《Reigna The Larkspur: The Immortal Bard's Endless 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.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    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.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    *  *  *  *


    ¡°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.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°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.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    ¡°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.¡±

 Chapter 4: 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 retches, 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 Shoreline 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 standing 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 sink. 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.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°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 for 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.¡±

 Chapter 5: Light and Shadows

    From the hall of bedrooms she can see the crowd of people standing around the bar, whispers and booming laughs mix together as they bounce around the walls of Poor Richard¡¯s Rags. Eventually all the unintelligible chatter fades into itself and comes to settle into the wood and stone like many spilled drinks before. She peeks around the corner to find the bar area really is packed with people. Some swamp scavengers, still caked with mud from their day¡¯s work stand to the far side near the door joking amongst themselves. A big man with charcoal eyes and a bristly beard takes a swig from a wine flagon clasped in his hand like a flask and laughs at something one of his comrades has said to him. That¡¯s the man with the hammer from yesterday. She notes.


    At the bar proper sit a row of fishermen and tradeswomen talking to Mr. Cicero and a couple of his servers, a young wiry boy in a white cotton shirt and black waistcoat and the red haired girl from earlier today. The boy is leaning against the back of the bar where the window to the kitchen is positioned and sipping slowly from a crystal glass he has pinched between his thumb, index, and middle finger. On the other side of the bar sits Miss Marchetty along with two young girls, no older than maybe 12 at the best they¡¯re smiling as someone comes from the kitchen and places an elegant silver tray on their table before ducking back into the kitchen.


    So many faces and so much background noise. It¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve performed for so many people. Somewhere amidst the small sea of pacing and chatting bodies, she can make out the form of a small stool and a stand to place sheet music on. The crowd is giving this spot a wide berth. Mr. Cicero looks up from the glass he¡¯s pouring for one of the patrons at the counter and makes eye contact with Reigna from her hiding spot at the edge of the hall. He subtly nods towards the stool and gives her a thumbs-up.


    She takes a deep breath, exhales and taps the triangle on her tail. Lyraax appears on her shoulder, staring straight ahead, saying nothing.


    ¡°Alright Lyraax, showtime.¡± She says. He bolts from her, leaving a trail of glimmering silver dust behind him, slowly falling to the ground and over the crowd like the first snow of the season. The lights in the tavern slowly dim, a few small orbs of light manifest above the stool. The falling silver dust leaves a visible trail, like a carpet, from where Reigna stands to the center of the floor.


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen of Poor Richard¡¯s Rags!¡± Calls Lyraax, his body hidden in a shroud and his voice amplified. ¡°I bring you, from Leonis and its sweeping plains and boiling deserts, Reigna, The Larkspur!¡±


    A mote of light appears above her as she steps onto the silver dust, the light refracts off the particulate still in the air and the specks on the ground sending small, prismatic lights spinning around the now dimly lit bar. With each step she takes, one light disappears and is replaced with a new one, reigniting the light show that Lyraax has manufactured.


    The chattering around the bar falls silent, patrons maneuver where they sit or stand in order to face her, drinks in hand. She slings her lute over her shoulder on its strap and sits down on the little stool. She waves to the crowd and snaps her fingers, Lyraax¡¯s artificial lights shrink and begin to float slowly around her in a bobbing circle as she plucks the lute strings, the silver dust spirals up from the floor and dances around her, creating little shapes and silhouettes of Reigna and her parents when she was young. From his hidden perch, Lyraax mimics the sounds of fiddles and tin whistles to accompany Reigna¡¯s lute


    .


    When I was a young girl, my father said to me


    The mind is a prison if you let it be.


    Darling life¡¯s far too short to spend salting the ground


    He took my hand in his and spun me around and sang


    This world¡¯s full of music if you just listen close


    The song of the birds and the waves along the coast


    There¡¯s far more to life than a full coin purse


    So take your time, walk slowly and contribute a verse.


    Since I was a child, my mother had told me


    Hell is not a place, it¡¯s a weight that you carry


    Grief can be a shackle, and love may be a key


    The world can be harsh, my love but promise me this


    You¡¯ll keep on singin¡¯ ¡®bout beauty


    And all the things that we¡¯ll miss.


    When I was wee lass, my parents told me


    About all that was out there


    Under the sky, across the sea


    They taught me about music


    They showed me how to love


    And I promised them I¡¯d love the world in return


    And we danced ¡®round our pit as the fire did burn.


    She finishes her song and for a moment all she can hear is her heart pounding in her ears. The dust cascades back to the floor and disappears, the faerie lights go out and the tavern is in pitch blackness for a moment before the lights return to normal. Suddenly the fishermen and tradeswomen at the bar begin pounding their tankards against the counter and hollering and whistling. The scavengers by the door clap.


    ¡°Aye, give us another then, Larkspur!¡± Shouts a man from somewhere behind her. She turns to look at Mr. Cicero behind the counter, he¡¯s flashing a toothy grin at her.  ¡°You heard ¡®em Miss Reigna, give them what they came here for!¡± He shouts over the cheering and chatter.


    ¡°Do you lot want another round outta me?¡± She stands and calls to the crowd who shout back and clap in response. She smiles back. ¡°Do you mind if I take the mood down a tad?¡± The spectators whisper and nod in agreement.


    One lady, a stout woman with braided brown hair calls from one of the tables by a window, ¡°You¡¯re the professional love, show us what you can do!¡±


    ¡°Well then, let¡¯s do this!¡± Reigna says with a smile. Lyraax again, from his unknown vantage point dims the lights in the tavern. From nowhere the sound of a slow drumbeat, Reigna taps the triangle on her tail ring with the metal plate on the back of her left hand and taps her foot to the drumbeat, the small movement is enough to lightly rattle the tambourines on the upper part of her tail.


    You told me once that you loved me.


    And I¡¯d never been so scared before in my life.


    There was a time where love meant so much more to me than it does now.


    And I wish I¡¯d told you back then something to deflect


    You¡¯re my best friend


    Or I really only like girls


    Or made some joke to sink the mood a little bit


    But I trusted you and I told you the truth and nothing else


    I let you know how much you mattered to me, the brother I¡¯d never had


    I told you about how everyone who told me they loved me, left me alone


    And I asked you as my friend if you would just stay in my life and we could pretend you never said that.


    Can we please pretend that it¡¯s the first time again?


    Can we please pretend to start over?


    Can we please pretend that you¡¯re still my best friend?


    Can we just pretend for tonight?


    Because I don¡¯t want to miss you tonight.


    Because I miss you, alright?


    I miss your critiques and your quips


    Your green eyes, your quick wit


    I think maybe I hurt you


    We both know that it¡¯s true


    But I just want to see you again.


    So can we just pretend to start over again?


    Can we just pretend that it¡¯s fine?


    Can we just pretend we¡¯re alright?


    Because I don¡¯t want to miss you tonight.


    I just don¡¯t want to miss you tonight.


    The lights again return to normal, Reigna takes a bow and a slow, shaking breath, wiping her eyes while her head is down. She stands up straight and casts a look around the room, slow but appreciative claps begin to erupt around her. Many of the faces of the people who are clapping are red, their eyes misty. One of the clapping crowd is the Owl-eyed housekeeper from earlier today. She¡¯s staring at Reigna, biting her bottom lip, a few tears caught at the edges of her eyes. Some of the scavenger men nod stoically in her direction. Ah, trying to keep up appearances I see.


    Reigna spends the rest of her three hour block alternating between upbeat songs she¡¯s collected or written in her travels and sadder, more personal poetry and songs to try and twist the hearts of her audience. They remain consistently enthralled the whole way through. At the end of the night Mr. Cicero closes up and only they remain in the tavern, he locks the door and motions for her to take a seat.


    ¡°How did I do?¡± Reigna asks, feeling more than a little nervous.


    Mr. Cicero pours her a cup of fragrant tea and pulls a leather pouch from under the counter. ¡°Your performance was perhaps one of the best I¡¯ve ever had the pleasure of hosting in this place.¡± He says, his voice rings with pride as though he¡¯s praising his own daughter. ¡°This is your cut.¡± He says, sliding the pouch across the counter to her.


    ¡°Wait, all of that is for me?¡± She asks. He nods, motioning for her to take it. She turns the pouch over slowly, sending coins clattering onto the counter. Carefully she counts it all out. Mr. Cicero pours himself a small glass of whiskey and sips it thoughtfully.


    ¡°78 gold?¡± Reigna says, running her fingers back through her hair. ¡°I¡¯ve never been paid this much for a performance.¡±


    ¡°Well, now you have.¡± Mr. Cicero says, tipping his glass in her direction. ¡°And I¡¯d say you more than earned it with the show you put on tonight.¡±


    ¡°Thank you so much, you¡¯ve been very kind to me, sir.¡± She says, sipping her tea as the wiry boy from earlier emerges from the kitchen and puts a plate down in front of her.


    ¡°Figured you might be hungry, Miss.¡± He says with an awkward grin before bowing and retreating to the kitchen once again.


    ¡°Well, my hospitality doesn¡¯t end at a plate of food and a cup of tea, Miss Larkspur.¡± Says Mr. Cicero, reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat and producing a wax-sealed envelope. ¡°A voucher for your next stay at The Rags and a letter of recommendation from me to the proprietor of the next place you decide to play at.¡± He offers his hand to Reigna, ¡°having you was quite the pleasure, dear.¡±


    Reigna takes his hand and shakes it firmly. ¡°It was a pleasure getting to play in your establishment, sir.¡± She says, happily. ¡°Are there any venues in Hammerheim you¡¯d recommend?¡± She asks, turning her attention to the plate of cottage pie in front of her.


