him rich. Very rich.
And because I am dense, I had to ask Iskaryn if she’d ever heard of such a thing.
“You mean, Alseta, the goddess of doorways and portals?” she replied.
And that was the moment.
I knew why I had been sent some 400 miles to some remote town in an isolated corner of Isger. Why the seven of us had been sent there.
How a large group of cultists no one had ever heard of had just appeared one day, with two huge monsters, with not so much as a hint that they were coming.
There was a working elf gate under Citadel Altaerein.
Breachill, morning
The town council paid us a reward for our successes yesterday. I wish I could get excited by this, but I just can’t. Most people count their gold and silver in absolutes, but to me, it’s all measured in time. It’s a habit I formed after Kerse, and one which I fell back on after leaving the Forest. I can live off the reward money here for two to three months. As many as six if I get desperate.
For the moment, though, I am in no danger of starving.
Calmont is now the city’s problem, and good riddance. We chose not to reveal our suspicions of an elf gate below Citadel Altaerein, but I imagine they’ll hear about it from him soon, if they haven’t already. The man just doesn’t know when to shut up. The only question is whether or not they’ll believe him. My gut tells me that’s a “no”. He comes across as a conman and a schemer at best, and a raving lunatic at worst.
Is there really an active elf gate down there? My excitement and confidence from last night have tempered. What we have right now is guesswork and hearsay from Calmont—enough said there—and a theory that happens to fit what we know. This is not the same as proof. But the evidence is growing: this morning, Liberte told us that the dragon creature was, in fact, a distant offshoot of dragons called a grauladon, and they literally should not have been there. Not in the “draconic lizards don’t belong inside castles” sense, but the “they live in swamps, and there isn’t one for hundreds of miles” one.
This theory also raises a number of other questions that we don’t have answers to. Did the Order of the Nail know about the elf gate? They must have. The odds of them choosing a construction site that was directly above one entirely by accident seem ridiculously remote. Alak said there was no record of such a thing, but so what? It sounds like the sort of thing they’d want to keep secret.
Assuming they did know, was it active when they built it? My limited understanding of elf gates is that there aren’t many of them left that still work, though that could just be propaganda from Kyonin. If it was active back then, you’d think word would have spread—that’s not the kind of secret that stays buried for long.
Which means it may have only been activated recently. By the Cinderclaws. And they brought their pet grauladons with them.
We know from Calmont that Voz suspected the gate was there, too. Is she connected to the Cinderclaws? No idea.
Whatever connection exists between Voz and Norgorber is also a mystery, and one the town council isn’t in a hurry to solve. Obviously, we don’t have evidence of anything nefarious there, but it seems like one coincidence too many to me, so I don’t understand why they aren’t taking it more seriously. They all but blew off the news, pointing out that a dealer in rare books is likely to have texts that reference any number of unsavory figures. Can they really be that naive? Probably. This whole town is detached from the rest of the world in that way. It exists as a storybook version of itself, and it seems perfectly content to stay that way.
We’re headed back out to the Citadel shortly, and taking Warbal with us so she can reconnect with Helba. The rest of us, which includes Alak because we’re adopting strays now, will explore the rest of the ground floor, then ask the Bumblebrashers to show us the way down.
No one even stopped to question the fact that we were hired to do a job, did the job, and then got paid for it. Which means everything from here on out is on our own coin.
Deep down, I think everyone realizes what that means. This elf gate is what we were sent to find. Now we need to figure out why.
Alabastrine
I needn’t have worried. This is the first inn I’ve stayed at in months, and when I looked in a proper mirror, I was shocked by my reflection. I’m so gaunt that I barely recognize myself, and I doubt someone who saw me for a couple of days eight months ago would do so, either. While Davio taught me a handful of spells that were useful for a life spent mostly on the road—including one that kept me clean enough to neither look nor smell like the vagrant I’ve become—none of them provided food. This is what weeks of near-starvation look like.
The point was driven home when I sat down for a late lunch in the common room. The server put a large bowl of stew in front of me and said, “This one is on the house.” I didn’t ask. I knew why.
“I can perform tonight, if you like,” I said to her. The inn was nothing special, but I couldn’t afford better. Truthfully, I couldn’t afford “nothing special”, either, but I had to stay somewhere, and the cheap ones aren’t great for live music. Some aren’t even safe to sleep in. If they’d have me, I could make this one work.
She gave me a skeptical look—I would have done the same in her position—and she told me I’d need to speak to their manager first. Fair enough. It was just another audition, and I’ve had plenty of those.
I’d set aside some of the money for a flute, and finding a simple wooden one in the city markets was easy enough. It was a far cry from what I had been playing the past couple of years, but it would do. A couple of hours later, I was performing for the evening crowd.
As absurd as it sounds, playing taverns and inns along the way is my plan for reaching Breachill without starving. The math barely works. Most nights I’d just break even, but if a few go as well as tonight, I’ll come out ahead. If not… well, I am trying not to think about “if not”.
I’m also trying not to think about Isger. We didn’t spend more than a few weeks there, but that was long enough to make me dread going back. To put it bluntly, I don’t feel safe there.
Traveling the roads in Druma carries little risk. For all that people complain about the Mercenary League being cozy with the Kalistocracy, they do a good job of keeping the trade routes free of trouble. I have walked countless miles both in small groups or completely alone, and I rarely felt threatened. Isger is another matter entirely. I’ll have Iskaryn to watch out for me, sure, but I am better off not traveling by myself.
But that’s a problem for another day.
Citadel Altaerin, Afternoon
We reunited Warbal with the Bumblebrashers and then got to work.
Put a few holes in the side of a building and let it sit for a few years, and all kinds of creatures will wander inside to make a home. Do that with a stone building large enough to qualify as a fortress, just to pick a random example, and the place can practically support an entire ecosystem.
