《Reigna The Larkspur: The Immortal Bard's Undying Lament》


 Prologue

    She lay there, the steel of the table cold against her back, a mild discomfort in her left arm. Must have just slept wrong, she mused to herself, her vision returning slowly. This was not where she had gone to sleep, of this she was certain, perhaps because her bed was not made of steel and didn''t have these restraints attached, at least not the last time she''d checked. The tube in her arm was pumping a crimson liquid into her veins. Blood? Was she receiving a blood transfusion? Couldn''t be. The thought had come and left from her head in much the same way that a drunk man does when he comes home to find his wife in bed with another man and after a drunken tirade and a much longer and more embarrassing bout of drunken sobbing, comes to realize this is not his wife, nor his home, and the guards are already outside. That is to say, it''s been a rough weekend and she''s none too happy with where it''s gone, and it''s about to get much, much worse.


    As her vision gradually returned to a state of focus and adjusted to the low light in the room, another revelation fell upon her: the crimson liquid could not, in fact, be blood. This was due, in part, to the fact that it was glowing. Like, really brightly glowing. She could feel panic trying to claw its way from the pit of her stomach to her chest, but rather


    than allow that to happen she furrowed her brow and puffed out her cheeks in frustration.


    First time I get paid enough to eat a good meal and sleep in a real fucking bed and I get kidnapped and brought to¡­ She paused her mental complaint and released the breath inflating her cheeks. ¡°Where in the Nine Hells am I?¡± She asked no one in particular. Her eyes scanned the rest of the room for some clues. A collection of metal work tables lined every visible wall, each adorned with a collection of small shelves filled to the brim with what appeared to be notebooks of varying age, expensive looking, laboratory grade glassware, and small clay pots lovingly etched with runes in a language she couldn¡¯t read, each with different plants growing out of them. Her nose filled with the cold, sterile smell of cleaning supplies and an equally sickeningly sweet scent of what she recognized as anesthetics. Oh, wonderful, I¡¯m in a lab. I hate labs. Labs where you wake up after not falling asleep there usually implies the presence of either a weirdo with a nasally voice and the intent to make you into some perfect love doll or a smug jackass with a God complex. Her mental calculus ran over the possibilities a few times and having no way of knowing what kind of lab operator she was dealing with she decided instead to take stock of everything else.


    Both arms, check, one has a tube with this glowing gunk inside of it, I really hope that¡¯s not poison¡­ Or worse, an aphrodisiac. Both legs? Check, also bound to the damn table. Tail? She flexed the muscles in her lower back and felt a movement behind her, under the table. Okay, tail is here but has been fed through a large hole into the underside of the table and bound there. Fuck. Who just keeps an operating table around with a big tail hole in the bottom¡­ Unless it¡¯s not for tails. She shook her head dismissing the thought entirely. She banged her head lightly against the table in defeat, her brow again furrowed, her eyes locked on the ceiling.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Ceiling is a bit low, must be a basement. Of course it¡¯s a fucking basement. Why can¡¯t the crazy person ever have a lab in a nice penthouse suite with a view of the coast, and maybe a cute and toothy Dark-Elf maid. Nope that¡¯s not a kidnapper¡¯s lair, that¡¯s just my happy place. The ceiling above was made of carefully layered grey stone supported by tall columns of wood and brick. I wonder if these restraints are magical. She pondered a moment before closing her hand and tapping her knuckles against the table. For an instant there was a loud knock that was almost instantly silenced as a set of runes shone blue on binding around her wrist. Dawnfather¡¯s dazzling dong, of course they¡¯re anti-magic restraints. At least I haven¡¯t been stripped naked. She crooked her head to the best of her ability to see her legs and chest. Still in my pajamas I see. So either they have a sleepwear fetish or they intended for me to wake up back at the inn and none the wiser about this lovely foray. Her musing was interrupted by what sounded like the flapping of large wings.


    ¡°Oh Good they fly too.¡± She remarked out loud, her voice utterly unamused.


    ¡°You¡¯ve woken up, I see. Stronger dosage needed for Half-Demon kin, noted. Must be the Infernal blood.¡± The voice responded. It sounded male, and despite clearly intending for her to not be awake, he didn¡¯t seem at all bothered.


    ¡°So, what are you putting in me, oh strange winged captor?¡± Reigna said, indignantly rolling her eyes. When they came to settle back on her new found favorite spot on the ceiling she was met by the gaze of two dazzlingly bright, sky-blue eyes. His jawline was smooth and defined, not a trace of hair or stubble. His hair was thick and straw-colored, tied into a tight warrior¡¯s knot at the back of his head. He had the solid, square frame of a man who regularly performed physical labor, but lacked the distinct tanning and weathering of someone who worked with their hands. Protruding from his back was a set of stark white wings, the feathers edged with gold, almost like filigree or the illumination of fine, illustrated storybooks.


    Reigna could feel her whole body flatten like pancake batter onto the table as she let out an audible groan. The man cocked an eyebrow at her quizzically


    ¡°That was quite the sound.¡± He said simply.


    ¡°Smug jackass with a God complex, check.¡± She muttered to herself.


    ¡°Oh, do I seem smug?¡± He asked, no real inflection in his tone as he pulled at the tube connecting her arm to a larger reservoir dangling from a gantry beside the table. The hanging tank was the size of a small wine cask. He took it down and shook it a few times, no sound came from within.


    ¡°Good, all gone. That part is done.¡±


    ¡°What part?¡± Reigna asked, growing more annoyed by the second.


    ¡°Oh, the infusion, of course.¡± He stated, matter-of-factly


    ¡°Oh, good, glad we cleared that up. But what.. Exactly¡­¡± Reigna could feel her thoughts slipping into incoherence.


    ¡°Shh, sleep, you¡¯ll be back soon.¡± The man hummed as a sweet, calming scent filled Reigna¡¯s nose and she drifted into the dreamless blackness of chemically induced sleep.


    I really need a break¡­

 Chapter 1: Reignas Return

    Everything is so¡­ Soft, and warm. I smell food cooking, bacon. Lots of bacon, and tea. There are plates clanking downstairs and I can hear the gulls squawking to the sailors at the docks. Her eyes are still closed as she listens wistfully to the sounds of the old Shoreline Sanctuary Tavern; The sound of forks scraping against plates and tankards rising and falling to solid, wooden tables. Every so often she can hear the heavy thump and rumble of many boots stomping into and out of the old tavern. The chaotic thrum of The Sanctuary is juxtaposed against the calming sound of the waves lapping hypnotically against the old wood of the docks. Reigna turns over, in an attempt to get comfortable and perhaps sleep in a little longer, but as luck would have it.


    Oh sweet stampeding salamanders, why is everything spinning? Gods, I¡¯m gonna be sick. The sudden turn of her body has set her head and stomach to turning like an old windmill in a cyclone, she has suddenly become aware of all the liquids in her body, at this moment primarily the contents of her stomach and, despite her best efforts of willpower and composure, her eyes spring open as she reaches desperately over the edge of her luxurious down feather mattress for the trash bucket. She finds it just in time and buries her face, up to the neck in crumpled leaves of parchment and douses it all in a violent rain of stomach acid and partially digested food.


    The retching lasts for three minutes before she can catch her breath and sit up straight.


    Ugh, either it¡¯s a side effect of whatever I got injected with last night, or I¡¯m just hungover. As that thought meanders its way into her braincase, she slowly closes her eyes in an attempt to recall what she had seen. As clear as day she can see it all, the low stone ceiling, the glowing liquid, everything. Everything except the face of her abductor. She rolls up her sleeve, looking for a mark where the needle of the tube would¡¯ve pierced her skin, nothing to be seen, however there is a tenderness to her bicep, the kind you get after getting pricked with a needle or stung by a wasp.


    I guess it did really happen. But why would he bring me back and go through the trouble of tucking me back into bed? What could the motive be? Whatever the case, I¡¯m up now, may as well bathe and get breakfast.


    Reigna gathers her clothes from a small basket hanging on a hook outside her door, freshly cleaned. They smell like seabreeze, soft sand, and mallow flowers. She presses her face into the laundry basket and takes a deep breath, allowing the scent of her clean clothes to mingle with the smell of the basket¡¯s wicker and an underlying scent of warm leather.


    Miss Maribelle even cleaned my armor, I¡¯ll have to tip her well before I go.


    An hour or so later, Reigna is dressed in the fresh clothes and armor and has tied her dark hair into a small top knot positioned between her backswept horns, like a tiny hematite sphere in an ostentatious crown worn by some villainous queen. The stairs creak as she descends them, the only other sound she can make out is the clang of pans and the trickle of running water from the kitchen. Many of the Sanctuary¡¯s morning regulars have departed to the docks already, she has the old place to herself, save for old man Edgar, but he typically keeps to his window table and tobacco. Behind the bar, standing on an elevated wooden platform is the current owner, Miss Maribelle Quinn. She¡¯s an older Halfling woman. To be old by Halfling standards is to be unreasonably old by human standards. She¡¯s short and plump, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the lines around her mouth tell the tale of a long and well-lived life with many a long night spent singing and laughing. Around her neck is a silver chain, dazzling even in the dim lighting of the tavern. Its patina has been maintained, no doubt by the same attention and routine with which she gives all the other simple and clean things in her business.


    Slung around the chain are seven rings, each made of different metals and carefully engraved with pairs of names. The centermost ring is engraved with four names separated by ampersands: Maribelle & Ysme & Lilienne & David. The inside of the ring carries another engraving that reads Amor, aeternum et semper. Love, Forever and Always. Set in her face is a set of brown eyes that shine with a mixture of mischief and motherly instinct, they miss nothing be it a lie or an opportunity for puns and innuendo. She is crowned by a bush of faded orange ringlets, curled tightly into themselves and streaked with silver, kept up and out of her face by a brown handkerchief tied around her head, the color of the fabric matches so well with her apron, boots, and eyes, you¡¯d think she got them all as a set deal from some glamoured clothier in Alexandria¡¯s Noble Quarter. Needless to say, Maribelle Quinn is every bit the establishment that her business is, the woman behind the wood, and should a drunken sailor swagger his way in here and insult or attack her in anyway, you¡¯d likely find many debts and petty squabbles settled for however long it took to have him make it right. The men and women around these parts Respect her and will tolerate no less on her behalf. Also, to be fair, she has four sons, two daughters, two wives, and one husband who will gladly defend her if she doesn¡¯t want to do it herself.


    ¡°Morning Miss Maribelle.¡± Reigna says with a smile as she slides into a stool at the counter.


    ¡°Reigna, deary! How did you sleep last night?¡± Maribelle asks, flashing a wide smile and pouring tea into a dainty cup with gold decoration around the outside.


    ¡°Strange dreams, but all told, best sleep I¡¯ve had in a long time.¡± Reigna half lies, best not to go too deep into things in case it was just a very intense dream.


    ¡°You poor girl, always traveling and sleeping in that ratty old tent.¡± Maribelle grimaces before reaching into a little pouch on her side of the counter and depositing a handful of pastel colored sugar cubes onto a saucer and sliding it over to her. ¡°Have you ever considered finding a place to settle down and find long-term work?¡±


    Reigna drops a few of the sugar cubes into her cup and gives it a thoughtful stir. ¡°I have, but my stories are the only thing I¡¯m really good at. I can¡¯t really cook anything fancy or tasty for that matter. Never was good at sewing, I hate cleaning. I could do some manual labor I suppose.¡± She stops to sip her tea and Miss Maribelle raises a hand to stop her before she starts back up.


    ¡°My dear girl, you can¡¯t get better at things you don¡¯t practice! I love your stories and performances, that¡¯s why I pay you whenever you¡¯re in Ambria. But if you¡¯re committed to keep traveling, at least for the time being, especially alone, you should learn some practical skills.¡± As she speaks, a tall, tan skinned, Elven man arrives from the kitchen with a plate in hand and places it down on the counter. As he leans to do so, his other hand reaches around and firmly tilts Maribelle¡¯s chin back so he can plant a gentle kiss on her forehead.