    ¡°Hmm, there¡¯s a place near the city center called Tooth & Claw that I hear is popular with the off duty knights and the common folk. You could also request to play at the Knight¡¯s Barracks or for the Orc Mercs in the city, but those are both a bit riskier, for sure.¡± He says as he packs a small pipe with tobacco.


    ¡°Yeah, playing for Mercs and Knights sounds a bit intimidating to me.¡± She says, scratching the name of the pub down into a notebook. ¡°Are there any places you¡¯ve been or have contacts with where the letter might carry a little more weight?¡±


    Mr. Cicero closes his eyes and swirls his glass contemplatively for a few moments. ¡°In the Adventurer¡¯s Quarter in Alexandria there¡¯s a little bar called The Easy Knight, I used to travel with the owner back in the day, his name is Rafael. He might be willing to put a little more down for you with my recommendation if I add another letter to him personally.¡± He says before taking a sip from his cup.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to go through the trouble of writing another letter.¡± She says, carefully placing her silverware in the center of the now empty plate.


    ¡°No trouble at all. Besides, it gives me an excuse to make contact with an old friend.¡± He smiles. ¡°I¡¯ll have it for you in the morning.¡±


    The kitchen door swings open as the wiry boy comes to collect Reigna¡¯s plate. He is wearing a heavier overcoat this time. ¡°I¡¯ll run this back to the kitchen then I¡¯m heading home for the night, is that okay?¡± He asks, almost sheepishly.


    ¡°Aye Lad, you did well today.¡± Mr. Cicero tips his glass in the boy¡¯s direction. ¡°And have Mirna make something for you and your father before you go. Make sure that stubborn old man eats.¡± He says waving a hand toward the kitchen door.


    ¡°Oh, thank you for reminding me, I almost left the food back there.¡± He says, doubling back to the kitchen.


    ¡°You know his father?¡± asks Reigna, sipping her tea.


    ¡°Of course, little towns like this, small communities, we all know each other.¡± He takes a drag from his pipe. ¡°We wouldn¡¯t survive if we didn¡¯t try and take care of our own.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    ¡°Hence the competition to keep a good bard around?¡± Reigna askes, swirling her teacup.


    ¡°Competition between businesses is one thing, I do make a little more than the other taverns, but I¡¯m also the only one who rents rooms.¡± He says, blowing a cloud of oak-scented smoke. ¡°But, I¡¯m also the only one who hires people I¡¯m not related to. That¡¯s how I serve my community.¡± As he finishes, the boy unlocks the front door and leaves, waving to both of them on the way out. Mr. Cicero walks over to the door and locks it again before bringing a heavy bar down across it.


    ¡°Abner,¡± He says, nodding towards the door. ¡°His dad¡¯s been sick for a while and medicine don¡¯t come cheap around these parts. That boy ain¡¯t made for salvaging and probably couldn¡¯t handle himself on a fishing boat so I gave him a job that¡¯ll keep him paid and fed and keep him safe.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s very kind of you, to help him like that.¡± She says, watching Mr. Cicero¡¯s eyes scan the room carefully.


    ¡°Mirna, my cook and Leila, my housekeeper are Marchetty¡¯s eldest daughters.¡± He says, motioning to the kitchen door. ¡°Two of the six rooms here are theirs. They wanted to move out of Mom¡¯s place so their sisters didn¡¯t have to share a room since their place is so small. I don¡¯t charge them for their room and board since they do good work, A habit learned from their mother no doubt.¡± He smirks.


    ¡°Do you have any children of your own, Mr. Cicero?¡± Reigna asks as he pours another cup of tea for her, its fragrant bouquet mixing with the bonfire-like smell of his pipe smoke.


    ¡°Aye, two sons and a daughter.¡± He says, pointing to some of the metallic beads threaded into his beard. ¡°One of my boys lives in Orion, trying to climb the ranks to become one of The Queensguard. My daughter got married to a Gnomish boy and moved to Orewood some ten years ago.¡± He recalls, his eyes locked pensively on the flickering candle light above one of the tables.


    ¡°What about the other son?¡± She asks, hesitantly.


    ¡°I lost him and his mother a few years ago to sickness.¡± He says, there¡¯s a long pause as he takes a deep pull from the pipe, slowly blowing the smoke from his nose. ¡°They couldn¡¯t travel to Hammerheim and I couldn¡¯t afford to hire another cleric to come see them because the costs are too high around these parts.¡± He stops again, placing his pipe and glass down on the bar. His hands are shaking.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for your loss, sir.¡± Reigna says, placing a hand over his. He looks up at her for a moment and nods a quiet thanks, patting the back of her hand with his.


    ¡°Losing a loved one is hard, losing a child is harder.¡± He says, quietly. ¡°Children are supposed to outlive their parents.¡±


    ¡°Is that why you give work to some of the older kids and young adults in town?¡± She asks.


    ¡°One cannot call themselves a mother or father if they¡¯re not a mother and father to all the children they meet. It takes a village to raise a child, teach them young that the world is not, does not have to be cruel. Teach them young that we can be good to each other.¡± He says, one of his hands gripped tightly on the counter. ¡°If more people did that, maybe we¡¯d live in a kinder, more stable world.¡± His voice trails off a moment, a few rivulets of tears streak down his face. ¡°In a world where we use magic so freely, where a young lass like you can spend years of their life learning to bring joy to miserable old cesspit like this, where cities can fly, and people travel by airship, why should young children have to die of sickness or hunger?¡± He asks, his voice pleading for an answer. Not from Reigna, not from his drink, probably not from his God. It¡¯s a question aimed at the amorphous they. The powerful, the wealthy, the world at large, the people who see it and do nothing.


    ¡°I wish I had an answer for you.¡± She says, carefully navigating her vocabulary. ¡°I know it doesn¡¯t make it any easier, but sometimes this is the best we can do. We can¡¯t fix the world all at once, we can¡¯t make a whole world where these things don¡¯t happen, but we can start with one bar.¡± She says, raising her teacup.


    ¡°One bar at a time.¡± Mr. Cicero says, tapping his glass against hers. ¡°I think we can both use some rest, Miss Reigna.¡±


    ¡°That we can.¡± She agrees.


    The following day, Reigna wakes up just before dawn to a light tapping at her door and the sound of retreating footsteps. Outside her room she finds a basket with her freshly cleaned clothes and gets everything packed up. Clean clothes for the trip to Hammerheim. She smiles to herself as Lyraax relaxes into his usual spot across her shoulders. She takes her time eating her breakfast at Poor Richard¡¯s Rags, Hammerheim may only be a day and a half away, but you should never miss an opportunity to enjoy a good meal at a fine establishment. Especially one you don¡¯t have to pay for that you know is great quality. Her next order of business is a final trip to Marchetty¡¯s to collect rations for the road and see about the tent salvaging.


    Miss Marchetty takes her time examining the remains of the old leather tent. The slash where Lyraax¡¯s tail bisected the old thing is a clean, even cut and despite a few holes from years of wear and tear and the tumble they took, it¡¯s still a workable piece of leather with a warm inner lining. Ultimately they come to an agreement and Reigna receives three gold in store credit which she immediately spends on her ration replenishment and buying a new tent. She takes a few minutes to peruse Miss Marchetty¡¯s wares before leaving and finds herself spending a few more silvers on a tinderbox and firestarter. She also purchases five more gold¡¯s worth of store credit to cover costs for a future visit.


    ¡°You know, I¡¯ve never had someone purchase credit at the shop before,¡± Miss Marchetty comments as she scratches a note down into her ledger. A column with Reigna¡¯s name at the top and the amount of store credit available to her and the source of said credit.


    ¡°When I was still studying in Lake Syrril, one of my friends, Will, was very particular when we would travel out of town to places like Alexandria and Orion.¡± Reigna Recounts as she slides things into her bag. ¡°Our friend Jasper and I would always poke fun at him about buying credit at some of the shops we went to and he would tell us ¡®If you have money enough to buy something now, it could be worthwhile to have a plan for when you don¡¯t¡¯ and honestly, I wish I¡¯d listened to him more back then.¡± She laughs softly.


    ¡°Sounds like a smart young man.¡± Miss Marchetty says, one of her eyebrows cocked mischievously.


    ¡°He is, at least he was last time I saw him.¡± Reigna remarks before noticing the way Miss Marchetty is staring at her. ¡°Oh, no, we weren¡¯t like that.¡± She says, waving her hand dismissively. ¡°Will was more like a big brother than anything.¡±


    ¡°Was he the boy you sang about last night?¡± She asks.


    ¡°Yeah, that song was about a conversation from a long time ago that I think about sometimes.¡± Reigna says, a bit crestfallen.


    Erin takes the hint and wishes her well, before sending her off on her way. Once outside, the chill of the early morning autumn air cuts a cold line across Reigna¡¯s face and down her left side causing a dull sting from her injuries to resurface. She shivers a moment before stopping to call up her coat from within her bag. It¡¯s an old brown coat made of thick, patchwork leather and lined inside with soft sheep¡¯s wool. She slides it on, the wool-lined collar coming up and covering her mouth and part of her nose. Lyraax snuggles in as best he can, poking his head out of one side of the collar.