That’s exactly what we found inside Citadel Altaerein.
Maybe it’s because I was raised in Druma, but I find it criminal that the Order of the Nail spent significant time and money building this Citadel, only to walk away and leave a crumbling ruin in its place. I suppose the Bumblebrashers, goblin dogs, the worg and its puppies, giant rats, spider swarms, the bugbear, and whatever in the Nine Hells that giant turtle monster was would all disagree (and most of them did in fact disagree, some of them violently so), but there had to be a better option than leaving it to rot just because they turned their attention elsewhere.
Since we were more concerned about what was inside the citadel than outside, I tugged at the bond, calling Iskaryn in after us. This decision was something of a mixed bag.
We were in a skirmish with the rats. Iskaryn chose this moment to point out that rats are known to carry disease. That would have been fine, except she launched a Magdh-be-damned dissertation on the subject.
“Although, the problem with being bitten by dire rats is that by the time the symptoms of disease manifest, you may have been a carrier for days and spread the disease to others…”
In the meantime, my arrow went wide. “Shut up, Iskaryn! You’re distracting me!”
“Excuse me!” she said indignantly. “I was just trying to help.”
“Lecture us after the battle!”
When “after” finally comes, she flits over to Trip, who was nursing a nasty bite. Somehow, with Iskaryn’s help, we determine that Trip had, in fact, been infected. How does she know these things? How can she even tell? I have no idea. All I do know is that it makes her insufferable.
Then, later, we’re dealing with the worg, and I felt like the others had the upper hand. So I chose to save my limited performance magic and shot at it with my bow instead.
My arrow went wide. Again.
“Next time, stick with your inspirational performance,” Iskaryn said. Which was all I needed.
All along, we’d been collecting odds and ends from the citadel, everything from actual coins to items in good enough condition to be sold. And it occurred to us that Alak was tagging along, and maybe he should get a cut of it because he’s been doing some of the heavy lifting. So we asked him about it, and we got more of his story. He’s not really interested in the money: he’s here, in part, because his family was stationed here long ago, and he was looking for things that may have belonged to them.
Liberte searched the room where we encountered the worg, and turned up exactly that: a book on the gripping topic of Order of the Nail protocols as they relate to both Chelish and Isgeri laws, and inside it is a hand-written dedication signed by the Hellknight “T. Stagram”. We asked Alak about it, and he got this funny look and said it was written by his father.
So we gave it to him. Or rather, no one objected to him taking it. He seemed genuinely touched. “I don’t have many things to remember him by. This will be something I’ll treasure. Thank you.”
And I get it, I guess? I don’t have anything to remember my father, and if I’m being honest with myself—and Iskaryn tends to push on that one—I have no small amount of guilt around that. My father was a good person; he just wasn’t a very wise one. That’s in contrast to my mother, who is a wise person, but not a very good one. If I found a book signed by my mother? I’d probably have it burned.
And I must have said that out loud because several heads turned to look at me. Then Trip said if she found a book signed by her mother, she’d do the same.
Though I imagine she has different reasons.
The most disturbing thing we found was distinctly not part of the burgeoning ecosystem. In what was obviously a cell room, there were a number of skeletal remains I can only assume were former prisoners. They rose up and attacked (at one time, that would have been disturbing to me, but I have seen far worse). They were too much for us, and we were forced to retreat and bar the door.
I just assumed that the Hellknights had left them to rot after abandoning the citadel, but now I’m thinking that was an unfair accusation. I’ve seen no reason to believe they would do such a thing, especially given their obsession with law and order no matter the cost. This place has been abandoned long enough that anyone could have moved in—see the Bumblebrashers as proof of that—and used it as a crude but functional jail. But that doesn’t make the thought of some hapless prisoners starving to death, long after their captors had left or died, any less pleasant.
What we didn’t find were any Cinderclaws. That was consistent with the Bumblebrashers’ story that the Cinderclaws had been trapped below when the stairs collapsed. The goblins knew a way down, and we did not, so we came to an agreement: they’d show us this hidden entrance, and we’d deal with the trespassers so the Bumlebrashers could have their home back.
Can we actually pull that off? Considering how we fared against the skeletons, I’m not so sure. But we managed to take on one of the grauladons, and if those are what they brought for protection, then maybe it isn’t so far-fetched.
I looked over at Alak. This wasn’t really his fight, and there was no money in it—not yet, anyway—but that book had whetted his appetite. Searching for more heirlooms meant going down below, and that meant coming with us. He was willing, and so our informal alliance continued.
As for the money, that problem solved itself not long after. One of the town guard found us as we were making preparations, and delivered a note from the Breachill town council. They were just as nervous about having some unknown group occupying the citadel, especially one as violent as they appear to be, and were offering us an additional bounty to solve it. Permanently. It would give me a solid six months.
But Alak teased us with something far more valuable. “There is a story that when The Order left this place, they hid the deed to the Citadel somewhere inside, and anyone brave enough and strong enough to find it would be rewarded with legal ownership of the place.”
I was stunned. It would mean having a home. Something I have not had for nearly a year. I hung back to talk to Iskaryn before we dropped down into the passageway.
"Alak thinks the deed to the citadel might be down there somewhere. Left for whoever finds it." I hesitated because I wasn’t quite sure how to put my thoughts into words. "If that's true...it could mean having a place. Not something I made up, or slipped into for a while. Something that stays."
She fluttered around before settling on my shoulder. She sat there in silence for a moment before speaking.
“I wasn’t with you then, but I know how you felt when Davio recognized you. When he realized who you really were. You were a mess for days, you know. In case you need reminding.
“So where are you now? Are you done running?” She held out a wing in a very human gesture. “Is this far enough away from whatever you’re running from?”
It was a good point. And for the first time, I thought I had an answer. “I was running from myself that whole time. I think it’s time I started being me. No matter how uncomfortable that is.”