    ¡°Order up, love.¡± He says, his voice is a deep rumble, not as violent as thunder but just as strong. It carries the distinct accent of Rsha, the great desert nation in the southeast of the continent. This man is David, Maribelle¡¯s husband. He is tall and slender, but beneath the thick cloth of his chef¡¯s coat and apron, he is built for combat. His face is all sharp angles softened by the presence of a carefully kempt beard, trimmed and shaped so perfectly you¡¯d think it was a mask or an illusion. His hair is long and sleek, cascading down his back in one solid curtain, like the night sky captured on mirror clear water. He keeps it out of his face and the customer¡¯s food by weaving it intricately into three glossy braids. Each braid is secured at the back of his head with a little stick carved with a flower on the handle, one for each of his wives: A sunflower for Ysme, A tiger lily for Maribelle, and amaryllis for Lilienne.


    ¡°Thank you David.¡± Reigna says, then pauses,¡±Wait, when did you start making this? I¡¯ve only been downstairs a few minutes?¡±


    David casts her a sidelong smirk before patting Maribelle on the shoulder. ¡°Mari heard you running the bath and asked me to get your plate started. You always order the same thing in the morning so it was an easy plate to fix.¡± He laughs softly. ¡°Now, I¡¯m going to make some food for us.¡± He says. Before heading back into the kitchen, he stops and calls over to Mr. Edgar. ¡°Ed! You need anything? Coffee, water?¡±


    Mr. Edgar looks up from the book in his hand, and nods. David watches intently as Edgar takes the tips of his index and middle fingers on both hands, touches them together and wiggles them apart, then flashes four fingers twice. He then balls his hands into fists as though he¡¯s holding a broom to sweep and rotates the top fist clockwise.


    David simply nods and asks, ¡°Black coffee, the usual?¡±


    Edgar nods and flashes him an ¡°OK¡± with his fingers.


    ¡°I¡¯m not trying to be rude, but, what did that mean?¡± Reigna asks before shoveling another forkful of potatoes into her mouth.


    David repeats the first set of motions. ¡°Bacon, eight slices.¡± then the second, ¡°Coffee.¡±


    ¡°Oh, where did you learn that?¡±


    ¡°Elena, the tinkerer from the Steamworks down the way, she and her friend Ares come here to teach us and the rest of the staff when we¡¯re closed.¡± He says simply, before returning to the kitchen.


    ¡°I can¡¯t imagine many more people besides Edgar have to communicate that way, do they?¡± Reigna asks as Miss Maribelle pours her another cup of tea.


    ¡°You¡¯d be surprised, deary.¡± She says, tapping her fingers against the lid of the teapot rhythmically. ¡°There are many circumstances that make it necessary. There are people like Mr. Edgar who don¡¯t or can¡¯t speak for any of a thousand reasons, there are people like our tutor Elena, who have magically muted and deafened themselves by accident or been cursed. And some people are simply born unable to speak or hear. Having another way to communicate, besides writing can be a blessing and even if it¡¯s for a small sample size, we aim to provide the best services to our patrons here and if that means I have to pay a local girl to show my staff how to take her order and get it right, than I¡¯ll spend whatever late nights these old bones have left learning how to do it.¡± She speaks with the conviction of someone who has seen many be mistreated and refuses to stand for it.


    In that moment, there is a glimmer of something behind the polished mahogany of her eyes and all the signs of her age on her face suddenly deepen. Perhaps some of those lines were made by cries for equality, maybe some of those squinting lines were formed in the moments before negotiations broke down. Yeah, you could say Maribelle Quinn has lived a life and has fought many battles, and no matter how big or small, she¡¯s not done yet. It¡¯s true that she has long since traded in her daggers and bow for a towel and a teapot, but the fighter makes the weapon, not the other way around. At that moment, Reigna pulls a scroll of parchment and a quill from her bag and starts hastily taking notes. The first sentence she scrawls onto the paper reads: Sometimes heroism isn¡¯t about fighting armies of the damned or imprisoning an ancient evil, sometimes being a hero is in the little things, sometimes heroism is the act of just doing what you think is right, no matter how trivial it may seem.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    *  *  *  *


    ¡°Be safe on your travels dear!¡± Maribelle calls from the door of the tavern, waving her little brown towel over her head. ¡°You¡¯ll always have a room here when you¡¯re in town, Reigna, don¡¯t be a stranger.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll try not to Miss Maribelle, be well!¡± Reigna calls back over her shoulder, casting one last look on the facade of The Shoreline Sanctuary. This squat, two-story building is one of only three places Reigna has ever really felt at home. Home had always been a strange concept to her, when she was young her parents traveled quite a bit so back then home meant living out of the back of a rickety old carriage and huddling with mom by a campfire while dad hummed a song from his homeland. These days home is much the same as it was then, minus the carriage and having someone who cared enough to help you keep warm on the colder nights.


    Let¡¯s not dwell on all that shall we? Reigna thought to herself. Besides we have business to attend to. The Ambrian shoreline is a popular place for merchants to get onto or off of various vessels, always looking for new places to sell their wares. Today, Reigna¡¯s assignment is to pick up a parcel from Sylvantus Steamworks for a client in a nearby village called Ifrita. Many of the businesses that run by the docks are seafood stalls and taverns of varying quality which is one of the things that makes The Steamworks particularly notable, because it is neither. It¡¯s an artifice shop, which are typically relegated to the Mage¡¯s quarter located towards the center of the city, but the owner demanded to purchase this specific building.


    Once outside, Reigna could understand why. The building is easily three stories high and its width makes up the space of two, maybe three of its neighbors. Directly outside of it is a jetty with a sign designating it as a loading area for the Steamworks and its clients. Wow, this place must be owned by a pretty well off artificer with deep pockets. I wonder what they make here? Weapons? Spellcasting foci? Reigna¡¯s mind wanders as she approaches the entrance. A residential-style red painted door with a triangular window in the upper center. Painted around the window in delicate golden cursive was Sylvantus Steamworks: Ever Upwards! As she opens the door, a little set of brass bells jingle and a spring pulls the door closed behind her. The main storefront has a series of quaint, single and double seated tables scattered around and a tall counter. Behind the counter a large blackboard hangs from the walls scrawled with notes and smeared with eraser marks.


    In the center of the counter sits a glass jar that reads Tips appreciated. She was expecting the smell of oil and acid and the sound of large machinery, instead the space smelled of ozone and lemon and it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Within a few minutes, a door on the far side of the room swings open and a very tall young man with messy brown hair and glacial blue eyes enters the room. Wow, that¡¯s one tall boy. Reigna thinks, and he is, by all accounts, unreasonably tall by human metrics. Around one of his forearms is a tattoo made of intricate geometric patterns, it¡¯s only a shade or two darker than his natural skin tone making it almost unnoticeable.


    ¡°Good afternoon, miss.¡± The young man says, his voice airy and soft. ¡°Welcome to the Steamworks, are you here to make an order or pick one up?¡± He asks, running his fingers back through his hair, stopping every so often as they get tangled in little knots at the back of his head.


    ¡°Picking up an order for Marchetty?¡± Reigna responds, pulling a tiny work order from her pouch. The man takes it from her, it looks even smaller in his, comparatively massive, hands. He nods and pulls a small stone from his left pocket.


    ¡°Pickup for the Marchetty order downstairs, is it ready?¡± He says into the little stone. There is a pause then another voice returns from it.


    ¡°Should be done in a few minutes, get them a drink please.¡± Says the other voice. Sounds like another young man.


    ¡°Excuse me miss, one moment.¡± He says before ducking back behind the door he entered from. Almost instantly he comes back out with a tall glass of what appears to be a cold-brewed black tea and a dainty slice of cake. On the plate sits a delicate yellow sponge, layered with what appears to be a mixed berry jam and fluffy, pastel pink cream. The top of the little slice is covered from edge to edge in a shiny, royal icing painstakingly feathered with little streaks of reddish-pink syrup, presumably made from the same berries as the jam.


    The glass of tea is tall, narrow, and wet with the first drops of condensation. The liquid inside is deep brown, almost like coffee. The bottom has a thick, viscous spiral of some type of sweetener settling onto it after having been stirred in. It has a rich, floral perfume about it, like a small bouquet set onto a table at a fancy party. Reigna looks up at the tall man hesitantly, ¡°Oh I¡¯m sorry, my budget is a bit tight until I finish this delivery.¡±


    He simply smiles at her, the first non-neutral expression he¡¯s made since she¡¯s been here. ¡°It¡¯s fine, these little treats are complimentary. I just like to make them and give them to clients who come in.¡± He nods towards the tip jar, ¡°That¡¯s what the tips are for. If you want to or can, you may leave something, but I just do this because I like to.¡±


    Thank the Gods, some good luck. ¡°Well if that is the case then who am I to refuse hospitality!¡± Reigna beams, ¡°Thank you very much, Mr.¡± She pauses


    ¡°Vincent. My name is Vincent, I apologize for not introducing myself sooner.¡± He says, a reddish blush cutting through the tan of his face as he reaches a hand down to her.


    ¡°I¡¯m Reigna, I should¡¯ve also introduced myself sooner.¡± She says grasping his massive hand as best she can. ¡°I was just surprised, this workshop isn¡¯t like others I¡¯ve been in. It¡¯s clean and welcoming and well-lit.¡± She says, gesturing with a wave of her hand around the little parlor area.


    ¡°And I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve never been served afternoon tea in an artifice shop before either?¡± He chuckles, a small snort escaping the round bulb of his nose.


    ¡°Can¡¯t say that I have, speaking of.¡± Reigna laughs before picking up the little fork from the plate. Vincent¡¯s face falls into a completely flat stare as he watches her cut into the cake and take her first bite. It barely feels like there¡¯s anything on the fork as she lifts it to her mouth, she was expecting the fork¡¯s initial incision to squish the cake down and muddy the definition of the layers of fillings, instead it simply gives way and resumes its shape like a luxurious pillow.


    The cake dissolves in her mouth like candy floss. It¡¯s lightly sweet and complemented well by the mild sour acidity of the mixed berry jam, the occasional piece of blueberry and raspberry pops in her mouth adding extra texture and complexity to the experience. She fails to restrain her excitement, her face spreads into a wide grin as she turns to him.


    ¡°This is the best cake I¡¯ve ever had in my life!¡± She hums, reaching for the glass of tea, excited to know if it will live up to the cake''s legacy. Compared to the cake¡¯s sweetness and acidity, the tea is a welcome accompaniment. It¡¯s floral and mildly bitter. The syrup swirled into it lends no sweetness, but instead another note she can¡¯t quite place. Perhaps vanilla? She thinks.


    ¡°This tastes familiar.¡± She says. ¡°It¡¯s also very good.


    ¡°Thank you!¡± Vincent beams, hearing the praise of the tea and cake combination. ¡°I make batches of this special syrup by mixing equal parts water and honey and bringing it to a simmer while mixing in vanilla paste and lavender flowers.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s fantastic, do you sell that syrup?¡± Reigna asks.


    ¡°No, actually I never thought of it.¡± He says, stroking his chin.


    ¡°Now that could be a good idea for side business, Vincent.¡± Says another voice entering from a side door Reigna hadn¡¯t noticed.


    Through that doorway steps a man, he¡¯s closer to average human height. He¡¯s wearing a brown leather apron, smudged with grease and burns, the large pocket in its center sports a line of various needles inserted between small threads to hold them in place. Covering one of his almost cat-like gold eyes is a lens elegantly engraved with intricate runes. Despite the condition of the work apron and the tattered pants and wool shirt he wears under it, his face and hands are clean. He places a small box on Reigna¡¯s table and she can see that his fingers are covered in scars and healed chemical burns.


    ¡°Oh thank you.¡± She says, standing and offering her hand. ¡°Reigna, and you?¡±


    ¡°Ares Sylvantus.¡± He says with a sidelong grin as he slides his hand over hers. His hands are rough and calloused compared to Vincent¡¯s which are soft and delicate, despite their size.


    ¡°Oh so you¡¯re the owner here.¡± Reigna says with a bow of her head.