    ¡°Ah, this is exquisite, Dear Lady.¡± he says as a puff of cold air escapes his nose. The coat drapes down to Reigna¡¯s knees and has two deep outer pockets, also lined with wool to keep her hands warm. She buries her hands in the pockets and sets out for the main road. The main entrance to the town has a line of people carrying what looks to be mining and farming equipment. Must be the salvagers Mr. Cicero Mentioned. She thinks.


    Standing beside the stable is the big man from the show last night and the incident the night before that. He stands about a head and a half taller than Reigna and is built like a house foundation, that is to say he¡¯s broad shouldered and square, someone who is very accustomed to labor and more than a little used to a fight, by the look of him. He wears a long, muddy brown duster. Across the shoulder and upper back section of the coat there are diamond shaped pads layered over each other that let out a metallic jingle when he walks. Chainmail lined jacket, probably not a bad idea.


    He covers the top of his head with a matching bucket shaped, wide-brimmed hat. His hair is carefully braided into long locs that are tied back with a grey piece of string. In his right hand is what Reigna had initially thought was a blacksmith¡¯s hammer but she can now see is actually a heavy, pick-shaped mace, on the other end of the shaft is a shovel. Engraved into the shovel is a symbol, an insignia of a skeletal dragon coiled into a tight spiral, a symbol of one of Dragon Gods, Ereshkigal. Ereshkigal is the Primordial Dragon who is said to represent death and the underworld, very few people worship her these days because it¡¯s believed that was felled in combat during The Lost Years which is the colloquialism for ¡°The Years Before People Started Obsessively Recording Everything The Happens¡±.


    As Reigna passes him, he calls to her. ¡°Excuse me, Miss Larkspur.¡± He says, his voice a soft baritone. ¡°Would you like an escort back to the main road?¡±


    For a moment Reigna is confused, having never been offered an escort anywhere. She leans back to look at his face. He gives her a simple closed mouth smile, the kind of awkward expression made by someone who doesn¡¯t do it often.


    ¡°Of course, how much will it cost?¡± Reigna asks with a smile. May as well get down to business. She thinks.


    ¡°Oh, no cost,Miss.¡± He says, a confused expression crossing his face. ¡°I¡¯m the town¡¯s Cleric, it¡¯s my job to escort visitors into and out of town when I have the chance.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know there was a Cleric in town.¡± She says, surprised.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m sorry I couldn¡¯t do more in the way of healing for you when you got here.¡± He says, a look of embarrassment crawling onto his face.


    ¡°Well then, I¡¯d be honored to have you escort me, sir.¡± She says with a sincere bow before reaching out to shake his hand.


    ¡°My name is Marcus, by the way.¡± He says, taking her hand delicately into his own. His hands are rough and calloused, but his grip is oddly gentle, as though he¡¯s holding a baby bird or a field mouse. ¡°Marcus Laveau.¡±


    ¡°Pleasure to meet you officially, Marcus.¡± She says, giving his hand a little shake and nodding towards the road. ¡°Shall we be off?¡±


    ¡°Daylight¡¯s dwindling, the sooner we go, the sooner you¡¯re out of the swamp.¡± He says, leading her down the old cobblestone road.


    Early morning in the swamp is entirely different than the previous nighttime escapade in the rain. The sun¡¯s rays leave golden bars of light suspended in the fog, outlining the warped silhouettes of the dead, grey-barked trees. The thick, morning mist swirls and coils around their feet as they walk, much the same way that water in a shallow stream does when you dip your toes in. The carefully laid cobblestones inevitably give way to a broken and particularly hazardous section of road where old tree roots have grown and swelled to the point of disrupting the order and pattern of the masonry and making room for the muck and swamp water to fill it all in.


    Marcus carefully guides Reigna up and over the intertwined roots and the sludge that envelopes them. She casts a glance around them, despite the mist she can trace the roots of the trees back to the hollowed out husks that would have been their trunks once upon a time. Now they¡¯re little more than roadside monoliths demarcating a natural hazard. Across one of the stumps they pass, she can see a collection of etchings in a language she is not familiar with.


    ¡°What does that say?¡± She asks Marcus, pointing to one of the roadside stumps.


    ¡°It¡¯s a memorial.¡± He says simply, taking his mace and splitting the branches from a felled tree with a sickening crack.


    ¡°Oh, do you know who for?¡± She asks. Lyraax¡¯s head emerges from her coat to listen. They exchange a glance silently.


    ¡°Kaid McFannon, Aaron Cartland, Iro Fastpaw, and Ji¡¯gen Half Tusk.¡± He says, without sparing it a second glance. Whack. ¡°Friends of mine, some dead, some moved on to other endeavors.¡±


    ¡°Why would you have a memorial to someone who isn¡¯t dead yet?¡± Reigna asks, apprehensively.


    ¡°In Aaron and Kaid¡¯s cases, it¡¯s a memorial to the men they were once.¡± He says, solemnly. Snap. ¡°That¡¯s not who they are anymore. For Iro and Ji¡¯gen, they were good men and brave warriors until the end.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry you¡¯ve lost so many.¡± Reigna says, stepping up to where Marcus is severing the tree from what remains of its stump.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright, nothing is lost which can still be remembered.¡± He says with a smile as the mace splinters the last stubborn section he¡¯s working at. ¡°I¡¯m just glad I got to know them.¡± He motions for her to step back as he places one hand against the rotten tree¡¯s trunk and mutters something to himself in some guttural, unknown tongue. A series of black lines ripple their way down his arm to his fingertips and spread across the surface of the dead wood. They scatter in a twisting, spiderweb pattern across its surface. The pale wood slowly turns black as charcoal and once the whole of the tree and its served branches are covered in that carbonized sheen, they turn white as chalk and scatter like dandelion seeds.


    For a moment, Reigna and Lyraax just stand there, watching the remains of the old tree scatter into the air, the particles reflecting the sun¡¯s rays through the morning mist. Marcus bows his head and utters what Reigna assumes is a small prayer, his thumb slowly tracing the spiral of Ereshkigal on his mace.


    They continue their walk in relative silence. I¡¯m not sure what to talk to him about. She thinks to herself. Despite the silence, it isn¡¯t an uncomfortable feeling. Walking with someone, not needing to talk is a special kind of comfort. Marcus is clearly not a talker by nature, but he isn¡¯t what Reigna would call the Strong Silent Type. There¡¯s no bravado or machismo in the way he keeps quiet, no arrogant swagger to the way he walks, and no stoic acceptance in the way he talks about death and the passing of others. As they walk he stops to dispose of every felled tree and bury or burn every dead woodland creature to prevent them from being raised either by the Hangman¡¯s Tree or by the errant magic of the swamp, he treats every act with the same care and respect you¡¯d expect someone to give at the funeral of a loved one.


    Soon, they reach a place where some trees have been shifted and Reigna can see the thick, gnarled trunk of the monstrosity from nights prior. It stands tall and still, the slimy, noose shaped vines dangling, suspended in the air like spiders awaiting prey in the center of their webs. Between then and now, she can see that a few of the vines have new additions. Four men in slick leather coats and hoods, hanging by their necks, their toes pointed limply to the ground. Where one would typically expect to see the bulging eyes and swollen tongues of the recently hanged there is nothing. Empty, bleeding sockets and drool-like trails of blood running from their open mouths are all that remains of their faces. The bloat and sag of waterlogged skin and the discoloration of gangrene further distort their features.


    Rivulets of black, stagnant blood run down their stomachs and legs from gaping wounds in their chests. Scraps of clothing and skin litter the ground around them along with fragments of shattered bone. This is not a display of the killing to ward off those who would try and kill the tree, this is just its pantry. A macabre wind chime of corpses to be puppeteered and, inevitably, devoured. A chill runs down Reigna¡¯s spine and she can¡¯t help but rub the back of her neck. That was almost me.


    Lyraax presses his face under her chin, snapping her from the daze. ¡°You¡¯re fine, Dear Lady. Let¡¯s go.¡± He says, trying to comfort her, she can see that despite his calm reassurance, his eyes are narrowed into slits. The kind of hatred only dragons and demons know. A small growl rumbles from his throat. She¡¯s mine you bitch. It seems to say. She gives him a comforting scratch under the chin.


    ¡°Hey Marcus?¡± She says as they take a more circuitous route around the creature, giving it the widest berth possible.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Why hasn¡¯t anyone tried to get rid of that thing yet?¡± She asks, nodding towards the Hangman¡¯s Tree.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have enough skilled combatants in town to take her out, for one.¡± He says casually. ¡°The second reason being, despite the threat she poses, from here to where that fallen tree was is her territory and she doesn¡¯t come near the town and she¡¯s a hell of a deterrent for bandits.¡± He says motioning a hand towards the bodies..


    ¡°That¡¯s a bit morbid, don¡¯t you think?¡± She asks, avoiding following his gesture. I saw those men when they were alive, I¡¯d rather not look at them again in their current state.


    ¡°It may be, but it¡¯s the course of things out here. This is her territory, she¡¯s the apex predator here. There¡¯s nothing stopping her from meandering her way into the town center and either butchering all of us or chasing us out, but she never does.¡± He says, Reigna can¡¯t place the tone of his voice. Something between reverence, sympathy, fear, and anger. ¡°Do you know how long one of those things lives?¡± He asks.


    ¡°Are they functionally immortal as long as nothing takes them down?¡± She asks, unsure.


    ¡°They were Fae once, it would make sense.¡± Says Lyraax.