“But how much are you committing to a new start here? Are you making a new official home for Aemi 'Salinus' here on Hellknight Hill, or...under an older name?”
“It’s just a name, Iskaryn. Saru is gone. I don’t want it anymore. Mom poisoned it for me.”
She didn’t look convinced, but for once, she let it drop.
“As a castle,” she said, changing the subject, “it's not bad, or could be good with some work. Keep in mind, though, that having a Magdh-be-damned castle dropped in your lap isn't exactly a dream come true. Especially if you intend to spend your life hiding from the world.
“But if, perhaps, you're over that phase, at least a little…Well. You’re bound to start attracting attention. Perhaps acquire some fame. People talk, you know. What will you do when word of where you are gets out, farther and farther abroad? Are you ready to grow up? And face that?”
“No one is looking for me, Iskaryn. That’s the problem. I’ve been hiding from ghosts. But, if someone from that time does find me? I’ll deal with it.”
“You need to tell your new friends.”
“I know.”
She flew up to a branch of the tree above and said, “The woods are full of tasty treats. I could get used to it here.”
__________
Part 2: Flight
Aemi had three days to figure out what she would do next, as that was when the term ended and she'd be expected to move out of her suite. Three days to come up with a plan that would get her through the start of the rest of her life.
The first step was figuring out how long her money would last. She had only a vague understanding of what things cost, but she was resourceful and rather good with people, and motivated to learn. She visited flats, tenement buildings, flophouses, and communal lodges; markets, bazaars, dispensaries, tailors, general stores, and farm stalls. Two days later, sore and exhausted beyond all measure, she stumbled back into her room with a better understanding of where she stood.
Aemi considered the three lowest buckets of living conditions: "can make it work", "only if necessary", and "total desperation". Without any source of income, her money would support her for six to seven months in Kerse, and up to twice that long, depending on how far she was willing to travel, and how much she was willing to compromise on her standards.
Living in Kerse was not an option for more than just financial reasons. She couldn't go home—she couldn't put herself through the shame and embarrassment of her family's collapse—and staying in the city would just stretch out the humiliation. Eventually, someone, somewhere, would recognize her, and then the questions would come. And, besides, the city's gossip rags found the Sura family's fall from its noble heights a perpetual source of entertainment. It was hard enough to live through it (you mean "run away from it", that voice in her head corrected; she ignored it), she didn't want to be reading about it, too, especially when you never knew when the next column would print. So, travel it was.
On the third day, Aemi packed up her essentials, sold the ornate, ivory flute her parents had given her (and purchased a modest wooden flute to replace it—she wasn't an animal), and walked out of her suite, leaving the rest of her belongings. She spoke to no one and left no message behind. She didn't even shut the door. When the staff at the Conservatory checked on her that evening, it was as if she had simply disappeared.
We have a clearer picture of what is happening thanks to our time in the lower level of the citadel. Two distinct threads have intertwined.
We still have no proof that Alseta’s Ring really exists, but the evidence is mounting, and at this point? I think it’s a foregone conclusion. When the Cinderclaws appeared, they brought with them a whole menagerie of creatures and beings that simply do not belong in this part of the world: man-sized birds with brilliant plumage and sharp beaks, simian humanoids known as the charau-ka, boggards—not unheard of here, but far from their ideal habitat—and of course those grauladons.
The birds were obnoxious and loud. In other words, a lot like Iskaryn, only much larger.
The boggards were even more of the same. There is something unsettling about killing sentient creatures, but they wanted a fight, and we obliged.
The charau-ka wanted to talk. They were not thrilled with being dragged here, and even less so about getting trapped underground with only the boggards for company (who would?). All they wanted was to go home. So we cut a deal with them: we promised to help them, and they told us what was going on.
So what’s going on? The charau-ka were warriors under the Gorilla King, whoever that is. When their king died unexpectedly, they fell in with the Cinderclaws. And who, exactly, are the Cinderclaws? They’re a cult of Dahak that’s led by a priest named Malarunk. Said priest brought this group through the “great portal”, which we assume connects to Alseta’s Ring, to invade the “foreign lands for the glory of their god”.
How did they end up being trapped here? Malarunk used some token to open the portal on their end so they could pass through, and apparently, he is the only one who can do it, so there was no returning without him. Then the stairwell collapsed, stranding them on this level to slowly starve to death.
It goes without saying that the secret passage we used to get in is pretty well hidden, and none of them knew it was there.
This cult of Dahak worshippers, by the way, lines up a little too well with Marcus’s visions. So I guess we have that to look forward to.
The other thread is closer to home. Someone from Breachill has been visiting the Citadel as well, specifically this level of it. We are reasonably sure that “someone” is Voz, which would explain how Calmont got wind of all this.
And what was Voz up to? Short answer: disturbing the dead. Which went about as well as you’d expect.
The Hellknights entombed their dead here in an ossuary of sorts, and she visited it not long ago. We found remnants from a ritual or spell that, as near as we could tell, was designed to allow her to speak with them. We also saw the graves she violated. Her footprints told the story: she entered the crypt at a leisurely pace, and left in a panic.
Almost as interesting as her new career in grave robbery was how she got in and out of the citadel: there’s another secret entrance on this level, just beyond the crypts. A magically carved tunnel that runs all the way to Breachill. It emerges through a secret door into the storeroom of The Pickled Ear. Given that storerooms tend to have their walls lined with shelving that are filled with, well, stores, the fact that this one was unobstructed implies that the tavern’s owner, Roxie Denn, knows about it, too.
Putting that all together, we have one person who is seeking a way in to Alseta’s Ring, and the Cinderclaws who are already there but seeking a way out. Part of me is kind of curious what would happen if the two factions were to actually meet, but I think it’s more important that we keep them apart just in case they were to find some common ground. I know this reeks of “the only person I trust with it is me” syndrome, but we already know what the Cinderclaws’ motives are, and Voz’s actions have not exactly inspired a great deal of trust.