    ¡°Co-owner, alongside my partners, but I am head Maker so there¡¯s that.¡±


    ¡°Oh, how many co-owners are there?¡± Reigna asks, quizzically.


    ¡°Four in total. Myself and Vincent.¡± he says, clapping a hand softly against Vincent¡¯s chest. ¡°Elena and Lyra are the other owners but they¡¯re out shopping for supplies right now.¡±


    ¡°Well you have quite the location, I¡¯ll admit I¡¯m a bit jealous.¡± Reigna laughs. ¡°Is there anything I need to know about transporting this?¡± She asks, sliding the little box into a compartment of her bag.


    He ponders a moment before responding, ¡°Well the obvious thing first, don¡¯t drop it or jostle it around too much if you can help it.¡± He says plainly. ¡°The device inside is made using a gold-like alloy so to the untrained eye it may appear more valuable than it is, so don¡¯t let anyone see it, for your own safety on the roads.¡± He stops, squinting his eyes as though he¡¯s trying to recall something. ¡°Have you been to Ifrita before?¡±


    ¡°No, first time actually. Where is it?¡± Reigna says, unrolling a crude map of the area around Ambria.


    ¡°It¡¯s about a day south from Hammerheim, so that puts it about five days from Ambria, barring inclement weather assuming you¡¯re on foot.¡± He says, drawing a small circle on her map with his finger. She quickly makes a note of the location.


    ¡°Is there anything dangerous in the area?¡± She asks. ¡°Monsters, weird weather, natural hazards?¡±


    Ares and Vincent exchange a glance. ¡°Hm, not to my knowledge. Hammerheim is home to both The Aurelian Knights and The Band Of Black Braids. So between the Golden Boys and the mercs, most monsters and bandits are deterred. As for natural hazards, it¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve been out that way so I couldn¡¯t say.¡± Ares says as Reigna jots down a few more notes in a small journal.


    ¡°Well I appreciate your time and help before I head out, one last question, if you don¡¯t mind.¡± Reigna asks, a bit sheepishly.


    ¡°Of course, Miss.¡± Ares responds, standing straight, his hands clasped behind his back.


    ¡°Do you have anything here for warding off or breaking curses?¡± She asks, steepling her fingers together and bowing her head, clearly embarrassed about having asked.


    Ares cocks an eyebrow at her, ¡°No, unfortunately. Curses and hexes are outside of my expertise.¡± He says, a curious but somber tone in his voice. ¡°May we inquire as to the nature of your curse?¡±


    Reigna hesitates a moment, ¡°It¡¯s fine. I¡¯ll ask around Ifrita when I get there. It¡¯s a little embarrassing.¡± She evades.


    ¡°Well, in the worst case, you¡¯ll be close to Hammerheim.¡± Vincent offers as a consolation. ¡°The city is led by a dragon named Furnax. Perhaps he can be of assistance? He has been around for a very long time.¡± He smiles hopefully.


    ¡°I¡¯ll try and see if I can get an audience with him.¡± Reigna says


    With that Reigna bids the two men goodbye and makes her way eastward through Ambria to the city¡¯s main gate and onward to her next delivery. Her mind swimming with possibilities. I can drop this thing off, get paid, maybe get myself a good meal, and maybe I can see a dragon about a curse.

 Chapter 2: the long road to Ifrita

    Before exiting Ambria, Reigna makes her last travel preparations. She stops by a general goods store to gather more loose parchment, a few bottles of black ink, a new sewing kit and eight days of rations. I have to stay on top of my writing and repair that hole in my sleeping bag, and enough food to accommodate for any potential setbacks. Once outside the main gate and on the road east, she slides a silver ring onto the tip of her tail and dangles a shining steel triangle off the end before draping her tail over her shoulder. As she walks she snaps her fingers and claps rhythmically, tapping the little triangle every so often.


    Reigna listens closely to the sounds she¡¯s making, trying to carefully time them to the sound of leaves dancing over the ground in the early autumn breeze and the creak of the wheels of passing carts. Everything is music if you listen closely, Reigna. She hears the echo of her father¡¯s voice, a memory of a memory and her feet slide and tap along to the song in her mind. She can hear the pulse of the organ, the rumble of drums, the trill of flutes. It all stops, she slides a piece of parchment from a pocket on the side of her bag and produces a pen from her belt pouch and begins scribbling down notes. This could be something, I just can¡¯t think of a title, but that¡¯s fine.


    As the morning gives way to mid afternoon, Reigna finds herself alone on the road following the tracks of many other feet and wagon wheels that have long passed her. She takes the opportunity to step off the dirt road and into the soft grass alongside it to sit and have a drink. She unbuttons a pouch on her belt, slides a silver flask out of it and uncaps it. Gods bless whoever created the everwater flask. She muses to herself as she takes a deep drink, her eyes unfocusing as she stares into the middle distance ahead, quietly drinking in the warm solitude of the empty road.


    Both sides of the way are flanked by soft grass and tall trees in the process of shedding their leaves for the coming winter. The almost bare branches spread out for miles, creating a kaleidoscope of colors on the horizon. The browns, oranges, and reds of the remaining leaves bleed into the greys and browns of the exposed branches and patches of the blue sky with its white, puffy clouds can be seen in the spaces between. The expanse of autumnal colors under a clear blue sky is nature¡¯s stained glass mosaic. Reigna sits, taking deliberate, slow breaths. I suppose this isn¡¯t the worst way to start a journey, I¡¯ve certainly had worse. She takes another slow, deep sip from the flask before sliding it back into its pouch and rising to her feet.


    Once on her way again, Reigna taps the triangle on her tail three times and calls softly ¡°Come and join me Lyraax.¡± A puff of purple smoke erupts on her shoulder with a loud poof! And suddenly sitting there is a small pudgy dragon. His body is covered in iridescent blue scales that cast prismatic light when struck from the right angle. From his back sprouts two large, butterfly-like wings made of tough, leathery, greyish-blue skin covered in darker markings. He closes his eyes and throws his head back in a rapturous yawn, or at least what would pass for one had he been a full sized dragon. Instead his yawn sounds more like the cry of a large field mouse that had quite the night on the town.


    ¡°Sweet morning, Lady.¡± He says, chewing the words between a few more escaping yawns.


    ¡°Sweet morning, Lyraax. Enjoy your time away?¡± She asks, scratching him under the chin with a finger.


    ¡°Quite, so. Many friends dancing in the Nymph gardens. Much fruit and cream for feasting. You¡¯d have enjoyed it, Lady. Perhaps you will join next time?¡± He asks, a mischievous glint in his tiny amethyst eyes.


    ¡°Oh no Lyraax, thank you for the invitation, but as nice as it sounds I shouldn¡¯t go visiting the Faelands.¡± Reigna says, sounding wistful at the idea.


    ¡°Oh, but Lady, one visit couldn¡¯t hurt.¡± He hums, rubbing his snout against her neck like an affectionate kitten.


    ¡°The first visit is always free, it¡¯s the ones that follow that hurt. No thank you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get you there one day.¡± He says, his voice deepening. ¡°You¡¯ll want to see it eventually.¡± He laughs.


    ¡°Unless a job brings me there, no you won¡¯t.¡± Reigna says flatly. This was a routine she and her familiar had settled into years ago when their contract was signed. He lends her his magic to amplify her performances and to help her refine certain ideas since the Fae are skilled musicians and storytellers, in exchange he gets to return to his lands for one week every month for the length of their contract. Each time he returns, he tries to entice her to join him on the next return. Once she¡¯s denied him thrice he tends to drop the subject.


    Lyraax may be small, but he is still a dragon. Fae Dragons never grow larger than a cat or small ferret but, much like their pure-blooded kin, they¡¯re intelligent and functionally immortal so long as nothing kills them, and much like their bigger kin they are notorious hoarders. Their hoards are much more diverse, however. A Fae that¡¯s lived as long as he has, tends to have a hoard of everything be it gold, magical items, or labeled jars and bottles of all the beauty and skills Reigna¡¯s predecessors traded him over the years.


    When they had met, Lyraxx had shown Reigna his tiny palace and impressive hoard. Mind you, what passes for a tiny palace to Lyraax is the average mortal¡¯s dream home, complete with scantily clad servants and many acres of lush gardens. He had shown her his treasure room where she had signed on as his partner. There was enough gold and platinum in that room to keep the national treasury running for centuries with no inflation, and artifacts that would make a lich giddy as a schoolgirl. His prized possessions were threefold: a music box which played a concerto the world would never hear, but which the composer had traded for the affection of man he pined after for most of his life. A Collection of stories the author never wrote because he¡¯d traded his skill with a pen for money to pay back his creditors. And a bottle which appeared empty which Lyraax assured her came from a woman who wanted to be a talented singer so he gave her the voice in exchange for her passion so she¡¯d easily be the greatest singer, but wouldn¡¯t care for it.


    When Reigna had asked him then why he¡¯d taken those things from these people he¡¯d responded ¡°Mortals are foolish and fickle, they want easy answers to difficult problems, and the creative types are the most disappointing to me. They seek fame, fortune, or simply to spite other creators. When they come and ask me for such frivolous things, I give them what they want and tell them the cost, and for these three in particular, I scryed their futures and saw that what they¡¯d asked me for would¡¯ve have been theirs regardless had they kept what I had taken, but they just couldn¡¯t wait.¡± He hadn¡¯t said it with malice nor with glee. He¡¯d seemed legitimately saddened by it. He had asked her then


    ¡°What do you want, little Larkspur?¡±


    ¡°Just your assistance, Lyraax.¡±


    ¡°With what?¡± He pressed.


    ¡°I just want to be the best I can be at my craft. I want to write music and tell stories that move people and make them feel.¡± she¡¯d told him, it all sounds naive and sophomoric in retrospect.


    ¡°What¡¯s it worth to you?¡± He¡¯d asked, she could tell he was waiting to be disappointed again.


    ¡°Travel with me, as a partner. Help me refine my act and my ideas, and maybe lend me your magic as stage effects?¡± his eyes glittered at the idea.


    ¡°And what do I get out of it?¡± he asked finally.


    ¡°When my time comes and I leave the world behind, you can keep a copy of all of my best stories. I want that to be the crown jewel of your collection, proof of everything I was and everything I am, not the empty shell of what I could¡¯ve been.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got quite the spirit, little one. Fine, I shall be your assistant.¡±


    He¡¯s been her most consistent companion since that day.


    As the sun begins to set, Reigna climbs a nearby hill and pitches her tent. Lyraax sits beside her bag on the ground and daintily takes the parchment she had been composing on earlier out and lays it on the ground before him.


    ¡°Hmm, something new you¡¯re working on, Lady?¡± He asks, thumping his tail to the rhythm noted on the bar of music.


    ¡°Yes, I was going to have you look it over as we ate.¡± She stops to watch him as he sways in place, his tail keeping rhythm all the while. ¡°Do you like it?¡± She asks.


    ¡°It has a nice bounce to it, certainly dance-able.¡± He says, blinking slowly. ¡°It could be dancier though.¡± He says with a smirk.


    ¡°What would you change?¡± She asks, crouching beside him as he snags another sheet of parchment and a stick of charcoal from the bag.


    ¡°Well if you want it to be a slower dance, but maintain that bouncy rhythm we go to cut time and take it to a 2/4 rather than a 4/4 signature.¡± he says, scratching down a new bar of music. ¡°For the sake of consistency and rhythm we can drop the flutes, double down on percussion and have two layers of strings with a violin lead, piano accompaniment, and a plucked lute. We can make room to improvise some solos over scales in the key as well.¡± He says, never raising his eyes from the parchment.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    ¡°Do we have to forgo the flutes?¡± Reigna pouts. ¡°I really wanted it to capture the feel of walking down a quiet city street on a lazy autumn afternoon.¡±


    ¡°Well, if you¡¯re adamant about a woodwind presence in the piece, perhaps an oboe or clarinet to fill that role without disturbing the harmony?¡± He says, gesturing to her with the piece of charcoal pinched between his chubby, clawed fingers.


    ¡°Can you give me an idea as to what it sounds like?¡± Reigna asks.