    ¡°No, they have a finite lifespan.¡± Marcus says, holding a set of branches aside for Reigna to walk through. ¡°When you use a Dryad¡¯s tree as a gallows, eventually the spirits of the deceased, if they¡¯re angry enough, will become wraiths or revenants. Those spirits, rather than go out and seek revenge the traditional way, seize control of the Dryad''s tree and drive her insane. Revenants have a lifespan of one year after which point they cease to exist if they can¡¯t avenge themselves.¡± He stops to take a drink from a waterskin on his belt. Reigna takes the opportunity to do the same. ¡°It takes at least 50 people over the span of a year for there to be enough revenants to begin this transformation, and each new victim is a new revenant and another year to the tree¡¯s life.¡±


    ¡°So, she just prolonged her life by another four years?¡± Reigna asks for clarification.


    ¡°Yeah, that seems to be the case.¡± Marcus shakes his head. ¡°And we have no way of knowing just how many hangings triggered her change or how many victims she¡¯s had over the years, if she¡¯s been around since the Founder¡¯s Conflict, Gods forbid, We may never be rid of her by natural causes.¡± Finally Reigna can make out the main road ahead of them.


    ¡°Do you think you¡¯ll ever kill her yourself?¡± She asks him.


    ¡°More than likely, a day will come where I have no other choice but to come out here and fight her myself with or without anyone¡¯s help.¡± He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. ¡°I only hope on that day, there¡¯s someone on my side so I can come home.¡± He says, taking his hat off to wipe sweat from his forehead.


    ¡°I hope you make it home too, Marcus. I think the people of Ifrita would be in a lot of trouble without their Cleric.¡± she says, patting his arm. He just smiles down at her and gestures to the end of the road.


    ¡°Next time you come through, send a letter to Rich.¡± Marcus says. ¡°I¡¯ll meet you and escort you in.¡±


    ¡°I will, thank you for everything Marcus. It was a pleasure walking with you.¡± She says, offering him another polite bow.


    ¡°Likewise, Miss Larkspur. I wish you the best. Stay safe out there.¡± He says before returning back down the road to Ifrita. The old, armor-lined coat flapping in the breeze behind him. Straight ahead there¡¯s a fork in the road with three signs hanging off of it that read Ruins Of Old Kyrrodhil, Atton¡¯s Court, Straight down this road due east. The third Sign points north and reads Hammerheim.

 Chapter 6: The City Of Magma & Stone

    By the time Marcus and Reigna have parted ways on the other side of the swamp, it¡¯s midday. The early morning haze has begun to clear up and that autumnal chill has all but given way to warm afternoon sunlight. Reigna removes the heavy coat and returns it to her bag. Lyraax takes the opportunity to fly ahead and scout out the road. From where she walks, Reigna can see the mountain itself, the road up and over it flanked but the leaf bare trees that eventually give way to coniferous evergreens. A steady stream of puffy white steam lazily twists and dissipates into the air above what appears to be the mountain¡¯s summit.


    The road itself is still empty. The exodus of travelers and traders from Ambria a week earlier barreled their way to wherever their next destination was and made good time considering their faster mode of transportation. I don¡¯t think I could justify a whole cart of carriage for just myself and Lyraax. She thinks, walking on the wheel tracks of one of the carts that passed through a few days earlier, her arms spread out as though it were a balance beam. Besides, it would just make us look like a more enticing target.


    Having never been to Hammerheim before now, Reigna wasn¡¯t entirely sure where the city¡¯s entrance was actually located. It was common knowledge that the city was built within the mountain itself, but no one she¡¯d met who¡¯d been there even mentioned which cave network led into the city proper, just that the city itself was quite the sight for first-timers. If I¡¯m lucky, Lyraax will return with good news and an idea as to where we need to go. As if on cue, she cranes her neck up in the direction of the sun as it approaches its zenith and can make out the pearlescent azure gleam of Lyraax¡¯s scales.


    ¡°Anything interesting or problematic ahead?¡± She asks as he lands and stretches across her shoulders.


    ¡°No hazards or hooligans this time around, thankfully.¡± He says with a mixture of relief and frustration. ¡°There is a line, however. Seems as though it¡¯s their Caravan Day.¡±


    Caravan Day is an important time for many towns and cities. Several of the major mercantile associations send out groups of merchants together via seafaring vessel or airship with various wares to travel and sell or exchange goods. Typically the route begins in a neutral place like Alexandria where all the merchant¡¯s goods are examined and assessed then a major air-liner like The Argus Limited or The Queen¡¯s Accord takes them to Ambria where they disembark and begin their trade and they travel from west coast to the east in Rsha where they board another ship and make for Port Atreia before heading to Regulus and, eventually their circuit ends back in Alexandria.


    The merchants stop at most if not all of the smaller towns and major cities which keeps their economies rife with magical imports, alchemical reagents, and for towns like Ifrita, who usually have to send people to the larger cities due to their dangerous or inconvenient locations, this means getting access to resupply of basic necessities that wouldn¡¯t normally be available like fresh produce, long-term storage devices, and raw materials for repairing or forging tools.


    ¡°Oh well, that¡¯ll make finding the entrance easy at least.¡± She laughs. ¡°About how long until we see the line?¡±


    ¡°We should arrive at the back of the line by nightfall and be into the city soon thereafter.¡± He assures her.


    By nightfall, as predicted, they arrive at the back of a long line of merchants and traders. Hundreds of them from all over the world. Elvish winemakers, Dwarvish armorers, mages and alchemists, hunters and tanners, spice traders, you name it. Plenty of carts lined end to end and flanked by men and women holding torches and wearing immaculate, gold-trimmed armor emblazoned across their breastplates in a golden sword wrapped in flaming angel wings. The Aurelian Knights. The Knights, known by some as The Golden Boys, is officially registered as a mercenary organization since they don¡¯t have the formal backing of a government or a religious order, however unlike other mercs, The Knights specialize in public outreach and mutual aid.


    Typically they mobilize to assist at-risk communities or small towns in dangerous locations with things like arresting and removing bandits, slaying monsters, and delivering medicine and food to townships and villages in need. Perhaps they¡¯ll escort the merchants to Irfrita after this. Reigna thinks. As she¡¯s about to take her spot in line, something catches her eye. ¡°That can¡¯t be.¡± she says, mostly to herself. Lyraax raises his head in an attempt to follow her gaze. Standing beside one of the merchants is a young man with slightly pointed ears in a long, blue coat. Slung across his back is a hard black viola case. His straw-colored hair gleams like gold in the dancing firelight.


    His frame is husky and round, between exchanges with the merchant, he flashes a genuine and excited smile. His cheeks have a youthful roundness to them which is betrayed by the sharp angle of his chin and nose giving his face a spade-like shape. He sports a patchy goatee and a pair of deep, coffee-colored eyes. He appears, to Lyraax, to be a jovial and sociable young lad.


    ¡°Will!¡± Reigna calls out as she sprints towards him. The young man stops mid sentence and turns toward her. As she approaches at near mach speed his face goes from confusion, to recognition, to pure, unbridled excitement.


    ¡°Rainy!¡± He yells back, running to meet her. In an instant before they collide headfirst into each other, Will throws his arms out towards her and makes a small beckoning motion with his hands. Reigna is instantly lifted up into the air above some of the merchants in line and the knights lining the road. A few sounds of surprise rise up from the crowd as she is gently brought down into Will¡¯s outstretched arms. He places his hands gently against her sides and gives her a delicate spin before pulling her into a firm, warm embrace which she returns in kind. A few of the nearby knights cat-call and whistle as the pair take a moment to simply be in the moment.


    ¡°My goodness Will, did you miss me that much?¡± She asks, pulling away from him.


    ¡°As much as the desert misses the rain and celebrates the first roll of thunder.¡± He says, his voice airy.


    ¡°Still a charmer, I see.¡± She laughs.


    ¡°Sometimes, but that¡¯s more of a part-time gig.¡± He chuckles back at her. ¡°How have you been, Rain?¡± He asks, coming to stand at the back of the line beside her.


    ¡°Honestly, that¡¯s a hard one to answer.¡± She says, pondering a concise way to explain things.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯ll have plenty of time to think it over.¡± He says flatly, hooking his thumb over his shoulder towards the line. ¡°It¡¯s been like this for hours.¡±


    ¡°For hours? Why?¡± She asks, staring past him at the line.


    ¡°Some limp-wristed profitmonger tried to smuggle contraband into the city so now everyone in line has to have their cargo examined by the knights at the entrance and have their manifests and ledgers confirmed before entry. It¡¯s taking quite a bit of time.¡± He sighs. Sliding a small knife and a cured sausage from a pouch on his belt and cutting two slices from it, offering one to Reigna.


    ¡°What was the contraband?¡± She asks, popping the sausage slice into her mouth. Ooh, sweet fennel and cracked pepper.


    ¡°Dragon scales.¡± He says, taking another piece into his mouth. ¡°Of all the fucking places to try an smuggle dragon scales, they picked the one city run by a damn dragon.¡± He says, shaking his head and holding out a canteen to Reigna


    ¡°I have my own water, but thanks.¡± She says, producing her flask from a pouch. ¡°They¡¯ve either got titan sized testicles to pull a stunt like that.¡± She says


    ¡°Or bean sized brains.¡± Will says, wiping his mouth with a small cloth and sipping from the canteen. ¡°It¡¯s wine, by the way.¡± He says, offering it again.


    ¡°Oh, what kind?¡± She asks, taking the round, brass plated canteen from him.


    ¡°Whatever you prefer. Neat little enchantment in my opinion.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯d you get this?¡± She says, taking a sip from it. The rich, hoppy taste of the stout served at The Silken Page in Alexandria washes over her tongue.