Not that we’re much better. We haven’t informed the town about any of this, either.
As for the Hellknights…I don’t know. What do you want me to say? If Alak is your typical example, they’re kind of awful in a personable sort of way. They talk a lot about “the savages” like they’re a mistake that needs fixing, a single monster with a million faces. “The savages must be quelled in land, home, and mind,” and “sometimes in the pursuit of order, one must work with ‘the savages’ temporarily.” Qantrip pointed out that when Alak refers to “the savages,” he is also describing her kind, too. It’s all very dehumanizing. Maybe just call them “people”, Alak. Except if you do that, then I guess they become people, and then you have no one to subjugate.
We don’t have Hellknights in Druma, but we have plenty of that attitude. I grew up with it. Nine Hells, I believed in it. But I’ve grown up some—shut up, Iskaryn!—and now it just makes my skin crawl. Serves me right, I suppose, for venturing out in the world.
Alak left for Varisia today. I expected him to at least stay the night in town and set out in the morning, but he seemed anxious to be gone. Maybe that’s for the best, since his presence in town was notably awkward, and perhaps the only time—in my many days of experience—where the people here have been anything but open and welcoming. It wasn’t bordering on hostile like my time in Saringallow, but he was getting more than a few cold shoulders and dark looks wherever he went.
My understanding—again, I have days of experience to draw upon for these sweeping statements—is that Breachill liked the business a Hellknight Citadel brought, but not the Hellknights themselves. Fortunately for the town, the Hellknights kept to themselves, doing whatever it is that Hellknights do when they aren’t on some grand crusade, and their dealings with Breachill were transactional rather than social. Which, honestly, sounds like the healthiest arrangement for all involved.
After dinner, long after Alak had gone, we paid a visit to the Pickled Ear. I’ll be blunt. It’s the sort of tavern I spent months on the road hoping I could avoid, and not always successfully. There are establishments you visit because you are willing to compromise your standards, and those that you visit because the alternative is starvation or exposure.
The Pickled Ear is the latter.
It takes a hard personality to run a tavern where there are almost nightly brawls between drunken gamblers, some of which get well out of hand. Roxie Denn, the owner, more or less met my expectations. She was loud, brash, and immediately suspicious. I was able to convince her to meet with Gath and me because I’ve had plenty of experience with the type.
After brief introductions, I cut straight to the chase. I figured that would work best.
“We’ve been investigating some problems at the citadel on the hill, and—funny thing—we found an underground tunnel.” I lowered my voice and added, “And it led into your store room.”
She paused way too long before saying, “You have got to be joking.”
I played along. “I can show it to you, if you want.”
Another long pause. “Why don’t you come into my office, where we can discuss it privately?”
She tried to bluff us. And I can’t say I blame her. Nine Hells, given what I had been doing before…well, before…I certainly couldn’t judge her. But this was important, and potentially dangerous, and we needed to get that through to her.
“Somebody’s using your tavern to access the citadel. Robbing graves. Stirring up undead. And it’s attached to your business. I would think you’d want to know. And recently, a cult known as the Cinderclaws moved into the castle, and they’re rather violent. Anyone who is going to and from that place probably has dealings with them.”
She seemed genuinely surprised. This was clearly the first thing we had told her that was actually news. So I pressed our advantage with a little fishing.
“At least one person we do know who has gone out there—Calmont Trenault, who you probably heard was arrested for trying to burn down the town hall—was working for Voz Lirayne. And Calmont has a habit of talking without stopping. And he was throwing a lot of suspicion on Voz.”
Another pause. “So…you’re here from the Town Council?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it that they want from me about all of this?” she asked nervously.
“They don’t want anything from you. But I have a feeling Voz is using you. And you could get swept up in it.”
That struck a nerve. She buried her face in her palm, shaking her head slowly. It was like watching a damn burst. “She just paid me! That’s it! That’s my only involvement. I don’t know nothin’ else ’bout it or what she’s up to. Okay? I don’t have anythin’ else to do with…with…any of that.”
That was the arrangement, then. Voz paid her to look the other way, and she’d use the tunnel as she pleased. No questions asked. The last time was just a couple of days ago, just as we had suspected.
“I don’t have nothin’ else to do with her or that creepy business o’ hers. Like I say, she just came to me with her offer to let her use the tunnel. That’s all.”
“All right. We appreciate your time. But…if I were you? I’d put some shelves in front of that tunnel and stop her from using it.”
“Maybe,” she said, looking troubled. “But Voz ain’t exactly safe to cross.”
“Fair, though she might not be back,” I said. “Last time she was over there, she tried a ritual to speak with the dead, and something went wrong. It looks like she woke up something which chased her back out of there.”
We took our leave while that was soaking in.
My gut tells me that she blocked the entrance not long after.
Iskaryn is insisting that I write this down. Her argument is that, when it comes to how I have run my life, I tended to practice “selective honesty”. Those are her words, by the way, and I got the distinct feeling that she was holding back. She said tonight was a turning point, and that’s why I need to do this. Why it’s necessary to do it right now, tonight, instead of in the morning, is anyone’s guess. But she seems to think it’s important, and because I’d like to actually sleep at some point, and am just too tired to get into an argument with her, anyway, I am giving in.
Tonight at dinner, before our business with Roxie, the conversation went somewhere I had not intended, and by the end of it, I had told them far more than I ever planned to. By the end of it, I had told them everything.
Iskaryn is objecting again. She now says I am “inclined towards fiction when facts prove inconvenient”. I am beginning to think that all roasted fowl taste pretty much the same.