    Lyraax nods and purses his lips into an ¡®¡¯O¡¯¡¯ shape before taking a deep breath. As he exhales, his mouth and throat flex to mimic the sound of the instrument and he plays along to the music he has written. It follows a swaying, side-to-side motion and at times he improvises a little, fluttering trill that reminds Reigna of the way leaves dance over the ground when caught in the breeze. She sways a little in place, imagining the other instruments. The sound is smooth and sensual, the kind of thing that makes you pull a partner close on the dance floor so that when you pull apart, every sinew of their body aches to be held again.


    ¡°Ah quite the feeling, right?¡± Lyraax smirks at her.


    ¡°Were you in my head again?¡± She asks, glaring down at the small dragon.


    ¡°No, I could tell by your face that you were somewhere else, but I¡¯m glad you like it.¡± He puffs, scratching down more bars of music. ¡°What made you want to write this anyway?¡± He asks.


    ¡°I was on the road east from Ambria and the sounds lined up in just the right way, I had to write it down. Also.¡± She pauses for a moment. ¡°I was thinking back to when I met you and you had shown me your most prized items.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± He says turning his full attention to her and curling up like a round loaf of sourdough. ¡°Was there one in particular?¡±


    ¡°You said one of the artists you met before traded his greatest, unrealized concerto for the affection of another. So I tried to imagine a song to inspire that kind of longing. A song that makes someone look into another person¡¯s eyes and think ¡®I may never see you again after this dance, but I need to hold you just for a little while.¡¯ Is that too cheesy?¡± She asks, laying down some stones to light a fire.


    ¡°Not at all. Music inspires bodies to move and hearts to sing.¡± He hums wistfully. ¡°The beauty of any given moment is the fact that it won¡¯t last forever. Writing a song to inspire others to reach out and hold each other close, as though it¡¯s the last time is a beautiful sentiment.¡±


    ¡°Well thank you Lyraax, I do appreciate your feedback.¡± She nods, admittedly happier than she thought she¡¯d be.


    ¡°Do you want to know what I saw when I took that concerto from him?¡± Lyraax asks, an unclear tone creeping into his voice.


    ¡°Um, sure if you¡¯re willing to share.¡±


    ¡°He had told me that there was a man he loved, who had come to many of his shows. Sometimes this other man would simply sit outside the venue and listen to whatever crept through the walls.¡± Lyraax was recounting the story, his eyes narrow and cloudy with an indiscernible emotion, wherever this memory had taken him, he wasn¡¯t here anymore. ¡°He was afraid this person, whom he had grown so accustomed to, would leave with another and he would be alone. I had asked him then what price he was willing to pay for love. To which he had responded that no price was too high.¡± Lyraax stops as Reigna ignites the fire. His eyes scan the flames as though there are words inscribed on them that only he can see.


    ¡°I told him that I would take his greatest composition. A song that the world had not yet heard and would never hear. This song would be the one to solidify his name in annals of history and without it, he would die in obscurity.¡± He continues. ¡°He hesitated and asked which of his songs I would take and produced a notebook of things he was writing. I had to explain that what I was taking from him was not yet a seed in his mind¡¯s garden, it was etched into his destiny. The very thing he was put here to contribute to the world at large. He told me to do as I must.¡± He stops to shake his head. ¡°He was a fool. In his future, I saw the song, heard its melody. He was going to write it for the man he loved, play it on a fateful night and it would lead to a mutual confession. They would marry in Port Medan, the Lover¡¯s Port and his new husband would learn to play it too, despite not being a man of musical talent.


    ¡°The song would outlive him and become a staple in Medan¡¯s taverns and chapels and they would live a long and happy marriage. Without it, the affection between them gradually soured. He was still successful, but felt he had cheated his lover out of his ability to choose. He confessed to ¡®having a faerie put the man under a compulsion to love him.¡¯ their relationship ended and he died alone, in squalor.¡± Lyraax stops to take a deep, mournful breath. ¡°He would¡¯ve had what he¡¯d asked me for and then some had he just waited. That man already loved him. Damn fool.¡± He says, there¡¯s a somber finality to the way he says it.


    ¡°Do you ever regret taking that from him?¡± Reigna asks,  sliding a small cup of peppermint and chamomile tea and a buttered roll over to him.


    ¡°Not at all.¡± Lyraax says coldly as he sips his tea. ¡°People always think they know what they want and firmly believe they know when they¡¯re ready to receive it. I have no pity for him.¡± he pauses for a moment. ¡°I am mostly sad that no one else will ever hear that beautiful music.¡±


    Reigna adds some chopped veggies and dried herbs to the pot she has hanging over the little fire as Lyraax quietly sips his tea and nibbles on the buttered roll. He is seldom this quiet. As the soup comes up to boil in the pot, Reigna slips her lute from the larger compartment of the bag, as she does the bag makes a sound like little wind chimes being teased by the afternoon breeze. I spent good money to have this extra space, I don¡¯t completely regret it. Well most of the time, anyways.


    She props her bag against a tree and leans against it, her eyes locked onto the fire caressing the underside of her cooking pot. Her fingers pluck the lute strings and she hums a bit to herself. Lyraax buries his snout into the bottom of the tea cup to get at whatever remains of the undissolved honey. He sits back up to watch Reigna as she plays. Her eyes are clouded, much like his were moments before.


    ¡°Where are you, Lady?¡± He asks, coming to sit by her leg.


    ¡°I¡¯m right here.¡± She half-heartedly chuckles.


    ¡°Something troubles you.¡± He presses, turning his back to her so that he too is staring into the fire.


    ¡°Earlier today, I remembered something my dad used to say to me when I was young.¡± She says slowly, her voice barely a whisper. ¡°He used to say that you can find music anywhere if you listen for it.¡±


    Lyraax says nothing, something in her voice says she¡¯s not looking for a response.


    ¡°My mother and father, when we lived together, would sing and dance together around our campfires.¡± She stops plucking at her lute. ¡°They loved each other so damn much back then. When mom was sleeping or washing clothes in the river, or taking her turn to drive the cart, my dad would just stare at her like she was the first sunrise he¡¯d seen after years in the dark.¡± She sits up, leaning on her elbows, her face cupped in her hands.


    ¡°Did your parents have pet names for each other?¡± Lyraax asks, curious but tentative.


    ¡°Yeah. My dad used to call mom his North Star. He¡¯s cheesy like that. Used to tell her that the thought of her face and the memory of her eyes would be all the guidance he¡¯d need if ever he were lost.¡± She smiles a bit at the thought.


    ¡°Mom called him her Red Lily because in Regulan floriography, red lilies are given as a way of saying ¡®you inspire me¡¯ or given to a performer after the loss of a loved one to say ¡®I hope you find your passion again.¡¯ Mom was every bit as much of a romantic as dad was.¡± She pauses. ¡°As a kid, I always told myself that I wanted a love like what they had.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for your loss.¡± Lyraax says, leaning his head softly against her knee. ¡°It¡¯s hard to lose people you love.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re both still alive, Lyraax.¡± She says through gritted teeth.


    ¡°Just because someone is still alive doesn¡¯t mean you didn¡¯t lose them.¡± He sighs. ¡°People lose their living loved ones all the time, dear Lady. People change, become twisted images of the people we thought they were, they grow, they leave for faraway lands, their morals shift.¡± There is a hollowness to his voice. ¡°Death is the kindest way to lose someone, because it preserves their memory. All the other ways you can lose someone give them space to taint those memories.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever lost someone?¡± She asks, gathering a pair of bowls from her bag and stirring the now bubbling soup.


    ¡°So many.¡± He puffs, sounding tired. ¡°The price you pay for a long life is getting to see many friends and lovers pass into eternity. The upside is you get to see just as many enemies go the same way.¡± He hisses.


    ¡°Does that make it easier?¡± She asks, filling one of the small bowls for him.


    ¡°No, it¡¯s just different. I can celebrate the deaths of many foes, but it can¡¯t bring back all the dead friends. It can¡¯t tell them all the things I didn¡¯t say.¡± He stands and lumbers over the bowl Reigna has set out for him.


    ¡°This conversation has gotten a bit heavy for both of us hasn¡¯t it?¡± Reigna asks, a weak smile crossing her face as she butters another roll to hand to Lyraax.


    ¡°It has, but there¡¯s nothing wrong with that.¡± He says, ripping the roll in half. ¡°Do you want to be a great performer, Lady?¡± He asks suddenly.


    ¡°Well yeah, that¡¯s why I asked for your help.¡±


    ¡°If you learn nothing else from me, heed this: to be a great performer and storyteller, you mustn¡¯t avoid the heavy and uncomfortable feelings. Life is hard and uncomfortable, and sad sometimes. Let the audience sit with those feelings for a bit.¡± He says through a mouthful of potato. ¡°What good is the spring without the desolation of winter? How lucky we feel to have survived winter¡¯s endless empty when we feel the first kiss of spring''s warm, balmy lips.¡± He muses aloud.


    ¡°The happy ending is only worth it if the journey is hard fought?¡± She asks.


    ¡°No, there are no happy endings or beginnings. All that matters is the middle. That¡¯s where good stuff happens. But you can¡¯t laugh if you don¡¯t also cry once in a while.¡± He smiles. ¡°Like with this awfully unseasoned soup.¡± He chuckles.


    ¡°Hey! It¡¯s not my fault salt prices are up on this side of the world.¡± She snaps, a wide smile spreading across her face. I suppose life isn¡¯t always perfect but it has its moments and it¡¯s okay to just feel those things. I guess that¡¯s what life is supposed to be about.

 Chapter 3: Storms, Bandits, Wet Socks

    The inside of the old tent is warm, despite the cold, early-morning air that slips through the holes in the fabric. Lyraax is sprawled out in a heap across Reigna¡¯s sleeping bag providing an extra layer of warmth, and much to her dismay, another layer of discomfort. The last couple days of travel had been quiet and clear, until last night when she¡¯d spotted clouds on the horizon. This morning. Her tent is wobbling a bit more than it typically does under average weather conditions. Please don¡¯t tell me it¡¯s gonna rain today. She sits up and shuffles Lyraax onto the floor of the tent, he simply yawns and grumbles a small disagreement before curling up where she places him and resuming his rest.


    She stands and clips the dagger sheath she had tucked into her sleeping bag back onto her belt and slings her rapier around her waist before kneeling to roll up the bag. As she¡¯s about to exit the tent, a powerful gust of wind whips by, sending the entire tent up and over itself, Reigna and Lyraax included.


    ¡°Oh fu-¡± she starts as her feet are unceremoniously lifted from the ground. Lyraax bounces into the air, his eyes suddenly wide with panic. They are thrown what feels like 60 feet from where the tent had been before slamming into the side of a tree with a loud crack! The wind outside is still howling and blowing the tent hard against the tree causing the fabric to warp and twist around Reigna and Lyraax like a giant spider¡¯s web. If the fabric is moving like this, the frame must be broken.  She thinks, trying to fight back the panic.


    ¡°Lyraax, can you get us out of here?¡± She screams over the gale. ¡°I can¡¯t move very well like this.¡±


    ¡°I can certainly try.¡± He barks back before stabbing his tail through the side of the tent and running it upwards, bisecting the worn leather and allowing the wind to blow it off of them.


    Once the cold, swirling wind hits Reigna¡¯s back, she takes a thankful breath. ¡°Thank the Gods, and thank you Lyraax.¡± She pants. ¡°I would really prefer not to die by suffocation in a collapsed tent.¡±


    ¡°As would I, Dear Lady.¡± Lyraax huffs as he comes to drape himself like a scarf across her shoulders. ¡°We¡¯re going to need a new tent.¡± He says, scowling at the tattered remains of theirs, now wrapped like an evening gown around the pillar of the tree¡¯s trunk. They retrace the tent¡¯s trajectory back to their campsite from the previous night, collecting any of Reigna¡¯s things that were expelled from it in the tumble. She insists on keeping what¡¯s left of it and slides it into her bag.


    ¡°Perhaps in Ifrita we can find someone to repair it or at least pay us a bit to salvage the usable material.¡± She says as she rolls it up.