    ¡°I ghost wrote a love song for some nobleman¡¯s son in Regulus to use as a proposal.¡± He shrugs, taking it back from Reigna and taking another swig.¡± He was moved by it and he paid me out the initial commission with this little guy as an added bonus.¡±


    ¡°Wow, that¡¯s a sweet deal. Although, considering that romantic poetry is your specialty, you practically swindled the poor boy.¡± She says, stepping in to lightly nudge him with her elbow. ¡°Does it only produce alcohol?¡± She asks.


    ¡°Thankfully, no.¡± He sighs, dramatically. ¡°It was from the boy¡¯s personal collection. It produces whatever beverage or scent you¡¯re missing most.¡±


    ¡°Scent?¡± Reigna pauses, staring at Will for a moment.


    ¡°I seldom use that feature.¡± He says with a wave of his hand. ¡°That kid was using it to recreate the scent of his beloved¡¯s perfume.¡± He grimaces at the thought.


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s really weird.¡± The thought of that makes Reigna cringe. ¡°You did say seldom though.¡± She teases. ¡°So what do you smell when you use it?¡± She asks.


    ¡°Little things mostly.¡± He says, his eyes suddenly overcast. ¡°My mom¡¯s lamb stew, the tobacco my grandfather used to smoke, the dorms back in Lake Syrril.¡± He says softly.


    ¡°Oh, so you never try to reach out and get a nostalgic hit of me or Jasper?¡± She teases.


    ¡°Once or twice.¡± He admits, looking to one side.


    ¡°Oh.¡± Reigna can¡¯t think of anything else to say at that moment. I thought he¡¯d just play along and lie to me.


    ¡°I use it to recall the smell of smoke at that one show that Jasper put on back in junior year.¡± He laughs.


    ¡°Oh, the one where they almost burned that gaudy headdress off of Astra because she made a snide remark during their presentation?¡± She says, the memory clear as day in her mind¡¯s eye.


    ¡°Yeah, the very same. The whole room smelled like cinnamon and red wine for days after that.¡± He laughs.


    ¡°And for me?¡± She asks, curious, but a bit nervous.


    ¡°The smell of the oils you massaged into your dress the night before the ball. You know, the formal one where they were teaching us about high-society etiquette?¡±


    Reigna thinks for a moment, trying to recall the dress, the evening, anything about that night but comes up short. ¡°I don¡¯t remember much about that night.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± He says, his voice trailing off into the muffled grunts of discontent of the many merchants around them. He seems bothered by that, I wonder why? Reigna thinks to herself. Oh, dear lady, your theatrical prowess is matched only by your ineptitude in matters of the heart. Lyraax¡¯s voice hums within her head.


    She pauses for a moment, her eyes locked on Will¡¯s face. He¡¯s standing in front of her staring off into the night, past one of the knights holding a torch beside the road. His eyes catch the gleam of the torchlight and he blinks slowly, taking another sip from the little brass flask. As he twists the cap shut again, a small, sad smile plays at the edge of his lips before he turns his head to look up the road, over the sea of heads and carriage tops.


    Oh, no. A familiar sense of embarrassment, and dread crashes down on her like a lead-lined curtain. That was the night he confessed.


    Yes, it was. He poured his heart out to you and despite having written and recently performed a whole song about that night, you forgot. Lyraax chides, his voice in her head is a melodic whisper.


    Reigna reaches for Will¡¯s shoulder as the merchants ahead of them begin to shift forward. He turns to say something to her just as her hand touches him.


    ¡°Oh, hey, looks like we¡¯re moving.¡± He says with a grin and nods towards the shifting crowd. As he tries to take a step forward, Reigna pulls him back slightly. ¡°Hey Rainy, you okay?¡± He asks, turning to look up into her eyes.


    ¡°Will, I¡¯m sorry.¡± She says after a moment¡¯s pause. She watches his eyebrows contort in confusion for a moment.


    ¡°Sorry for wha-¡± He pauses, realization flashing through his eyes mid-sentence. ¡°It¡¯s okay, I¡¯m not upset.¡± He says, his voice low.


    ¡°No, Will, I¡¯m sorry I forgot about that night. And there¡¯s a lot I think we need to talk about.¡± She says, hesitantly. It¡¯s all going to sound like an excuse. She thinks, her heart sinking. You don¡¯t get to make that decision, dear lady. Lyraax chimes in. You tell him what was and still is in your heart, he decides what that means.


    ¡°Well, let¡¯s talk about it over a drink then?¡± He says, tipping the little canteen in her direction. ¡°Preferably a real one from an actual pub.¡±


    ¡°Deal, it¡¯ll be my treat.¡± She says, falling into step beside him.


    ¡°Ooh, Rainy¡¯s making money these days?¡± He with a small jab to her ribs. ¡°Alright miss Moneywart, it¡¯s all on you then. Gotta warn you though, I have my mom¡¯s alcohol tolerance.¡±


    Once they reach the gate, one of the knights, an older bald man with a clean-shaven face, looks them over.


    ¡°Travelers?¡± He asks, producing a small notepad from a pouch on his belt.


    ¡°Bards, sir.¡± Reigna states. ¡°I¡¯m here to deliver a parcel for repair.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just here to stay for leisure and perhaps to perform for a few days.¡± Says Will, opening his case to display his viola and bow to the old knight. The man looks it over and nods, before handing each of them a bracelet made of leather cord with a collection of black and red beads strung around it.


    ¡°Don¡¯t lose these or take them off while you¡¯re inside.¡± The man says as he secures them to their wrists using an intricate collapsing knot. ¡°Enjoy your stay.¡± He says with a curt bow.


    Once beyond the gates, they¡¯re blasted by a gust of hot air which subsides after a moment. Reigna looks down to see that the beads on the little trinket are glowing and slightly vibrating against her wrist, maintaining a stable temperature around her. Despite the magic, that initial blast of air was enough to leave her face drenched in sweat, causing her hair to stick to the side of her face. Ugh, great.


    Ahead of them lies a wide bridge made of heavy red stones. At least, the stones look red due to the ambient light from the bubbling pool of lava churning down below. The bridge arches up into a gradual slope and comes down on the other side to a large, hexagonal platform, easily the size of Ambria at its widest point. The platform hovers where it is, as though sitting atop a series of support pillars, no movement disturbs it or any of the many structures atop it. People walk the streets, the merchants nonchalantly cross the redstone bridge without a single care or thought about the danger below.


    From the apex of the bridge¡¯s slope, they can see just above the tops of some of the buildings, many of them are fashioned from the same red stone, in the center of the city is what appears to be a fountain, surrounded by benches and the carts of local barkers. On the other side of the plate is a collection of stairs that lead to what appears to be a large, glimmering anvil and a forge fed by a gravity-defying pillar of slow moving magma. Standing beside the anvil talking to a Dwarven man is a Dragon.


    Because of the height of the platform where he stands, he can be seen even as they descend the slope of the bridge. On two legs the dragon stands as tall as some of the more impressive structures Reigna has seen in Ambria and other cities. His scales shimmer with the glitter and allure of everything golden.


    ¡°This place is nothing like I expected from the stories.¡± She says, her eyes scanning the buildings that they pass.


    ¡°Oh yes, Hammerheim¡¯s construction and Architecture is on par with places like Regulus and Mae¡¯Andel.¡± Will gushes. Here he goes. Reigna internally sighs, trying her best to withhold a smile. ¡°It¡¯s said that Hammerheim was made as part of a pact the first Dwarven Council, known as The Brothers Of Stoneheart, made with Furnax The Forger.¡± Will continues, stepping carefully through the more narrow streets and guiding Reigna down an alleyway to a less crowded thoroughfare. ¡°Originally, they called the city Magna Furnax or The Great Furnace, but a few generations down the line, the Dwarves felt it wasn¡¯t paying homage to their ancestors who helped build it so they agreed to rename it Hammerheim.¡± Reigna nods along to his explanation, watching his face light up as he expounds excitedly about the city¡¯s history and how the magic that stabilizes it was integral to the elevation of Regulus during The Founder¡¯s Conflict.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry Rain,¡± he says, rubbing the back of his head nervously. ¡°I¡¯ve been here so many times, but I¡¯ve never had company, I should¡¯ve asked before going into this whole dissertation about this place. I¡¯m sure you¡¯d rather I not bore you with all those details.¡± He says, shrugging his shoulders and verbally retreating into himself.


    ¡°Will, I don¡¯t mind listening to you talk. This is my first time here so it¡¯s nice to learn something.¡± She says, clapping a hand against his shoulder. ¡°It¡¯s like I have my own personal tour guide. Now, where are we getting that drink?¡± She asks.


    Will stands there for a moment, tapping his chin with the tips of his fingers pensively. ¡°Well, how much do you wanna spend?¡± He asks, his eyes scanning a nearby stall selling grilled meat and vegetable skewers.


    ¡°Well, my income is a little more liquid than it has been so a tiny splurge could be nice.¡± Reigna says, tucking her hands behind her back coyly and casting her gaze down the road at nothing in particular. ¡°I do need to keep some cash for the next leg of my journey, wherever that takes me.¡±


    ¡°Well, if you want some place cheaper but still good, The Bedrock Bottom is a good one off the main market street.¡± Will starts, he flashes two fingers to the woman running the stall and slides her a few coppers. ¡°If you want something very high class, in the town center there are a few really good places like The Burning Hart, but that seems excessive.¡± He hands her a skewer and bites a charred bell pepper off the end of his.