Fine. Not everything. I told them where I am from, even my name for Magdh’s sake, and why I left home. Including the part about leaving my father to essentially die alone as a pauper in a crumbling estate, without even seeing him first. And if you think that was somehow easy, then you don’t understand at all why I have a tendency towards “selective honesty”. So, yeah.
They know about Macridi, and what I had built for myself there.
And that I razed that one, too.
I couldn’t bring myself to talk about Davio and the others. It’s still too hard. Too raw. But they know that something terrible happened, and that I ended up alone in the Forest. Ended up like my father, only somehow with even less.
I didn’t know what to expect. I guess I expected them to leave me. To write me off. But they didn’t. It was quiet for a while. How could it not be? For whatever reason, they still want me here. Even with Iskaryn as part of that deal.
When I got to the Norns, I said that the gods don’t tend to intervene in our affairs. Not directly. Magdh, though, is an Eldest, and a seer, and she meddles as she sees fit. The Norns are the instruments through which she shapes events.
I admitted I don’t know why I was selected, or chosen, or singled out. I don’t think I’m special. That would be a ridiculous conclusion to draw from all of this. I was just there. At a turning point in my life at the right moment. Or the wrong one, depending on your perspective.
Kyira believed her experience was different. She really believed she was visited by Milani. And I believe her. I am no expert on the divine, but I know the basics, and Druma shares a border with Kyonin, so I sure as the Nine Hells know of Milani. She’s a young goddess, and it’s said she still remembers her time here clearly. So she, too, is prone to meddling. Perhaps even more so.
I don’t know where I am going with this. I guess I am trying to make sense of the circumstances that brought us here. About this urge I have to put down roots. Real roots as myself.
I have told these people—my friends—things I have never told anyone. It’s only been a few days, and they know more about me than even the Minstrels did in months of travel. It’s frightening. More so than the physical threats we have faced.
I would honestly rather fight another grauladon.
Petitioner’s Port
I walked alone to Petitioner’s Port.
Iskaryn objects to my use of the word “alone”, since she was, of course, with me the whole time, but she knows full well what I mean by “I walked alone” and if you want me to do this, Iskaryn, please stop being so pedantic.
I could have waited for other travelers and followed along, or maybe even joined a small traveling group, or waited for a caravan, but honestly? I didn’t want the company, and I really didn’t want to spend another night in Alabastrine waiting for company, since that also meant spending more money, and more money is something we just do not have.
See? I said “we” there, Iskaryn. Are you happy now?
Petitioner’s Port is quieter than you’d expect for what was meant to be Druma’s grand southern gateway. The Kalistocracy imagined lines of hopeful petitioners streaming north—hence the name—but the place feels far more practical. Even the road from Isger is called The Path of Commencement, which tells you everything about how the Kalistocracy sees the world. It isn’t the road to Isger: it’s the road from it. As if the only direction that matters is inward.
The town itself never bought into that way of thinking. It grew on its own terms, around work and trade and whatever made sense at the time. It reminds me of Macridi in that way. Half the buildings are redwood, likely cut from the same forests I once walked through. If I’m going to leave Druma, at least I’m doing it from somewhere that feels real.
It occurred to me, because I can see the obvious, that I could just buy passage on a boat from here and be back in Macridi in a couple of days. We could even travel all the way back to Kerse. I said this out loud to Iskaryn, and she screeched so loudly that she stopped traffic on the street. I am not kidding: everyone turned to look at us. Well, the joke was on her, because I just wanted to see what kind of reaction I would get, and she did not disappoint.
Childish of me? Yes. But I’m not pretending that I didn’t enjoy it, and that’s why you shouldn’t read over my shoulder while I am writing in my diary, Iskaryn.
There is no way in the Nine Hells I am walking alone through Isger, so this time, I am waiting for a foot caravan. One is organizing now, and will leave for Saringallow in a couple of days. For once, Iskaryn and I are in agreement: this is not the time to spend my days alone, especially alone and brooding to myself, because it’s just not safe. And while I can’t just get over it, I can learn to live with it, and that is really the first step. So, forced company, it is.
The caravan will stop in Dustspawn, which is a day out of the way in addition to a short layover, and Iskaryn isn’t happy about that (how she knows so much geography is anyone’s guess). I pointed out that we didn’t have much of a choice, and she, grudgingly, agreed. The only reason I am writing down this otherwise unimportant detail is to record that I won that one, even if she only grudgingly admitted it.
There are a couple of decent taverns here, but for whatever reason, I’m not finding my footing in them. The travellers here are more focused on where they are going, or why they are going there, or whatever, and music isn’t really on their minds. I am used to having to perform above the din of a dining hall, but nothing like this. I hope the rest of the trip doesn’t go this way, because we absolutely cannot afford to spend more than we are bringing in.
Iskaryn and I are in agreement on that point, as well.
Noon
Given her clandestine visits to the Citadel and penchant for disturbing the dead, we paid a visit to Voz this morning. Unfortunately, Voz wasn’t home: her shop had been locked up, and she didn’t answer when we knocked on the door.
Tarsius went to the town council, seeking permission for a search. The rest of us stayed behind and looked around while we waited. Fortunately for us, Voz had been sloppy when discarding her trash, and we found a partial note that suggested she had found another way into Alseta’s gate via someplace called Guardian’s Way. Which is good because, according to Tarsius, we didn’t have sufficient evidence of misdeeds to justify a forced entry.
Iskaryn was not happy with me. We were supposed to meet the others for lunch and review what we learned—Liberte and Marcus were doing more digging at the archives—and she was strangely distant and silent on the way there. Normally, the issue with Iskaryn is getting her to stop lecturing me, so when I get the silent treatment, something is seriously wrong.
I hung back so I could talk to her while the others went inside the tavern.
“What has gotten into you?” I asked her.
“I am not comfortable with these risks you’re taking. Especially when they involve me.”
“You look like any other bird,” I replied. “What is there to worry about?”