    ¡°It couldn¡¯t hurt I suppose.¡± Lyraax responds as the first drops of rain start to dot the ground beneath them. ¡°We¡¯re still two days from town, what will we do for camp now?¡± He asks, as Reigna slings her bag back over her shoulders.


    ¡° I suppose we travel as best we can through the storm and see if we can make it there by dawn.¡± She says, her voice trembling, whether from shock or cold he can¡¯t tell. ¡°Otherwise we¡¯re sleeping in the mud tonight, and that just won¡¯t do.¡± He nods a silent agreement to her statement as she descends the foothill they¡¯d camped on and returns to the road.


    The first hour or so by her measurement is aggressively windy with a light drizzle, nothing too difficult to handle. By midday, however, the light drizzle has become a full fledged storm. Curtains of rain cascade by, slapping against her like a hail of grapeshot. The old dirt road is slick and muddy, every few steps her feet sink almost to the ankle and she has to forcefully pull them up out of the muck while taking extra care to not lose a boot in the process. As her and Lyraax follow the road they come to a fork with a set of signs stating which places lie ahead. Ifrita is noted as being southeast from this signpost, she follows the divergent path until they reach a stone bridge over a small river. On any other day she¡¯d more than likely be able to walk across the stones in the river to reach the other side. Weather like this must be the reason why this bridge is installed here.


    There¡¯s a shudder down her spine and she ducks behind one of the trees on the road, pressing herself close to the trunk in an attempt to make herself smaller.


    ¡°Lady, what¡¯s wrong?¡± Lyraax asks, his voice an echo in her mind.


    ¡°There¡¯s someone hiding by the bridge.¡± She thinks back to him. They both peer out from her hiding spot in the direction of the bridge. Leaning against one of the trees is a tall man wrapped in a traveling cloak, its color is unclear due to the rain. If not for the wet shine of the material, at a glance he blends in with the soaked tree bark. A few more minutes of observation reveal three more men creating an arc near the bridge, ready to collapse on any unsuspecting travelers that try to cross. The storms really bring out the best of them huh?


    ¡°Lyraax, do you think we can get past them without needing to fight?¡± She asks in the safety of her mind.


    ¡°I may have a way.¡± He says. He slowly exhales, Reigna can hear a soft rattle in his breath and feels a wave of calm fall over her. The sound of the rain dampens slightly, the things before her have a haze over them as though she¡¯s viewing them through frosted glass.


    ¡°What did you do?¡± She asks.


    ¡°I put a veil over us to make us invisible. Faeries do this all the time to avoid contact with mortals. Just don¡¯t touch them and we should be fine.¡± He says, his eyes stern and forward.


    Reigna takes her first unseeable steps out from behind the tree and stands in the middle of the road, the men don¡¯t appear to notice her. She carefully approaches the bridge trying to keep all four men in sight. The taller of the men steps from beside the tree and leans on the stone of the bridge, his eyes staring in Reigna¡¯s direction and, by extension, right through her. He¡¯s unfocused, his eyes shifting left then right and back again. As she passes by him she catches a whiff of something on him. The scent is sweat, mold, and cheap alcohol. She manages to catch a glimpse of one of the other men, the same unfocused shifting glance.


    These men are desperate and unstable, a powder keg ready to blow. She has no intention of being the match to light that particular fuse today. As she passes between them she hears a ragged, tinny voice yell, ¡°Hey boss.¡± from beside one of the trees. The sound makes her stop in her tracks.


    ¡°What is it Logan?¡± The tall man responds, his voice a low and frustrated rumble.


    ¡°We been here all day, and nothing to show for it. Maybe we head back to camp and-¡± His voice is overtaken by the big man¡¯s throaty growl.


    ¡°No, we ain¡¯t leaving until we have something to go back with.¡± Reigna slips between them and starts her way across the bridge. Their voices slowly are fading behind her. Glad to be out of there. She thinks. Following the now partially flooded road through a swampy area. According to the history books and old stories, these swamp areas aren¡¯t naturally occurring, many of them are the result of magical pollution left over from The Elven Founder¡¯s Conflict almost three millennia ago.


    The Kingdom Of Kyrrodhil used to run from this coast back towards its capital in what is now called the Kyrrodian Wastes. The desperate experimentation the people of Kyrrodhil engaged in during the war was expansive and questionable to say the least. They say Kyrrodhil¡¯s arcanists had developed a powerful weapon, one they claimed would end the war. Ultimately they were right, it ended the war with a treaty called The Kyrrodhil Moratorium where the kingdoms had agreed to end the war and to avoid the use of magic for the sake of warcraft in honor of the many lives lost in the incident.


    Kyrrodhil¡¯s perfect weapon had malfunctioned and leveled the entire kingdom in an instant, hundreds upon thousands of lives gone in a flash. The pastures and farmland reduced to a stinking swamp in the shape of Kyrrodhil¡¯s borders. The magic seeped into the land, raising elementals, reanimating the dead and causing a slew of other problems that resulted in the need for a containment effort.


    Those bandits must have been living out here, and without the proper precautions, they¡¯d driven themselves to the brink of madness, they probably don¡¯t have many more days left to live. Ifrita was beyond this stretch of swamp, closer to the coastline making it significantly safer both from the magic poisoning and from the threat of bandits and other criminals. That being said, it doesn¡¯t feel any safer. The falling rain and roll of thunder disguises other sounds, making her have to look over her shoulder every so often in order to ensure she isn¡¯t being followed by anyone or anything.


    The veil eventually recedes from her eyes and the sounds around her return to normal. She turns her head to see Lyraax¡¯s head on her right shoulder, his eyes glazed over and unfocused.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Are you okay Lyraax?¡± she asks aloud, her voice mildly hoarse from the stress.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine, Lady.¡± he says. ¡°Had to keep you safe.¡±


    ¡°Thank you for protecting me from the Bandits, Lyraax.¡± she says scratching him under the chin.


    ¡°You misunderstand, the bandits were no trouble and wouldn¡¯t have been had you been caught. I was protecting you from that.¡± He says, turning his head and narrowing his eyes.


    Reigna follows his gaze, some 30 feet behind her, is a clump of trees, one of which is significantly taller than the others, large branches sprawling across the sky like grasping fingers, they sway wildly in the stormwinds. A loud creak, like wood twisting against itself, breaks through the howling wind for a moment. She focuses, before she can ask any questions the bottom of her stomach falls out.


    ¡°We should go, Lady. Now!¡± Lyraax hisses.


    The tree¡¯s branches sway again as Reigna turns to run. The wind isn¡¯t blowing the branches. She realizes. The fucking tree is moving. As she runs she casts another glance back, the tree is further behind her now, the canopy of its branches eclipses one of the smaller trees it passes over. A single, thick, snake-like vine drops from it, dangling in the open air for a minute before descending the rest of the way to the ground. She swallows hard, the end of the vine is shaped like a noose.


    ¡°A fucking Hangman Tree?¡± She yelps, running faster through the swamp, trying to be mindful of overgrown tree roots and deceptively deep puddles. ¡°I thought they were a myth.¡±


    ¡°All myths have some truth.¡± Lyraax says, gripping her shoulder tightly. ¡°What do you think happens when you hang hundreds of people from an old tree and their angry spirits start mingling with a resident Dryad?¡± He asks, rhetorically. ¡°It drives her mad and inspires her to seek more blood to pay back the endless revenants cohabitating her space.¡±


    ¡°That thing used to be a dryad?¡± She yells, her chest and legs are burning. She can see the noose-vines slithering over the ground with purpose.


    ¡°Technically, it still is. Just not one in her right mind.¡± He says, a pang of sympathy in his voice.


    ¡°Lyrax, I understand that she is technically one of your kind, but can we please try to refrain from sympathy for the thing trying to kill us?¡± Reigna shouts, her feet pounding hard against the squelching mud and twisting roots along the old road. For the second time today she can feel the muscles in her legs screaming in protest. Lyraax is exhausted and I can¡¯t say that I¡¯m much better off. We need to shake this damn thing. Reigna¡¯s mind races as she tries to think of a solution.


    I supposed that¡¯s as good an option as anything. She shrugs to herself and hopes it works. She throws her hands in front of her face and mimes the motion pulling something over her eyes, at that moment a noiseless facsimile of herself appears, running beside her. The noose-vine lashes out directly towards her, narrowly missing the back of her head as she ducks to one side.


    ¡°Fuck, of course that wouldn¡¯t work.¡± She grunts as she bounds over the trunk of a felled tree.


    ¡°I suppose it wouldn¡¯t.¡± Says Lyraax, clinging to her shoulder for dear life. ¡°The Hangman¡¯s tree doesn¡¯t use sight to track prey, it senses vibrations.¡±


    ¡°You could¡¯ve said that earlier, dammit!¡± She yells. Again she makes the gesture from before, the doppelganger she conjured fades away and is replaced by the echoing sound of multiple footsteps around her. Again the vine lashes out, grasping hungrily for her back.


    Whack! The vine connects hard right between her shoulder blades sending a shock cascading through her body. For a moment her vision becomes dull and blurry and she stumbles, but manages to catch herself in time.


    ¡°Lady, are you alright?¡± Asks Lyraax, cradling the side of her head with one small claw.


    ¡°I will be if we survive this.¡± Reigna slurs. Every breath sends a sharp pain down her left side and her running pace has degraded significantly. ¡°Is there anything you can do to help us out here?¡± She asks, desperately. Her eyes catch a glimpse of light cutting through the rain and canopy of dead branches.


    ¡°Sadly, no.¡± He says, sounding defeated. ¡°Much of my magic is illusory and depends on the targets having an intact mind to manipulate. This creature is more akin to an undead than anything else.¡±


    ¡°Can you make it to town?¡± She asks, pointing ahead to where she can see the lights.


    ¡°I can try.¡± He nods, leaping from her shoulder like a blue bullet, spreading his wings so quickly they slice the curtain of falling rain as though it were stalks of wheat. The interrupted drops hover for a moment before falling to the ground. ¡°I will fetch help! Please be safe!.¡± He shouts back to her.


    She tries again to distract the looming monstrosity. The core of its body is almost 60 feet away, but the grasping vines more than make up for the distance. She creates the distracting sounds and sends them rumbling across the ground around her in all directions. What I¡¯d kill to have a spell like this with more range. The vines lift and lash out, striking dead air around her with a sickening crack! She stifles a yelp of surprise and pushes further ahead, attempting to stay out of reach.


    She jumps over a tree root and lands into what she thought would be a patch of mud, instead, she is met by the slick surface of soaking wet cobblestone. Her feet slip out from under her and she is sent sliding across the ground. Several feet of carefully placed stones scrape and bump against her as she tumbles. This is the worst way to be reminded that people live out here. She tries to pull herself up as quickly as she can, completely disoriented and confused, her whole body wracked with pain that ranges from aches and stings to the warm, subtle pulse that implies internal bleeding.


    Another vine cracks out in her direction as she starts to pick up her pace again, before she has time to create another small distraction. A dull thud reverberates down her shoulders, her ears ring like brass alarm bells, drowning out all other sounds around her as her vision blackens completely. Oh, I think I might be dying. She chuckles to herself inside her head. With what feelings she has left, she can detect the slimy sensation of the greedy noose securing itself around her neck like a wet, snug scarf. A violent jerking motion, followed by a quick, loud pop! All sensation leaves her body.


    The ground beneath her is cold and rough but dry. The dull humm of wind spirals around her as she sits up.


    ¡°Where am I?¡± She asks, her voice echoing in the stone void around her.


    ¡°Reigna, The Larkspur.¡± Says a voice, seemingly from nowhere and everywhere all at once. She scans for its source, eventually landing on a figure in a simple black robe walking slowly towards her. ¡°Daughter of Amaryllis Faberos and Talion The Fox, it would seem you¡¯ve met with a terrible end.¡± He says, there¡¯s no malice in his voice. She can, however, detect a pang of sadness.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± She asks as he reaches a hand down to help her stand. The man draws back his hood revealing layers of thick hair, as dark as raven feathers, flecked here and there with a green iridescence. His face is pale and slightly rounded, he would look young if not for the dark circles around his eyes. The eyes themselves are the color of light rebounding off of freshly fallen snow, bright white with the slightest glimmer of blue. His body, all except his face, is all sharp angles and weathered skin as though he¡¯s spent an eternity working in a field.