    ¡°Well, the last place I went to gave me a letter of recommendation and suggested a place called Tooth & Claw.¡± She says before blowing on what seems to be a sizzling piece of chicken and taking a bite. Oh, that¡¯s pretty good. Needs salt though.


    ¡°Tooth & Claw is a pretty nice middle of the road place in the city center.¡± Will says around a hunk of roasted beef. ¡°I heard before that sometimes Furnax visits the place in disguise, but that¡¯s just a local rumor.¡±


    ¡°Well, why not?¡± She says, chewing on the end of her now barren skewer. ¡°If they accept the recommendation, would you be down to duet with me?¡± She asks, a hopeful smirk turning up the corner of her mouth.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯d like that actually.¡± Will muses softly, twirling the skewer between his fingers. ¡°Drinks before or after the show then?¡±


    ¡°Before.¡± She says quickly. ¡°I¡¯d rather not get caught up in the excitement and forget what I wanted to say.¡±


    Will nods and motions for her to follow him. ¡°Well, let¡¯s go then.¡±


    They follow the brick roads through Hammerheim past smithies and armor shops and small restaurants. On one of the wider streets is a large, four tiered building which Will explains is a temple to Hephaestus, a God well revered by the Dwarves of Hammerheim. Their congregation is one of craftsmen and tradesmen and between their training and the processes used by some makers in the city, armor and weapons of all kinds are significantly cheaper here. The city¡¯s economy is held steady by mercenaries, artificers and alchemists. Even the faith in Hammerheim must contribute to both their economy and the defense of the city. The temple offers its forge and resources to apprentices learning their craft in order to avoid interfering with the production of the local businesses.


    Hammerheim is also one of the only major kingdoms that Rsha will purchase weapons from. While certain magical processes may be used to manufacture weapons and armor, they are not enchanted items. Rsha, as a nation specialize in anti-magic combat and weaponry. Hammerheim¡¯s crafters are the best for fine, mundane weapons.


    Will¡¯s tour guide exposition stops abruptly as they reach the town center and he guides Reigna to Tooth & Claw, which they passed during his exposition. The building is two floors carefully stacked atop one another and framed with dark, lacquered wood used for support beams, window lattices and the main door to the establishment. The light from within filters through the honeycomb lattice across the windows, in a place that gets a more natural night lighting, the bar would look almost like a lantern filled with fireflies from a distance. Inside, the bar is loud and crowded. Long banquet style tables are filled end to end with merchants and tradesmen all either talking about business or fighting for elbow room after a few too many drinks.


    The tavern¡¯s stage area has been neatly packed away to accommodate a few extra tables. The counter is manned by an old Orcish man in a well-worn leather vest with a brown shirt under it. He¡¯s grinning at a Dwarven woman sitting at the bar with a neat chinstrap beard. He¡¯s missing one of his tusks and his hair is intricately braided with one larger braid running down the center of his head with two tusks protruding from it like the spines of some sinister rockfish.


    He Spots Reigna and Will as they walk in, whispers to the woman at the bar before refilling her cup, and comes from behind the bar to welcome them.


    ¡°Good evening folks.¡± He says, his voice rough and gritty but with a polished diction. ¡°Sadly we¡¯ve no table space right now, but I can recommend a few places if you¡¯d like and I can provide a voucher for the inconvenience.¡± He says, reaching for the pocket of his vest.


    ¡°Do you have any rooms available?¡± Reigna asks. I would really like to sit down for a bit.


    ¡°We just might, let me confirm for you, miss.¡± He bows before ascending a staircase to the second floor.


    ¡°Rooms?¡± Will asks, plunging his hands into his pockets and trying his best to stand where he won¡¯t bump into anyone.


    ¡°I have some business to take care of here in the city so I might be here a few days.¡± She says before pointing to the stage. ¡°Plus, it doesn¡¯t look like we¡¯ll be playing here tonight.¡±


    Will simply shrugs. ¡°Hey, your money, your choice.¡± He laughs.


    They try to navigate to a more convenient part of the room, primarily to get from between the tables and away from the door. After much careful repositioning and more than a few unheard apologies and small bumps into other patrons, they find themselves in the southwest corner of the room near a window with a direct line of sight to the staircase. From where she¡¯s standing, Reigna can just barely see the hallway of the second floor, a few of the doors in the hall are open and people appear to be moving back and forth between them with drinks, plates of food, and scrolls of parchment. Contracts or shipment manifests more than likely. She ponders. Will stands in front of her with his back to the crowd, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. She waves a hand in front of his face, snapping him out of the daze.


    ¡°Are you okay? You looked like you were about to start drooling.¡± She asks, raising her voice above the cacophony of the over-capacity tavern.


    ¡°Oh, yeah. I¡¯m alright, just a little tired.¡± Will says, shaking his head. ¡°This is just a little over stimulating right now.¡± He looks up to meet her gaze then sets his eyes back on the non-specific place on the wall behind her.


    A few moments later the Orcish man descends the stairs and Reigna raises her hand to wave him over. He responds by waving them towards the door and stepping outside. She nudges Will and guides him towards the door. As they¡¯re maneuvering through the crowd, a man stands up suddenly from one of the tables and slams into Reigna.


    ¡°Hey, watch it you half-blood bitch.¡± He growls. He¡¯s a squat, pot-bellied, human man in fine robes. His round face is accentuated quite unflatteringly, by a receding hairline and a few follicles clinging desperately to what she assumes to have once been a widow¡¯s peak.


    ¡°Hey, watch your mouth, you ruptured sausage casing.¡± Will fires back, his words laced with verbal vitriol, but thankfully, not magic.


    ¡°What¡¯d you say to me, fat boy?¡± The man slurs. He¡¯s about ten past the hour if I had to guess. Reigna¡¯s shoulders sag.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine Will, leave him be, he¡¯s just drunk and dumb.¡± She says with a sigh, trying to edge him towards the door.


    ¡°Who are you calling dumb?¡± The man says, his glassy, rat-like eyes clearly trying to figure out which one of her he should stare at.


    ¡°No one at all good sir, I was asking my friend to apologize.¡± She says, Will watches her thumb two gold coins from her pocket as she speaks, the coins vanish and for a moment, the man¡¯s eyes glaze over as Reigna¡¯s spell hijacks his already deficient mental state.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m waiting then.¡± The man says, crossing his arms and standing up straight, or at least whatever passes for straight to him at the moment. Reigna claps her palm into her face and pinches the bridge of her nose before casting Will a glance. Please just humor me and get this drunk fuck out of my face. Will looks at her unamused gaze then back at the drunk merchant, a mischievous twinkle dances across his grey eyes like lighting before a storm. Oh fuck me.


    ¡°I am sorry.¡± Will begins. The man¡¯s eyebrow cocks smugly. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry you woke up this morning and clearly caught yourself a case of whiskey dick, and decided that to make up for your erectile malfunction you¡¯re going to inflate your sense of entitlement and make it everyone else¡¯s problem that your wife, or husband, let¡¯s not assume, is disappointed in the standard you¡¯ve set in the bedroom.¡± Every sentence out of his mouth is carefully layered, a collection of effects compounded on one another to break the man down and deter him from further action. I¡¯ve seen him do this before, but something is different. She thinks. Something about the way he¡¯s constructing a particular scenario as opposed to just well-placed insults.


    ¡°Now, if you would kindly, sit back down, you insufferable buffoon.¡± Will hisses with a flick of his middle finger and thumb, as though he¡¯s flicking a bug from a table. An almost imperceptible needle of green light darts from his hand and hits the man square in the chest. Before he can muster a retort, his body goes limp and he collapses to the floor like a ragdoll, colliding with two other seated patrons on the way down.


    Once outside the bartender pulls the two away from the door so as to not block it and hands them what looks like a check slip.


    ¡°Unfortunately we¡¯re booked solid for the next couple days while the merchant caravan is in town.¡± He says, apologetically. ¡°However there¡¯s another smaller tavern near the Barracks called The Lavaspur. My boss called ahead and they have two rooms waiting for you, this voucher is for the inconvenience. Your dinner and stay there is on us tonight.¡± Will takes the voucher from the man and he and Reigna offer the man a polite bow of their heads.


    ¡°Thank you very much sir.¡± Reigna says. ¡°We¡¯ll do well to not sully the good name of Tooth & Claw while we¡¯re there.¡± She jests. Both the bartender and Will laugh before the larger man saunters his way towards the door.


    ¡°Best of luck, you two, I¡¯d love to get to serve you before you leave so please do check back.¡± He says with a wave before retreating back inside.


    As they begin their walk towards the district where the barracks is situated, Reigna abruptly swats Will¡¯s shoulder with the back of her hand.


    ¡°Ow,¡± He yelps, mostly from surprise. ¡°What was that for?¡± He asks, carefully tucking the voucher into the breast pocket on his blue coat.


    ¡°For making that scene more difficult than it needed to be.¡± She replies, her voice a mixture of irritation and exhaustion. ¡°You owe me two gold by the way.¡±


    ¡°What, he gets to insult you and I¡¯m just supposed to play along and apologize?¡± He says, verbally digging himself in. Stubborn as a mule, this one.