“How many indigo birds do you see in this town? People are going to figure it out, you know.”
“You’ve picked up the common tongue. You heard what Tarsius said. We weren’t going to get permission.”
“My point exactly,” she retorted.
“Since when do you care about the rules?”
“As you so tactfully point out, I don’t. But I don’t have to. Because I am a bird.”
“Nine Hells, Iskaryn! What do you want from me?!” I snapped.
“I want you to remember that we have to live here, and that what affects you affects me. I am not the one who has to answer to these people. You are.”
And then she flew off.
__________________
Early Afternoon
I left Iskaryn to her temper tantrum and focused on lunch. I’d been turning events over in my head, trying to make sense of them. I laid out for the others what we knew.
“Voz learns about the Ring at some point in the past—it doesn't matter when, but it's before the Cinderclaws arrive—and starts exploring the citadel. She makes a couple of trips over time. She learns about, or already knew about, the tunnel. She pays Roxie off so she can use it without drawing suspicion.
“The Cinderclaws, meantime, arrive =roughly a week ago, coming through the Ring itself, and take over the castle. They chase the Bumblebrashers up to the ramparts. The grauladons follow, and the stairs collapse, taking them out along with parts of the walls, leaving the stairwell choked with rubble. The Cinderclaws are now divided, and cut off. One of the two grauladons survives up above, and keeps the Bumblebrashers trapped.
“Sometime before the Call for Heroes, Calmont learns about the Ring, and where it is, from Voz’s notes. He hatches his plan to get the Bumblebrashers to show him.
“A few days before the Call for Heroes, Helba goes to the citadel, sees red smoke, and fears the worst. She starts telling people her concerns, and her plan to bring this up at the Call of Heroes. Word spreads, and Calmont hears about it.
“Calmont doesn't want investigators, so he hatches this risky and brazen plan to burn down the Town Hall with everyone inside to stop the investigation before it starts. He needs a lot of help, because he’s an idiot, so he steals scrolls of summoning from Voz, and turns the creatures loose on the hall. He doesn't wait around to see if it's successful, because he's an idiot, and then he's seen running away, too, because he's an idiot.
“We get tasked with the investigation, and visit Voz that afternoon. She is not an idiot, and deduces that Calmont is racing off to find Alseta's Ring. She panics because he might actually beat her to it, and because her name was mentioned. That sends her scrambling back to the citadel with a plan of her own: get information from the Hellknights that are buried there. She trips some safeguard, the dead rise up against her, and she retreats in a panic, emerging from the tunnel in a frightened state. Roxie sees her.”
“Voz is desperate now to get to the Ring, and she’s learned that there’s another way in. One that doesn’t involve clearing debris out of the stairwell. She closes up her shop, and takes off for Guardian’s Way.
“We have two actors, now that Calmont is out of the picture, both working independently: Voz and the Cinderclaws. The arrival of the latter started a chain reaction that spooked the former into action.”
While no one disagreed with this version of events, there was not much enthusiasm among the group for what we had learned from Voz. Some of them were concerned that we were becoming distracted by the bookseller’s ancillary role in events, and that the immediate goals were what we had promised to the Bumblebrashers and to the council: give the goblins their home back, and deal with the Cinderclaws.
“Promises were made to help the Bramblebrashers,” Trip said. “There remain skeletons, goblin dogs, and the Cinderclaws beneath the rubble to attend to. A witch does not wish to be an oath breaker when so few grains have passed through the hourglass of her life.”
Tarsius agreed. “A witch makes a good point with the vow to help the Bumblebrashers. While they might live there more safely now, they are not yet safe. I believe a case can be made for chasing Voz, but it still would not release us from our previous promises. I believe a witch is correct that our tasks here are not yet done.”
My argument was that Voz, the Cinderclaws, and Alseta’s Ring were, in fact, all the same problem. We weren’t after Voz so much as we were after what she found. If she did discover a way into Alseta’s Ring that didn’t require digging out two floors of stairwell choked with rubble, then maybe we should consider that.
"A Witch proposes, then, a compromise,” Trip said. “This day is half spent. The remainder could be afforded to securing the first floor, so that the Bramblebrashers can start clearing things. We would spend the night in safety rather than in the unknown wilds, then set out for this Guardian’s Way fresh in the morning. We fulfill our oath and lose little time in pursuit of this new objective."
I felt like that was as good as I was going to get, so I agreed. And, honestly, Trip is right. I needed answers, yes, but we can’t just drop our agreement to the Bumblebrashers because the timing was inconvenient.
And Iskaryn is already upset with me. She’s not fey, but she was raised in a fey forest. Going back on a promise, or even appearing to, would only make things worse.
Part 3: A New Life
Five months and over 140 miles later, Aemi, now using the surname Salinus, arrived at the logging town of Macridi. Her coin had depleted faster than she had expected, and at the current pace she had, maybe, another three months before she would be forced to let go of "only if necessary" and fall back to "total desperation".
Work had been difficult to come by. The cities and towns became progressively smaller as Aemi traveled the Profit's Flow away from Kerse, and most had nothing for her, especially since she had little to offer in the way of skilled labor. She gave each stop a few days, sometimes weeks, looking for something more substantial than part-time menial labor, before giving up and moving on. The one job she managed to find that was well-suited to her was at the Torch Orchard as a sort of receptionist for visitors–mostly merchants and tourists–but it was just a temporary thing, lasting only a couple of months until the season changed. Even if it could have been something permanent, the "only if necessary" expenses in such an exclusive region were barely covered by her income, so she couldn't stay there forever, anyway.