    She reaches for his outstretched hand, his touch is warm, inviting, and familiar. He heaves her to her feet and helps dust her off.


    ¡°I go by many names, most commonly I am called by my function.¡± He says, almost mechanically. ¡°I am Death.¡±


    ¡°Oh, so I am dead.¡± She says, mostly to herself. A mix of emotions swirling in her head. On one side is an endless pool of regret, on the other a deep sigh of relief. ¡°Well I guess I don¡¯t have to worry about the cost of meals anymore.¡± She laughs, half-heartedly.


    ¡°My dear child,¡± Death says, a look of genuine concern on what she assumes to be his ageless face. ¡°What hurts you such that you would even contemplate relief at the end of your life?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± She says, rubbing her hand over her shoulder. ¡°I guess it feels a bit like a weight off my back?¡±


    Death simply stares at her for a moment before holding his hand out to her. ¡°Why not walk with me a while and talk about it?¡± He says gently. ¡°We have some time.¡±


    Reigna takes his hand and they stroll out of the cave and into an endless darkness. ¡°Isn¡¯t this the part where my life is supposed to flash before my eyes?¡± She asks, Death¡¯s hand still cupping hers gently, as a father would if he were walking around town with his daughter.


    ¡°Typically yes, but let¡¯s not worry about details right now.¡± He laughs. ¡°Would you really be okay with dying here, like this?¡± He asks.


    ¡°Of course not, there¡¯s still so much I want to do!¡± She says, her voice cracking. ¡°But nothing has gone the way I needed it to so far. I feel like I¡¯m getting older and what should be the best years of my life are slipping away so much faster than my goals are being accomplished.¡± She stops again, contemplating. ¡°I have all these ideas and all these things I want to do, but it feels like no matter how hard I try, or what compromises I make to make my performances and art more palatable to a broader audience, it just doesn¡¯t matter.¡±


    ¡°Yes, it can feel like that sometimes.¡± Death nods his agreement. ¡°But as they say, no kingdom is built in a day. It is tiresome work, you¡¯re always building and revising and remaking. For some, the building never stops.¡± He says, gazing with a smile into the endless horizon. ¡°Do you love what you do, little Larkspur?¡± He asks finally.


    ¡°Of course I do.¡± She says, quickly. ¡°I dedicated my life to performance and writing and music, it¡¯s all I¡¯ve ever been good at, it¡¯s the only thing that brought comfort to the worst days of my life.¡± Her voice trails off.


    ¡°Then the road ahead is going to be difficult for you. But I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll enjoy the ride.¡± He stops and smiles softly at her.


    ¡°What do you mean the road ahead?¡± She asks, searching his face for an answer. ¡°I¡¯m dead aren¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°For now. Worry not, this is not the end of your story.¡± He says placing a hand atop her head and pulling her in for a warm, comforting hug. ¡°I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll see each other again, Reigna. But you¡¯re not mine to keep this time.¡± He kisses her forehead and softly places a hand against her cheek. ¡°Be more careful next time, I¡¯d rather not see you back again so soon. Make haste.¡±

 First Breath After Death

    Reigna¡¯s Eyes snap open, The slimy vine is still wrapped snugly around her neck and the distance between the ground and her feet is steadily growing. It hasn¡¯t realized I¡¯m alive. She takes a moment to process. Wait a damn minute, I¡¯m alive? We¡¯ll talk about it later. She can feel a warmth growing inside her body, something comforting, something rejuvenating. Let¡¯s make this count. She raises her right hand, the vine stops for a moment as though the creature is confused. She turns her head to see the warped physique of the once graceful dryad half-emerged from within the hideous tree¡¯s trunk, her face a perpetual scream, eyes reduced to hollow holes filled with rainwater and water and whatever foul detritus has been collected from her past feasts.


    I bet she was really pretty once upon a time. Reigna blinks away a single tear, snaps her fingers and shouts, ¡°Encore!¡± In an instant a salvo of spiraling green and red lights erupts from her fingertips sending jets of sparks up into the air and more than a few of the crackles and flares from her conjured fireworks display hit the decrepit creature squarely in the face causing it to stagger backwards for a moment.


    The vine around her neck loosens enough for her to slip her head through and drop down to the ground. Once she lands, everything around her slows for a moment. ¡°Make haste, little one.¡± She hears Death¡¯s voice echo in her head followed by the sound of a ticking clock slowly increasing its tempo, the warmth she felt earlier radiating through her body and a sudden flash of golden light. I can make it! She breaks into a sprint. The wind rushing in her ears is so intense, a new sensation she¡¯s never felt before.


    The falling rain barely touches her as she dashes down the path towards Ifrita, the ground barely feels tangible to her. Is this what it feels like to move freely? She wonders. She gathers her momentum and springs up off of her left leg, launching herself into the air like a bullet. For a moment she breaches the canopy of dead trees and can clearly see the lights of the town, less than a mile away, a collection of torches approaching the road. The reinforcements Lyraax promised, no doubt. She touches back down to the old, wet cobblestone with a cat¡¯s grace and continues her mad dash to safety.


    Within minutes she crosses the threshold between the old swamp road and Ifrita¡¯s town square, bolting past a small mob of armed villagers. She slides to a halt just short of the well and turns to face her would-be rescuers. Lyraax is hovering above one of the men, a burly looking man in a heavy raincoat with a torch in one hand and a blacksmith¡¯s hammer in the other. The other people in the group stand in confusion, a cacophony of whispers exchange between them.


    ¡°Lady?¡± Says Lyraax, sounding both shocked and relieved.


    There¡¯s a long awkward pause as all the events of the last few moments hit Reigna, she reflexively throws up her traveling cloak in a flourish, places her right hand on her chest and takes a deep bow. ¡°My apologies, dear gentlemen.¡± She announces in her best stage voice. ¡°I appreciate your willingness to assist, but I am thankfu-¡± She stops as a dervish begins turning wildly in her stomach. She jerks forward and wretches, the familiar, burning acidity tears its way up her esophagus. She can hear a couple of the men moan ¡°Oh Gods, is she all right?¡± and other variations of such phrases as a wave of vertigo overtakes her and she collapses to the ground. I¡¯m so glad I haven¡¯t had any solid food today. She internally sighs as the stress and exhaustion set in and everything goes quiet.


    Reigna tries to shift but is held still by a weight on her chest and the sudden avalanche of various pains from all over her body causing her to tense for a moment before lying flat down against the bed. She opens her eyes, a golden lance of sunlight pierces the space between the blinds covering a window on the far side of the room she¡¯s in. She¡¯s apparently been carefully laid down on an almost uncomfortably firm bed and covered in a soft, handmade quilt. The sheets of the bed are a little too rough for her liking, but compared to the last few days, this makes her feel like royalty.


    The weight on her chest is Lyraax, curled into a tight ball of scales, his wings covering his face. As she attempts once again to shift to sit up she can see that his front claws are tightly grasping the quilt and the spot under his head is slightly moist. Has he been crying? She wonders. She manages to slip one of her hands from under the covers and place it against his back. At her touch, he immediately jumps into a standing position, prompting a gasp of pain from her as his weight shifts.


    ¡°Lady, you¡¯re okay!¡± He says, stepping off of her chest and walking alongside her body to her face where he presses his small, horned head against hers. His tiny, jewel-like eyes are red on the edge. He has been crying, I didn¡¯t know he could do that.


    ¡°Yes Lyraax, I¡¯m okay.¡± She says, sitting up and stretching. Her back cracks painfully a few times and she is made aware of the stiffness in her lower back.


    ¡°What happened to you?¡± He asks, eyeing her carefully.


    ¡°Well I had to use some creative pyrotechnics to get that disgusting old thing to let me go, and there was this light and-¡±


    ¡°Reigna, you died.¡± Lyraax says abruptly. She pauses to look down at him. There¡¯s a sternness to his gaze, despite the little tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. ¡°You died last night, I felt it. How are you here right now?¡± He asks, never looking away from her face. She can feel a cold chill fall over her for a moment, the memories of feeling her own neck get popped out of place started replaying in her head.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, honestly.¡± She says, rubbing the back of her neck. ¡°I fell and the vine clocked the back of my head extremely hard. Before I knew it, it had wrapped around my neck and,¡± she makes a swift jerking motion. ¡°I woke up in a cave with someone who claimed to be Death.¡±


    ¡°He let you come back here?¡± Lyraax asks, coming around to sit in her lap.


    ¡°He said that this wasn¡¯t the end of my story and that I was not yet his to keep. Whatever that means.¡± She lifts her shirt to examine the damage. She¡¯s covered in cuts, bruises and scratches, many of which have been covered in bandages and wraps, including a large brace that is wrapped all around her waist and up and across her shoulder blades. ¡°I wish he would have healed me before sending me back.¡± She says, slowly getting up to approach a mirror above a small vanity table in the room. The soft pink of her skin is dappled with purple bruises and bumps and the nail on her left hand¡¯s middle finger has been cracked and carefully covered over in bandage packed with an herbal poultice to stave off infection.


    ¡°I need a bath.¡± She says, exasperated.


    ¡°Aye, that¡¯ll fix you right up.¡± Lyraax agrees. ¡°If nothing else, it¡¯ll wash the stench of mud and death from you.¡±


    ¡°I do hope so. I feel disgusting.¡± She sighs, before gathering her things and leaving the room.


    The hall of the tavern has five rooms and the sixth is a shared bathroom. It¡¯s clean and functional, not quite as nice as The Seaside Sanctuary, but it¡¯ll do. There¡¯s no notable sound in the old place, save for the sound of footsteps from the kitchen. The whole tavern is a single floor, but the building itself is fairly long. The floor is made of the same kind of stone used to pave the road into town, a greyish-white stone that, at a glance, could pass for uncut marble. Many of the surfaces inside the tavern are a mixture of carefully varnished black wood and the same grey stone, giving the place an almost chess-board motif. She approaches the counter, behind it stands a stout older, Dwarven gentleman he¡¯s wiping a couple tankards and has a small cup of tea on his left side slowly wafting little wisps of sweet-scented steam into the air.


    He places one of the tankards carefully into a cabinet above the counter and takes a sip of tea. While sipping he keeps one hand behind his back, his posture is perfectly straight, his coal black shirt and stark white waistcoat are pristine and elegantly pressed. He¡¯s completely bald, but his face is covered in a carefully manicured beard, it is intricately braided, filled here and there with pieces of silver jewelry and small beads. He glances over at Reigna, standing absentmindedly in her pajama pants and partially buttoned shirt with her clean clothes clutched to her chest.


    ¡°Oh, well it seems our guest is awake.¡± The man says, his voice an articulate rumble laced with hints of a brogue. ¡°What can I do to help you, lass?¡± He asks, a polite smile skewing the symmetry of his beard.


    ¡°I was wondering if your tavern offers a laundry service?¡± Asks Reigna, not entirely convinced that she isn¡¯t still dead somehow.


    The man hops from the stool he was sitting on behind the counter and comes around to stand before her. ¡°Of course, miss. Follow me if ye will.¡± He says, with a nod before locking both hands behind his back and leading her back down the hall.


    ¡°Where am I?¡±


    ¡°Poor Richard¡¯s Rags, we¡¯re one of only two full inns in town.¡± The man says


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯ll be able to pay for everything soon, I just have to finish this delivery!¡± Reigna says, a sudden panic overtaking her. ¡°I just want to be presentable before I meet my client.¡±


    The man opens the bathroom door for her and raises a hand to politely ask her to let him speak. ¡°Dear lass,¡± he begins. ¡°You don¡¯t have to worry about the cost. Your wee dragon friend told our folk you were in danger, the fact you¡¯re here right now is nothing short of a miracle.¡± He stops, giving her an opportunity to speak.


    ¡°I appreciate the offer, sir, but I can¡¯t just take advantage of your hospitality.¡± She says with a nod as he beckons her into the bathroom.