    ¡°Will, I appreciate you sticking up for me, I always have.¡± She begins, gently squeezing his shoulder as they walk. ¡°But I have the worst luck of anyone I¡¯ve ever met. With how my karmic account seems to be set up, There¡¯s going to come a day where I¡¯m going to need something and that balding fuck is gonna be the person I need to get it from.¡± As she speaks, she can see Will unclench his fist and slowly exhale. He stops and closes his eyes for a moment.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for the trouble Reigna, I¡¯m just tired of meeting people like that.¡± He says, his eyes locked on the ground as he resumes walking beside her. ¡°I¡¯ve been around in the last couple years and I¡¯ve seen how bad some places get and it makes me sick every time, and you and Jasper had a lot of issues back in Lake Syrril so I get a little defensive.¡±


    ¡°Will, we¡¯re all adults, and while I appreciate it, I don¡¯t need you to protect me from the words of drunken morons.¡± She throws one arm over and around his shoulders and leans against him as they walk. ¡°Just be more careful next time.¡±


    Will wraps his arm around her waist and sighs. ¡°Alright, fine. I¡¯ll follow your lead next time.¡±


    ¡°You still owe that two gold though.¡± She says, pulling away from him with a chuckle.


    ¡°Can we call it even if I teach you the spell I used to knock him on his ass?¡± He asks, flashing an exaggerated grin.


    ¡°I think that¡¯s more than a fair trade, actually.¡± Her tail flicks excitedly. ¡°Especially considering recent events.¡± At that, Will gives her a concerned look. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you on the way.


    With Will¡¯s guidance they navigate elaborate geometry of the city streets, the district around the Aurelian Knights¡¯ headquarters is divided into blocks carefully labeled and categorized as residential, commercial, and military sectors, some overlapping with others. Many of the tenements and businesses share spaces and have three to five stories from ground to roof. Along the way Reigna recounts her recent experiences to Will. The strange dream and potential kidnapping in Ambria, the fight against the Hangman¡¯s Tree, and her meeting with Death himself.


    Once she¡¯s finished her tale, Will scratches the back of his head, clearly at a loss for words. Lyraax confirmed that Reigna had in fact died that night attempting to escape the tree. I hope this doesn¡¯t sound too crazy to him.


    ¡°Dear Lady,¡± Lyraax says, gliding from her shoulder to hover before her eyes. ¡°Why is this the first that I¡¯m hearing about this encounter with the strange man in Ambria?¡± He asks, his narrow eyes locked on hers. Will simply watches their staredown without a word.


    ¡°I thought it really was a dream.¡± She shrugs. ¡°I woke up feeling a bit hungover, but I had figured that¡¯s what it was. A simple hangover.¡±


    Lyraax lands on Will¡¯s shoulder and gestures in her direction. ¡°Do you see what I have to put up with? I leave for my monthly sabbatical and she waits for almost two weeks to tell me about this.¡± He says, his eyes wide.


    ¡°Rainy, I gotta agree with Lyraax here.¡± Will says as they turn a corner. ¡°This is pertinent information, who knows what that guy could¡¯ve done to you.¡± Reigna stares the two of them down for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. Sweet siren songs, it¡¯s like traveling with two old ladies. Next they¡¯re gonna start asking me if I¡¯ve been eating enough.


    Reigna takes in a deep breath and holds it for a moment before puffing out her cheeks and slowly exhaling through pursed lips. ¡°Alright, well now you both know about the winged ruffian who whisked me to the basement and back. Any ideas as to who he could be?¡± She asks, her eyebrow twitching with mild frustration.


    ¡°Well the only detail you could recall is that he had wings with gold edges.¡± Will says, tapping his index finger against one of his coat¡¯s buttons.


    ¡°And that you were injected with a glowing crimson liquid.¡± Lyraax adds, perching himself on her shoulder. ¡°Neither of which mean much to me.¡±


    ¡°Great so none of us have any useful ideas on the matter.¡± She replies flatly.


    ¡°Not at the moment.¡± Will concedes. ¡°Do you plan on asking Furnax for assistance while you¡¯re here?¡±


    ¡°I had intended to see him about another matter, but no reason why I can¡¯t ask about both.¡± She says, trying to avoid that line of questioning further.


    Eventually the trio find themselves outside of a three story building, its exterior is surprisingly plain when compared to Tooth & Claw. A simple wooden sign hangs from an iron pole protruding from a post just above the door that reads The Lavaspur in gold text. Inside, the little tavern is warm and inviting. A collection of circular tables are arranged in a zig-zagging pattern across the front-of-house with a green carpet lining a straight walkway between them. The Bar area has a dozen or so stools mounted into the ground, each an arm¡¯s length apart with a small, glass orb floating over them. To the westernmost side of the room is a lounge area with soft looking chairs and a long coffee table situated before a crackling fireplace. On the easternmost side of the room is an old high-back piano with a bench and a few sheet music stands and some square stools stacked atop one another.


    Behind the counter is a set of swinging doors that lead back into the kitchen area, a window for finished orders to be placed, and a low counter beneath it which is adorned with three coffee syphons that resemble lab equipment, two steel tea kettles, and a collection of tightly sealed glass jars with wooden spoons affixed to the outside by little strings. Each jar has a label with a one or two word descriptor of its contents.


    The woman standing behind the bar is a human woman in her middle ages. Her hair is cut into a neat blonde bob and she has a little green pencil tucked behind one ear. A portion of her brown cotton blouse is covered by a heavy, black apron with a series of small pockets situated across her waist. Her cat-like green eyes scan the contents of a cupboard above the main bar counter as she reaches into it.


    ¡°Welcome in.¡± She says without looking away from her task. ¡°Find yourselves a seat, I¡¯ll be with you in a moment.¡±


    The tavern is entirely empty and quiet, save for the sounds of her rummaging in the cupboard and the occasional clang and chatter from the kitchen.


    Reigna, Lyraax, and Will seat themselves in the lounge area near the crackling fireplace. Reigna throws herself down into one of the soft armchairs, the cushion beneath her is plush and covered in fine leather upholstery which sighs under her weight as air escapes it. Being off her feet brings into sudden relief the soreness of her feet and the stiff aching of her knees and calves. She throws her bag to the floor beside the chair with a dull thud as Lyraax comes to settle in her lap like some needlessly snarky old cat.


    Will, by contrast, carefully undoes a buckle for his viola case and gently places it beside the chair he intends to sit in across from Reigna. He shrugs off his heavy blue peacoat and drapes it over the back of the chair, revealing the gold vest and red shirt beneath. He bends back slightly, flexing his shoulders until a loud, porcelain-like crack, pop! Escapes his bones. He exhales a sigh of relief before turning and finally sitting down.


    They sit in quiet bliss for a few minutes before the cat-eyed woman approaches. She hands each of them a glass of water then stands with her hands on her hips glancing back and forth between them.


    ¡°Welcome to The Lavaspur, my name¡¯s Marie and I¡¯ll be taking care of you this evening.¡± She says with rehearsed professionalism. ¡°Can I get you anything to eat or drink?¡±


    ¡°Do you make cottage pie here?¡± Asks Will, reaching into his coat to fish for the voucher.


    ¡°Aye, we do.¡± Marie nods. ¡°And a damn fine one if I may.¡±


    ¡°Oh, wonderful!¡± He exclaims, handing her the little stub. ¡°I¡¯ll have that with whatever you recommend of your brown ales.¡±


    ¡°And for your love?¡± She says to Reigna as she examines the voucher. ¡°Ah, you¡¯re the pair El¡¯Mar had called in about. There are two rooms ready for you on the second floor. Laundry and bathing are downstairs.¡± She motions to a little door on the side of the staircase.


    ¡°Actually, I¡¯ll have the same. It¡¯s getting colder out there so it''s the perfect season for a hearty meal.¡± Reigna says with a grin. ¡°And another for him.¡± She adds pointing to Lyraax who raises his head to meet Marie¡¯s gaze.


    ¡°Right then, I¡¯ll get those drinks for you then.¡± She bows and steps away.


    She eventually returns with a tray containing three tall flagons of brown ale, the open mouths of the jugs are each rimmed by a bubbling foam that smells of barley and hops. Alongside the flagons are two average sized tankards and a smaller, almost child sized one, presumably for Lyraax. They nod their thanks to Marie as she retreats to the counter. They rotate their chairs and scoot them closer to the little coffee table so that they can see each other better.


    ¡°So, what did you want to talk to me about Rain?¡± Asks Will as he pours each of them, and Lyraax a drink.


    ¡°Well, back then you told me you were in love with me.¡± Reigna starts, verbally probing the floor ahead for eggshells.


    ¡°Yeah, and you told me you specifically prefer women.¡± He says simply before taking a sip from his cup. ¡°Ooh, that¡¯s good.¡±


    ¡°Yes, and that was, er, is true.¡± She fumbles for a moment. Will continues to sip slowly from his cup, arching his eyebrows at her over the rim of the tankard. ¡°It¡¯s true that I am really only into women, but there was another reason I didn¡¯t tell you. Honestly, I¡¯ve never shared it with anyone.¡± She pauses to take a long drink from her cup, draining half of it in one gulp.


    Will puts his cup down on the table and clasps his hands together nervously. ¡°Alright, I¡¯m listening. Gotta admit, the suspense is killing me here.¡± He jokes, a quivering smile attempts to cross his lips.


    Reigna takes a deep breath, ¡°When I was young, my family traveled around a bit. We basically lived out of a horse-drawn carriage.¡± She stares blankly into her reflection on the surface of the ale in her cup. ¡°My parents left me in Orion with a family friend, I used to call her Aunty Morgan. They both said they loved me and that they¡¯d be back.¡± She pauses, taking a deep, shuddering breath. ¡°I never saw them again after that.¡±


    Reigna finishes her first tankard and Lyraax carefully pours everyone another round from the flagons at the table. He watches Reigna intently. Will is looking right at her, a glint of pain flickers in his eyes as he takes another sip and waits.