Aemi's frustration, and sense of desperation, was steadily growing. She nursed a lot of anger at her parents during this time: at her dad for bringing financial ruin on them all, and at her mom both for the depths of her deception and for cutting off the trust out of spite. That Aemi's own financial situation, at least the part where she was spending more than she was earning, now mirrored her father's was just more fuel for that fire. And while the anger did wonders for her resolve, in the back of her mind there was this tinge of guilt for what she had done, and how she had done it. Acknowledging that guilt, though, was an unpleasant thought, and it threatened to release a floodgate of mixed emotions that were worse, so she buried it deep and focused on the future. Besides, she thought, it was too late to change anything now.
Macridi was the first significant settlement after the three-day journey through the heart of the Palakar Forest. The forest itself was home to three faerie courts, each with differing opinions on trespassing by outsiders, so settlements along the river were rarely more than small and transient logging camps. In contrast, Macridi had come to an accord with its neighbors, and by exercising restraint over its logging activities, the town was able to grow both its industry and its population. It was home to over 3,000 permanent residents and responsible for the choicest darkwood and paueliel in all of Druma. That restraint in the logging industry also carried over to other aspects of life in town: unlike those in most of the polity, Macridi's residents did not find it necessary to flaunt their wealth. To Aemi, it felt like a real city, and one that wouldn't pass judgment on her currently nomadic life.
It was also the first place Aemi found steady work. In the mornings, she was a civic scribe for the city, a somewhat thankless job that just happened to require the services of a person who was both erudite and articulate. In the evenings, she was a server at The Forest's Drake, an upscale inn and tavern complete with a common room and stage. Serving food and drinks to (often time) drunk loggers and fighting off unwanted advances were items not high on her list–she had settled into "only if necessary" territory long ago–but seeing musical performances from both local and visiting musicians provided a connection that she felt she had been losing. There was also a more direct and personal benefit that her manager was kind enough to indulge: after closing, she would often take to that stage herself to play her flute or sing, granting a short, private performance to the rest of the weary staff.
She had been living there for over a year when a bard traveling from downriver passed through town. In addition to his musical performance, he shared news from the capital.
Aemi almost dropped her tray of ale-filled mugs when he announced that the now-disgraced noble Quaris Sura had hung himself.
Night
We spent the afternoon securing the citadel. Or, rather, securing the parts of the citadel we can access. Obviously, the stairwell is choked with rubble, so there’s no way down to Alseta’s Ring and some untold number of Cinderclaw cultists, but they can’t get up here, either, so the effect is the same: we don’t have to worry about them surprising us. If they had some means of getting up here, they’d have done it by now.
That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.
“Securing the citadel” makes it sound like the process was simple and easy. I can assure you that it was not.
The skeletons were our biggest problem since they were just plain dangerous. If they ever got out of that room, they’d attack anyone and anything until they were destroyed, which meant they weren’t just a threat to the Bumblebrashers: they were a threat to Breachill and Isger at large. The last thing we wanted to do was turn them loose on the world. Nine Hells, Isger has enough problems as it is.
Because we were outmatched, we arranged bookshelves, tables, and whatever leftover furniture we could find to create a winding gauntlet, then opened the door to let them out. The idea was to pick them off from range as they slowly worked their way to us. Only, it didn’t go quite as planned, because it turned out that they weren’t all that slow.
At one point, Kyira ended up toe-to-toe with one, and she took the kind of hit that most people would not recover from. But Iskaryn was near me, and we tried this thing we’d been practicing, where I cast a spell through her, and let her carry it on. She was able to heal Kyira just enough to get away.
Which means that Iskaryn is even more insufferable than usual, because now she’s useful for something other than lecturing me. And she knows that everyone else knows it, too.
We spent the rest of the day cleaning house. This included the unpleasant duty of clearing out the bodies we left behind the day before, burying the skeletons’ remains, and preparing a pyre for the rest. What can I say? It was grim work.
This morning, we sold off the items we had collected here. Some of those were things the Hellknights had left behind. Others were taken off the bodies of the dead. It was a sum of money I have not seen in a long time. Enough that I could live well, not just live, for over a year.
In many ways, this feels so much worse than anything I have done with my life so far. I’m not a stranger to violence, obviously, but that was an event. A single, albeit horrific, moment. It was something that happened to me. But this? I seem to have found myself in a role that is defined by it, and that profits from it. It’s almost a routine.
This is not something the me in Kerse, or even the me in Macridi, would ever have chosen for herself. Both would be appalled.
And yet, here I am.
Breachill, Night
Guardian’s Way turned out to be an old military outpost that dates back to the Goblinhood Wars. The name makes it sound more impressive than it is, which is little more than wooden platforms and a dilapidated shack among a grove of trees at the base of a cliff. I can only assume it was more impressive when it was new.
We didn’t want any surprises, so I asked Iskaryn if she’d fly ahead and scout around. She agreed, but not without her usual attitude. Right before she took off she turned her head to me and said, “If I die, I’ll haunt you.”
Whatever. I mean, she more or less does that now, so I felt like it wasn’t much of a threat.
We hadn’t gotten very far down the road before she returned.
“You’re back? That’s not good.”
“What?” she replied. “You were wanting me to get shot?”
“Of course not!” I said, rolling my eyes. “We just didn’t expect you to be done so quickly.”
“I’m efficient.”
“Don’t start with me.”
She was back because it didn’t take long to see roughly half a dozen half-orcs, armed with bows, alert and on guard.
Here’s the thing. Guardian’s Way is six miles outside of town, at the end of a road that no one travels because the only place it goes is Guardian’s Way. If you see a group of people armed with bows keeping watch there, odds are good that they are highwaymen.
As it turned out, they were highwaymen.
We split into two groups: Trip and Gath approached from the side, with me not far behind, while the others covered the platforms with long bows from just inside the tree line opposite the meadow. The plan was for Trip to hex the rear guards into a slumber, one at a time, and for Gath to disable them. Then we could take the rest of the guard on two fronts.