    ¡°It¡¯s no trouble, I assure you. We don¡¯t get many travelers out this way so I have the space, and besides,¡± He pauses for a moment, reaching onto a shelf and placing a linen lined basket on the floor beside the tub. ¡°I¡¯ve been around for at least three of your lifetimes, it¡¯s the older generation''s job to care for the young and you my dear, look like you need quite a bit of caring, no offense.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve only ever heard people extend that kind of sentiment to their own children.¡± She smiles awkwardly at the man.


    ¡°In the eyes of The Great Maker, we¡¯re all his children, all siblings. We¡¯re all made of the same materials, just assembled differently.¡± He smiles widely at her. She can see now that pinned to the collar of his black shirt is a brass medallion of a large cog with a hammer in the center. She recognizes it as the insignia of a Dwarven God called The Great Maker or The Forgemaster. I suppose I can accept his help.


    ¡°Of course, in that case, thank you very much Mr?¡± She pauses, extending her hand.


    ¡°Cicero, Richard Cicero.¡± He nods, shaking her hand gently. ¡°My friends call me Rich. You can call me whatever you fancy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Reigna, I suppose I¡¯m glad to have landed here.¡± She smiles.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll go have our cook make you some breakfast Miss Reigna.¡± He nods, once again tucking his hands behind his back. ¡°Also, place your dirty clothes in the basket, I¡¯ll have one of our housekeepers tend to them for you.¡± With that he gives Reigna a small bow and exits the bathroom, closing the door.


    She returns to what she feels confident to call ¡°her room¡± and collects her armor and other clothes and drops them into the lined basket before locking the bathroom door and drawing water for her bath. One of the finest innovations to come from Mae¡¯Andel after the treaty was signed was infrastructure for running water, especially when coupled with the hot water heater from Hammerheim. Elves figured out how to bring the river and bathhouse to the comfort and privacy of your own home for all manner of hygiene and cleanliness, Dwarves found ways to keep water hot for the harsh winters, humans merged the two technologies and spread them to the world. What a great era to be born in. Reigna hummed to herself. Once the long tub is most of the way full, she strips off her clothes and the bandages , drops them into the basket and slides into the water. The warmth immediately radiates through her body. She sits, leaning her sore shoulders against the cool porcelain of the tub¡¯s far wall, all the aches and pains slowly dull into background noise against the calming warmth and gentle sway of the water.


    Without the bandages she can finally see the rest of the damage she¡¯s endured. More bruises, and a particularly ugly, yellowing patchwork of bruises across her left side and down her thigh. My back probably looks like a map of Leonis. She thinks, bringing her tail up and laying it across her lap. The skin is still pink although marred with scratches and scrapes. On the side of the tub are a collection of glass bottles, labeled as either bathwater additives or lathers for her skin and hair. She adds a few drops of mint and lavender to the bathwater.


    After adding the mint she falls into a bout of coughing, forcing her to exit the tub and spit into the sick. I guess I was congested. Fuck that hurt. Once back in the tub, the mint and lavender scents have mingled, mellowing each other out. She can feel some of the tension leave her shoulders as she takes washcloth and rubs soap into it.


    A whole week since I left the Sanctuary. A whole week without bathing. I can¡¯t keep doing this, it makes me feel so gross. Also, we should probably lay off on the whole ¡°getting killed by hideous monsters¡± thing. Her mind races as she gently scrubs the larger and more tender of her bruises. Once I get this payment, I can head over to Hammerheim and maybe see about this whole curse thing. I really hope I¡¯m right about that and I actually am cursed, otherwise I¡¯m not sure what I¡¯d do.


    Once she¡¯s finished with the actual cleaning part of the bath she just lays back in the water, steeping herself like a teabag as the water slowly cools down. Eventually the strength finds her and she climbs out of the tub and gets dressed. When she opens the door to leave she finds a woman, perhaps a little older than her standing, poised to knock on the bathroom door.


    ¡°Oh I¡¯m sorry!¡± She says reflexively. ¡°I was in there a bit too long, just got a little too comfortable.¡±.


    ¡°No, it¡¯s no trouble.¡± Says the other woman, her voice low and husky. She seems at least partially Elvish, the slightest point to her ears. Her glossy red hair is neatly tied into a bun atop her head. Her brown eyes have an owlish focus to them, despite being startled a few moments ago. Her fingers appear calloused, perhaps from years of this kind of work, her nails have clean edges, but are a bit uneven, regrown after being bitten down, Will used to bite his nails too, especially before performances. I wonder what makes her nervous, or if it¡¯s just for convenience.


    ¡°May I take your basket, ma¡¯am?¡± She says after what feels like a long pause.


    ¡°Oh, yes, of course.¡± Reigna says, handing her the laundry basket. The other woman gives her a small nod and proceeds down the hallway. Reigna returns to her room to retrieve the parcel for delivery. Lyraax is fast asleep on her bed, clearly exhausted either from the traveling, the previous day¡¯s harrowing events, the relief of knowing she¡¯s actually alive and still herself, or some combination of all of the above. She opens her bag and grabs the little box from within the main compartment, a tag on the box reads Marchetty. She slides it into a pouch on her belt and returns to the bar. The building is still quiet and empty, save for her and the staff. Sitting on the counter are a small porcelain teacup and a polished silver tankard, beside them are a bundle of silverware carefully wrapped in a white handkerchief and a large wooden plate containing a small pile of fluffy scrambled eggs, some kind of fried and seasoned potatoes and three sausages.


    Her stomach rumbles its demands as the smells of the excellently plated food waft into her face. Mr. Cicero appears behind the counter with a small saucer of sugar cubes and a silver boat of what appears to be either milk or cream.


    ¡°Ah, Miss Reigna, I had this prepared for you.¡± He says, beckoning her over to sit.


    ¡°Oh, thank you so much.¡± She says, politely sitting down and doing her best to resist the urge to hunch over the table like a rabid ape and shovel the food into her mouth with her bare hands. ¡°It smells wonderful.¡±


    ¡°Why thank you.¡± Mr. Cicero nods, firmly pulling and adjusting his waistcoat. ¡°We do our best to source quality ingredients from Hammerheim and Glimmerfrost on the other side of the mountain.¡± He says, a hint of pride in his tone.


    ¡°Why is no one here?¡± She asks, skewering a few potatoes on her fork and taking a bite. Oh yeah, that¡¯s the stuff. She once again manages to restrain the ravenous urge.


    ¡°Well, Ifrita is a trade and labor village. Many of our people head down to the coast and fish and those who are more able head into the swamp.¡± He says, lifting the sugar dish and signaling with his hand how many cubes Reigna would like in her coffee. She asks for three with her left hand before swallowing her food to speak.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°What could they possibly be looking for in the swamp?¡± She asks, unnerved by the thought of having to go back out there eventually.


    ¡°Sometimes, they go just to keep the monster numbers down.¡± He says, carefully stirring cream into the cup. ¡°Other times, those of us who have been quite unfortunate, go out there to retrieve whatever is left of our loved ones.¡±


    He slides the coffee back over to her and they sit in silence for a few minutes as Reigna works her way through what remains of her eggs before slicing her sausages into medallions.


    ¡°When you say whatever is left of them, you mean,¡± she hesitates.


    ¡°Trinkets, wedding bands, scraps of clothes and armor, undead.¡± The word hangs thick in the air, heavy and suffocating like smoke.¡±Many of our people are also salvagers as well.¡±


    ¡°What is there to salvage out here?¡± She asks, confused.


    ¡°Well, this area is technically part of the Kyrrodian Wastes and the wastes are filled with errant magic.¡±


    ¡°So does the swamp¡¯s mud or water have inherently magical properties?¡± She asks, biting into a piece of sausage.


    ¡°In some areas, especially closer to the Old Kyrrodhil, yes.¡± He says with a small pause. ¡°But the concerns for our salvagers isn¡¯t that. The residual magic from the incident makes it so that sometimes rifts open up, either in clouds of swamp gas or beneath the mud and these small rifts move things sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Oh, so you all can sometimes retrieve artifacts and trinkets from these rifts and sell them to towns or cities like Ambria that have museums.¡± She says with a smirk.


    Mr. Cicero taps the tip of his nose. ¡°Exactly. We find all manner of things. Sometimes relics from Old Kyrrodhil, sometimes just things dropped by travelers. Either way it¡¯s lucrative. Most importantly, sometimes the residual magic solidifies into crystals like calcium or salt does.¡± He says, refilling her water cup.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know that could happen.¡± Reigna says, a bit awestruck,


    ¡°It¡¯s called Kyrronite, it¡¯s a fairly useful reagent for enchanting items or temporarily holding spells for later use. Some artificers are experimenting with using it as a powersource airships, or so I¡¯ve heard.¡± He says, after which point they fall into a comfortable silence as Reigna finishes her breakfast.


    With her meal finished she piles the empty cups and used silverware on top of her plate. ¡°Thank you very much for the meal, Mr. Cicero. Could I trouble you for one more favor?¡± She asks, bowing her head slightly.


    ¡°Of course, what can I do for you?¡± He asks, grabbing her things from the table and preparing to take them back into the kitchen.


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for someone in town named Marchetty, do you know where I can find them?¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes. Erin Marchetty.¡± Mr. Cicero says simply. ¡°She runs the general store, it¡¯s right down the road near the well, you can¡¯t miss it.¡± He says, pointing towards the door.


    ¡°Thank you, I¡¯ll be back once I¡¯ve finished my business.¡± Reigna says with a nod before bounding out the door.


    Ifrita is a quiet village nestled in a curious part of the coastline. Surrounded on three sides by the swamp and the most westward edge of the Kyrrodian Wastes, four hours south will bring you to the coast proper, a soft-sanded beach and the endless horizon stretching out as far as the eye can see. To the north, through the wastes and back to the main trade route you can follow the road to Hammerheim, the city of Dwarves, and knights and many mercenary organizations, further still up the mountains will bring you to Glimmerfrost, a pastoral, snowy village where ice is harvested from the higher mountain peaks. West from here takes you deeper into the Wastes, to a place known as The Hub, one of two that are known to exist where thieves and smugglers exchange their wares, this Hub is overseen by a man known primarily as The Grafter, The Stitcher, or simply The Plague. People say he¡¯s been around for thousands of years, but he¡¯s never been apprehended by the law and any who¡¯ve gone looking to claim his bounty have never returned.


    That being said, Ifrita, by all accounts, is a much more humble place. Some 300 people live here, and as stated by Mr. Cicero, their business is much divided between fishing off the coast and attempting to drag the swamp for lost things or valuables. The grey and black cobblestones that line the pathway into town also make up the roads in town as well. One primary thoroughfare runs from one side of town to the other, branching here and there into small clusters of residential buildings, most of which are single floor buildings, some small, seeming to consist of only one or two rooms at best, and some are slightly longer. The People here build their houses out rather than up. It must be because of the swamp, they don¡¯t want their buildings sinking. Reigna considered.


    Near the town¡¯s entrance is a small public stable, asking for one copper to rent a horse or seven silvers to buy one with variable costs for renting carts and carriages. A small well with a stack of buckets next to it, the same one Reigna had almost crashed into the night before. On the other side of the well, sandwiched between what appears to be a residential building and a small tavern is a squat building with a hand-painted sign above the door that reads Marchetty¡¯s General Goods. That¡¯s smaller than I¡¯d expect for a general store. Reigna thinks. Many of the general goods stores she¡¯s seen over the years tend to be larger to accommodate bulk stock or general organization.


    She opens the door to step inside, a rather overzealous spring mechanism on the other side pulls the door shut with a loud bang! After which point she hears a muffled ¡°One moment please!¡± coming from somewhere, though she cannot place where.


    Another door behind the counter opens and slams shut. The room is at best 40 feet from end to end, ten of those feet are dedicated to the well-worn countertop. There are a few rows of shelves that line the store itself, stacked carefully with simple things like flasks, inkwells, scroll cases and the like. One aisle consists of jars of homemade jams and carefully wrapped packs of hardtack and jerky.


    Standing behind the counter is a woman, at least partially Elven, skin like oak bark, sun-kissed and weathered. Her bush of tight, deep-brown curls is peppered with streaks of silver and held back from her face with a red bandana which has been patched and stitched with the remains of other cloth many times over. She¡¯s around Reigna¡¯s height, with broad shoulders, the long sleeves of her work shirt are rolled back to reveal thick veins pulsing beneath her skin, the kind of definition that comes with a combination of age and hard, repetitive work. She pats her hands against the small lap-apron around her waist and stands up straight. She has the posture of a dancer, or maybe of orator. Reigna notes to herself.


    ¡°How can I help you, love?¡± Says the woman, resting her hands against the worn wooden counter.


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for Erin Marchetty, is that you?¡± Reigna asks, fishing the parcel from a pouch on her belt.


    ¡°That is indeed me.¡± She smiles, a flash of excitement behind her eyes.


    ¡°This is from the Sylvantus Steamworks in Ambria.¡± Reigna places the box down on the counter. ¡°Can you please confirm that this is your order?¡±


    Erin opens the little box, the seconds feel like hours as her face gradually changes from excitement to confusion, to disappointment.


    ¡°Oh dear, that¡¯s not good.¡± She says, mostly to herself.


    ¡°Did something happen to it?¡± Reigna asks, feeling her heart swandive to her toes. ¡°I was instructed not to open it.¡±


    Erin reaches into the box and retrieves a small, mechanical model of a nightingale. The body is carved of polished, black wood and carefully inlaid with gold and silver filigree. One of the wings is dented and has broken off of its delicate, hair thin hinge. There¡¯s an inscription on the underside of the little bird. Erin says something in Elvish and the bird hops up and begins to sing a beautiful rendition of an old folk song, its one good wing flaps in an attempt to fly until eventually it finishes its song and returns to the static state.


    ¡°It¡¯s a gift for my daughter¡¯s birthday, she loves these little birds which is why I had this commissioned for her.¡± She pauses for a moment. ¡°I¡¯m sure I can find someone to do the repair though, so thank you for getting it here on time.¡± She nods, opening her register which is a drawer with a locking mechanism beneath the countertop.


    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, I got attacked on the road and I thought it¡¯d be safe in my bag I-¡± Erin reaches across the counter and cups her hands around Reigna¡¯s, she can feel the weight of a few coins being placed in her upturned palms.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, nothing is broken which cannot be fixed.¡± She smiles tiredly at Reigna. ¡°You¡¯re the girl who passed out in the square last night, yes?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that was me.¡± Reigna says, bowing her head. If the world could open up and swallow me whole right now I¡¯d be elated.


    ¡°I¡¯d heard that you were in rough shape, so I¡¯m not going to be hard on you. I can have this sent to Hammerheim for repairs and have it back here in time for her birthday.¡± She says simply, pinching the bridge of her nose before scratching some notes into a ledger behind the counter.


    ¡°I can bring it to Hammerheim for you, no charge!¡± Reigna blurts out.


    ¡°Oh, you don¡¯t have to do that.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m heading there anyway, it won¡¯t be any trouble.¡± She insists.


    Erin considers for a moment before exhaling a sigh, ¡°Alright, Delivery Girl, I¡¯ll let you take it to Hammerheim for me, but I¡¯m still going to pay you for it.¡± She says firmly


    ¡°But it¡¯s my-¡± Reigna starts but is cut off.


    ¡°No, you¡¯re a young lady and something bad happened on the way here.¡± Erin begins. ¡°I¡¯m a mother of four young women and I''d be damned if I¡¯d let anyone take advantage of my daughter¡¯s misfortune just to get a little more work out of her. So I¡¯m gonna give you the money to get from here to there and a little extra to pay a shipping fee to have whoever repairs it send it back to me so you don¡¯t have to put up with that damn tree again.¡± Erin stops her motherly tirade and gives Reigna a firm glare. ¡°Does that sound good to you?¡±


    ¡°Yes ma¡¯am, sounds good to me.¡± Reigna says with a defeated nod. ¡°I¡¯m Reigna, by the way.¡± She extends her hand.


    Erin shakes her hand and claps a few more coins into it. ¡°Count that when you get back to wherever you¡¯re staying, and thank you for taking care of this for me.¡± She gives Reigna a sly smirk, ¡°Now is there anything else I can help you with?¡±


    Once back at Poor Richard¡¯s Rags, despite her upset at the delivery being damaged, Reigna did find a positive. Erin was kind and even jovial with her and told her to stop by before she leaves for Hammerheim so that she can examine what¡¯s left of the tent and see if they can work out a deal to get her a new one. I guess I broke even on the luck this time around since Miss Erin appears to be a reasonable woman and a loving mother.  She stops for a moment, on the road outside the inn. Her daughters are lucky to have someone like that in their lives. Once inside, the atmosphere is different than it was earlier. There are a few people seated at the bar and at least two of the tables have people sitting in them.


    Looks like some people are coming back from their day¡¯s work. She strolls past the bar, into the hallway where the rooms are, as she goes to open her door, she hears the bathroom door at the end of the hall open and shut again and glances over to see Mr. Cicero wiping his hands with a handkerchief.


    ¡°Ah, good, you¡¯re back.¡± He says expectantly.


    ¡°I am, do you need me, sir?¡± She asks, turning away from her door to face him completely.


    ¡°I just may, depending on your answer. Your dragon friend has informed me that you¡¯re a performer?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I studied at a small arts school in Lake Syrril for four years.¡± She says, trying her best to disguise the pride in her voice.


    ¡°Well, we don¡¯t get many bards in Ifrita, would you like to earn yourself a little extra coin this evening?¡± He asks, his eyes squinting. He certainly has an angle, let¡¯s see what he has to say.


    ¡°I¡¯d love to, I could certainly use the extra money.¡± She chuckles. ¡°Plus I have a couple ideas I¡¯ve been workshopping that I¡¯d like to try out if it¡¯s not too much trouble.


    ¡°Wonderful, I¡¯ll even sweeten the deal for you.¡± He starts. Alright here¡¯s his hook, let¡¯s hear it. ¡°You give me three hours tonight minimum. If your performance brings in a lot of people, I¡¯ll give you 25 percent of all the sales done during your time slot. If it goes better than expected, your time here is on me and I¡¯ll even give you a voucher for four nights for the next time you¡¯re in town, how does that sound?¡± He says, his pitch doesn¡¯t have the shark-like pub manager excitement to it, it doesn¡¯t feel like a bad deal yet.


    ¡°I love the sound of that, but as people of business can we talk about what the bad scenario is?¡± She asks, soberly.


    ¡°If your performance doesn¡¯t go quite as well, I¡¯ll cut you off at an hour and a half, you can keep whatever tips come your way, but now voucher for a future stay and I¡¯ll need you to clear out by the day after tomorrow, unless you pay.¡± His words are careful and stated in plain terms, no trickery, no attempt at getting more out of her than she puts in.


    ¡°That seems fair to me, but this does seem skewed heavily in my favor on the good end, why is that?¡± It may be rude to ask, but I have to know.


    ¡°Well like I said, we don¡¯t get bards often in Ifrita. If we get a really good one and she¡¯s in my bar, lifting spirits and getting others in the mood of lifting spirits as it were,¡± he says, lifting his hand above his head as though raising a toast. ¡°Then giving you a reason to come back and perform in the future only benefits us both.¡± ¡®


    ¡°You¡¯re a sly one, Mr. Cicero, I like your style.¡± She says with a smirk.


    ¡°Aye lass, you have to be to make money in a place like this.¡± He winks at her and walks down the hall, a small spring to his otherwise even and measured steps.


    Inside her room, Lyraax has laid out her tambourines, her triangle, and her lute and seems to be searching through her bag for something.


    ¡°Lyraax, what are you doing?¡± She asks, both confused and concerned.


    ¡°Oh, just looking for something.¡± He says not looking up at her. ¡°Lady, have you ever given a draft horse a root canal?¡± He asks suddenly.


    ¡°Um, no. Why?¡±


    ¡°Ever extracted an impacted tooth from a suffering mare?¡± These questions keep getting weirder.


    ¡°No, can¡¯t say that I have. I¡¯m not a veterinary dentist, Lyraax.¡± At that moment he raises his head out of her bag and looks directly at her.


    ¡°Ah, that¡¯s right you¡¯re a bard.¡± He says, a bit sardonically. ¡°You¡¯ve no formal training in the practice of equine dentistry and yet you insist upon performing a full oral examination of the charitable stallions that smiled upon us this day?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, you lost me Lyraax.¡± She says, her eyes locked with his and blank as a fresh parchment sheet.


    ¡°Don¡¯t look a gift horse in the mouth, Reigna.¡± He says, exasperated. ¡°The man gave you a good, solid offer, why would you ask to explain why the deal favors you?¡±


    ¡°Are you mad at me for wanting to clarify the terms of a deal with someone we just met?¡± She asks, beckoning towards the door, her brow furrowed into a severe arch above her eyes.


    ¡°Lady, I am not angry with you, but for someone who spent four years of her life studying the art of charm and eloquence, that was uncharacteristically tactless of you.¡±


    Reigna bites her tongue to hold back from saying something else Lyraax might find particularly tactless, filled with expletives and at least one implied long evening with his mother. Ah so he¡¯s not mad, just disappointed.


    ¡°I¡¯m not telling you not to clarify terms with people, I¡¯m just saying there are better ways to ask these questions that don¡¯t cause you to fall out of favor with the people who extend such offers to you.¡± He says, slowly sliding the extra things back into her bag.


    ¡°Okay, I get that, but did you have to take everything out of my bag to set the scene?¡± She asks, sweeping her arm flaccidly over the mess of things scattered around the room.


    ¡°No, that was just part of the show.¡± He shrugs. ¡°This man has been good to you, good to us and he seems to have a good business head on his shoulders. If it were anyone, anywhere else, I could say that was the correct course and manner of action, here though, not so much.¡±


    ¡°Are you done critiquing my social skills yet? Because today hasn¡¯t been the best and now I have a show to prepare for. So can you stop being my manager and go back to being my friend for a while?¡± She asks, sitting hard on the bed and lying back across it.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry Lady, I thought you¡¯d find the equine dentistry line funny and we¡¯d have a little banter.¡± Lyraax says, his voice concerned as he comes to sit beside her face. ¡°What happened with the delivery?¡±


    ¡°That busted, bark-hided old bitch of a tree damaged the thing I was delivering when it killed me!¡± She shouts, throwing her arms up. ¡°Thankfully the lady I was delivering to still paid me and we made a deal that I¡¯ll take it to Hammerheim for her to get it fixed and she¡¯ll pay for shipping.¡± She says, her voice slowly coming back down to normal levels. ¡°I¡¯m just upset because it was just one stupid little thing and it didn¡¯t have to happen.¡±


    ¡°Many things don¡¯t have to happen, Lady, but they do anyway. But I have another question for you.¡± He says inching a little closer to her face.


    ¡°What?¡± She asks, trying to maintain her frustrated pout.


    ¡°Was today a bad day, or did you decide that one bad revelation would set the tone for the rest of the day?¡± He presses his small head against hers.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want one stupid thing to ruin all the good the day still has to offer.¡± She sighs.


    ¡°Good, we need you in top form.¡± He says, blowing a small puff of bluish-purple smoke in her face.


    She begins to giggle, as her body begins to warm, the feeling of hundreds of tiny little fingers tickling her in various places. It¡¯s a comforting feeling, for a moment her mind drifts and she¡¯s sitting beside a bonfire, her mother and father on either side of her tickingling her, and blowing the occasional raspberry against her cheeks. The tickling fades until it¡¯s just the warmth of the fire and her mother¡¯s arms wrapped around her once tiny waist as her father sings an old song from his younger days. She lets the memory of the warmth envelope her and heaves a sigh.


    ¡°Did you conjure that memory, Lyraax?¡± She asks, still caught in the afterglow of the tender moment.


    ¡°No, my breath just shows you something that made you happy once. Did it give you any ideas for tonight?¡± He asks.


    ¡°Yeah, I think there¡¯s one song I haven¡¯t heard in a while.¡±