I’ve written these words before: things didn’t go as planned. But they went well enough, and when it was done, several of them were dead, and we had one of the bandits and the group’s leader, a hobgoblin named Dmiri, in manacles. They called themselves The Bloody Blades. The name sounded familiar to me, but at the time I couldn’t remember how or why I knew it.
Tarsius was digging through Dmiri’s things when she said, “Damn, you people are worse than my band is! You not even gonna kill me before robbing me?”
Which was, of course, exactly what we were doing, and I’ll admit that it made me uncomfortable. Once we decided to take her prisoner, it seemed like we’d crossed the line between the spoils of war and literally just taking her things. The others didn’t see it that way.
And neither did Iskaryn. Which should not have come as a surprise. Yet it managed to, anyway.
“We have established that they aren’t just innocent in this,” she said. “They are, according to their leader here, the notorious Bloody Blades, and we heard about them on the way here, Aemi. If those men we overheard talking about them were right, there’s even a price on their heads!”
Once she said that, it clicked. There was this boisterous inn along the Conerica River in Elidir called The White Stag, and the Bloody Blades were a topic at one of the tables. The men sitting there looked exactly like the sort of people who’d hunt others for money, criminal or not.
But of course, Iskaryn wasn’t done, because once she gets on a roll there’s no stopping her. She had an entire discourse on the topic of theft and ownership, and was just getting warmed up. Eventually, she pointed out that Dmiri’s things were probably stolen from her victims, or paid for in stolen coin. In which case, did they truly belong to anyone?
And then it occurred to me that I was being lectured on morality by the bird that probably stole the bracelets I’m wearing.
“Fine,” I said, giving in. “As long as we turn her in or kill her, I don’t care. I just don’t want her running to someone and accusing us of murder and robbery.”
I didn’t think we’d just kill her in cold blood, and fortunately I was right. We decided to turn her in for the bounty. But not before we got a chance to talk to her. And talk, she did.
It turns out, Voz had come across them, too. She hired them. To keep us from following her into the cave.
“It’s just business!” Dmiri said. “I don’t even know you. There’s just some people she says are coming after her to get this great, once-in-a-lifetime reward she’s chasing. We just let her have her shot at it without their—your—interference.”
“Was she alone?” Liberte asked.
“No, she had her…guard…with her, if you can call them that. I don’t argue with someone who walks up with a dozen or more skeletons in their company. I don’t think you would either. But if she gives me a sack of gold, even less, right?”
If that sounds like the sort of statement that would turn heads, you would be correct. And, when we turned her in back in Breachill, I leaned into it. I told the guard captain, “We have disturbing evidence that Voz is involved in necromancy. Specifically, raising the dead. The hobgoblin, Dmiri, saw her enter the caves up at Guardian’s Way with a dozen animated skeletons in her service.”
He slammed his fist on his desk. “I always knew there was something wrong with that woman, but could never find anything actionable until now!”
It was a productive day. I walked into that office with two prisoners, and proof of death on five more. I walked out with enough gold that my share would buy me 10 more months here, and a verbal contract on Voz.
Appalled, indeed.
Breachill, Night
I don’t know who decided Guardian’s Way needed to be six miles outside of town, but I’m fairly certain that if I had known them, I would have hated them. Yes, I know that speaking ill of the dead is considered disrespectful, but I am not going to let that stop me. It is a five and half hour walk, round trip, every time we go out there. Today was the second time, and tomorrow will be the third. I have cause.
Iskaryn pointed out that I did a lot more walking than this just getting to Breachill. My answer to that is, the whole point of putting down roots is not having to travel this much in a day. I didn’t have a choice before. Not unless you considered starving to death a viable option (which she might, given that she bullied me in to buying this f!#~ing journal instead of food before we even got started).
Personally, I blame Voz. The whole reason we had to make this trek again was because of her and her Magdh-be-damned skeletons. Once we caught up with the woman, she couldn’t just properly die. She had to go and pass out on us, barely clinging to life. That meant hauling her back to town and handing her over to the guard. She has a remarkable talent for turning six miles into twelve.
Not that I’m not relieved that we aren’t becoming the sort who will casually execute a helpless prisoner just because it’s more convenient.
Even more annoying is that I suppose I should thank her. Voz kept a journal, and she went on at great lengths about all the vile things she has been up to, and her even more vile plans for her future in Breachill. Much of what is in here is pretty damning, and you could literally just tear out a page from it and hand it over as evidence for her trial (as her journal discusses a number of things we are not ready to share with the town yet, that is exactly what we did—”And here is what appears to be an excerpt from a journal she was keeping, where she discusses animating the dead,” etc.) It was a reminder that I need to be careful about what I write down in my own, lest someone do to me what we just did with her.
Granted, I don’t give people reasons to be suspicious of me (fine, anymore, and shut up, Iskaryn!). And I’m not planning to murder a tribe of goblins so I can start an assassin’s guild in the citadel (we gave the guard this one, too—”And here’s where she writes about a financial backer…”) and then gloat about it on paper. But, still, the lesson is clear.
For all her character flaws, she was good at research. This thing is filled with details about Alseta’s Ring, and its existence was gleaned from soldiers’ accounts during the Goblinblood Wars. The access to it through the network of caves here was apparently accidental. A soldier’s journal describes a breach in a cave that led to a “ring of strange archways”, that was “protected by a construct which takes the form of a door”. As that all came about through an interrogation with goblins, it’s worse than hearsay—a journal that describes what was written in another journal, wherein they write down what they heard from someone else—but the presence of the Cinderclaws is enough to convince us that this is real. It’s just a matter of finding it.
Which Voz has yet to do. For someone working essentially alone (a bunch of mindless skeletons hardly count as companions) she’s accomplished quite a lot in just the last couple of days, as evidenced by the map she meticulously created. But she is still short of the prize.
We’re all too happy to finish the job for her.