    ¡°Eventually, Aunty Morgan got really sick and eventually passed away. Before she died she told me that she¡¯d managed to find out where my father was.¡± She pauses for a moment, gritting her teeth. ¡°He lives in The Medusa Cascade in a town called Port Atreya on one of the main islands. But my mom isn¡¯t with him.¡± She throws her head back and downs the whole tankard this time. ¡°I was so afraid when you confessed to me that night because everyone who says they love me, tends to leave me.¡±


    She looks up at Will, tears welling up her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re one of my best friends, Will. I just-¡± She blinks a few tears away. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to imagine a life without you or Jasper back then and now I-I¡±


    Will gets up from his seat, biting his bottom lip in an attempt to stop it from quivering and throws his arms around her shoulder. ¡°Reigna, I promise you, so long as you let me I will stay by your side. You¡¯re one of my favorite people in this whole world and I never want you to feel alone.¡± She can feel his body convulse as a few warm drops tap against her shoulder.


    She stands up and wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. All the while leaving a little dark patch on his left shoulder. She can hear Will softly whispering to her as his hand reassuringly pats her back, ¡°You¡¯re not alone Reigna, you never were. Not in Lake Syrril, not here.¡±

 Chapter 7: A Dragon, A Curse, A Possible Reunion

    After a few minutes of warm embracing and cathartic, much needed crying before the glow and crackle of the fireplace, their moment is bisected by the subtle clatter of a tray being placed down on the coffee table behind them. Reigna and Will both jerk and turn their heads to see Marie trying her best to quietly place their food down, clearly she had failed.


    ¡°Sorry about that, I didn¡¯t want to interrupt and call you to the counter.¡± She says, a soft sincerity to her words. The pair hastily pull away from each other and return to their seats. ¡°You two remind me of my son and his wife when they were your age.¡± She laughs.


    ¡°Oh, well we¡¯re Ju-¡± Reigna starts


    ¡°Just friends, clearly. Very good friends, and lucky you are to have each other.¡± She cuts Reigna off and nods along as she speaks. She fishes a pair of keys from a pouch on the front of her apron and places them on the table. ¡°For your rooms, if you want to extend your stay you can tell me before you go to rest tonight or tomorrow when you wake up.¡±


    ¡°Actually, can we add three days?¡± Will asks, fishing a coinpurse from his coat pocket.


    ¡°Of course, one gold and three silvers.¡± Marie answers. Will places two gold pieces in her hand with a wide grin. She nods before pocketing the coins. ¡°Anything else I can help you with?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Reigna says, trailing a few additional Ls to the end of the word in a sing-song tone. ¡°How would one go about seeking an audience with Furnax?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m assuming you haven¡¯t sent word formally in advance?¡± Marie asks, putting her hands on her hips.


    ¡°Sadly, no. I haven¡¯t had the opportunity.¡± Reigna admits.


    ¡°Well, you have two options. You can find one of his advisors around the city doing their rounds through the boroughs and request an audience form, fill it out and wait for him to get to you that way, which can sometimes take weeks.¡± She says, sounding vaguely agitated at the thought. ¡°Or, if you can see him working his forge, you can just climb the steps and talk to him, technically The Stoneheart Forge is a public space.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound too difficult.¡± Will says, before spooning some of his cottage pie into his mouth and quietly whispering good lord.


    ¡°Everyone thinks that until they try to climb the steps themselves.¡± Marie chides. ¡°Just be careful on your way up there, it takes a bit longer than you¡¯d think.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯ll probably be my fastest option.¡± Reigna says over the rim of her tankard. ¡°We appreciate your help Miss Marie.¡±


    Marie nods to her, ¡°Well if you need anything else, just let me know or my daytime manager if I¡¯m not here.¡± She walks back toward the counter with one of the now empty flagons.


    The following morning, Reigna wakes up early and leaves Lyraax to snooze comfortably on the soft bed in her room. I left Will a letter on the desk, hopefully Lyraax will deliver it. She ducks into one of the artifice shops they¡¯d passed the night before on their way to The Lavaspur and drops off the little Nightingale sculpture with instructions on where to deliver it and pays for the repair and delivery with the gold Erin had given her back in Ifrita. The Gnomish man at the counter had inspected the damage and promised repair and delivery within two days.


    Using a series of simple landmarks like the signs marking the districts and the elaborate geometric brickwork of the city streets, She finds herself back at the city center. Compared to the evening before, when all the merchants were corralling themselves into the various inns and taverns looking for room and board and the local barkers were closing up shop, today Caravan Day is in full swing.


    Various stands, seemingly constructed overnight line up end to end and back to back creating small lanes and concentric footpaths to peruse their wares, barkers and smaller vendors walk the lanes and the area outside the pop-up bazaar shouting costs for snacks, beverages, fresh produce, and all manner of simple things. Children run to see if any of the booths offer samples or small games for simple prizes, as is tradition in most places when the merchant caravans arrive.


    Their tables are covered in all manner of objects, gaudy and expensive jewelry, glamored clothing, enchanted weapons, exotic food and drink. The sights and sounds and smells are a bit overwhelming. I need to skip this foot traffic. Reigna thinks, looking for an easy way out of the building crowd. She casts a glance around her and notices a clear line between the aisles that leads straight to the fountain and takes that as her sign.


    Carefully she passes behind and between people, keeping her hands and tail spread out before her, partially so some of the more affluent attendees can see her hands and be made aware that she¡¯s not a thief, partially to shove into any would-be thieves before they can bump into her. Thankfully I only brought  few gold with me and left everything else at the tavern with Lyraax. She exhales as a small relief washes over her. Caravan Day, no matter where you are, is a big draw for thieves. Getting pickpocketed in the city center for five gold pieces is better than losing a pouch with 70. Or worse yet, losing her bag with the extradimensional pocket or her Everwater flask. She shakes the thought out of her head.


    Once at the fountain she can see another straight gap in the tables which she follows out to the main thoroughfare where people who aren¡¯t partaking of the festivities are spending their day minding their own business and tending to other matters. She can see the large staircase that leads to what Marie had called The Stoneheart Forge. Stonehear, that sounds familiar. Isn¡¯t that what Will called the First Dwarven council? The Brothers Of Stoneheart? She chews on the thought as she approaches.


    Like much of the rest of Hammerheim, these steps are made of heavy, red bricks neatly arranged and seemingly fused together leaving no discernable space between them. As she stares up the cascading steps, she can make out the glimmer of gold from the tip of one of Furnax¡¯s wings. Yeah, he¡¯s up there all right. She begins her ascent.


    The climb begins easily enough, a dozen or so steps go by as she marches up them with determination. Another two dozen steps, and her determination is waning. The confident gait that dwarfed the first steps has slowed. By the time Reigna has passively counted almost a hundred steps, she¡¯s starting to wonder if she really even needs to know about this whole ¡°curse¡± thing. Yeah, that¡¯s why he hangs out up here because nobody in their right mind would climb these fucking stairs just to talk to him. She squints up the remaining steps and can see that he is, in fact, getting closer.


    By the time she reaches the top, her legs are sore and shaking. Somewhere around fifty steps ago, her left leg caught a nasty charlie horse. She¡¯s drenched in sweat and filled up to her eyes with regret and frustration.


    ¡°With all due respect, sir.¡± She says, breathlessly. ¡°You need to make a more efficient way to get up here.¡± She sits flat on the ground, stretching her legs out before her. For a moment, the platform beneath her trembles as he turns to face her. He¡¯s massive, clad in the metallic shimmer of his golden scales, their sheen so vibrant she can almost make out her own reflection in them as the light dances across them.


    ¡°I could do that,¡± Furnax says, his voice a pensive rumble like the rush of a waterfall. ¡°But then, I¡¯d be forced to entertain more frequent and less determined visitors.¡± He chuckles.


    ¡°I can respect the need for solitude.¡± Reigna pants, leaning forward to stand up. As she approaches him properly, he spreads his wings straight out, his scales begin to spiral around him with a mercurial fluidity as he shrinks down to a more normal human size. By the time she¡¯s standing before him and able to offer her hand, he is no longer draconic in his appearance.


    Before her stands a tall, tan-skinned man in a heavy leather apron. He¡¯s broad shouldered and muscular. Protruding from his head are a pair of long, dagger-like golden horns. His eyes are a clear, crystalline green with a distinct, slit-shaped pupil. His face is spattered with metallic, golden freckles.


    ¡°Ah, so it was you.¡± He says, narrowing his eyes at her.


    ¡°Me?¡± Reigna stops in her tracks. ¡°What did I do?¡± She asks, hoping it doesn¡¯t sound as suspicious of a question to him as it does to her in retrospect.


    ¡°I felt a strange presence enter my city last night, I initially thought it to be another overzealous merchant carrying unwanted contraband.¡± He closes the distance between them and eyes her closely. ¡°Instead, it would seem it was a songbird. Have you come to spin me a tale?¡± He asks, his gaze unwavering.


    ¡°Actually, I came to ask for your help if you would be so kind.¡± Reigna replies, bowing her head, mostly to break his gaze for a moment.


    ¡°Interesting, and what is it you need help with?¡± he asks, an obvious curiosity in his tone.


    ¡°Well, I think I¡¯ve been cursed.¡± She replies, finally working up the courage to meet his gaze again.


    Furnax stares at her then walks a slow, deliberate circle around her. She can feel his gaze on her, cold and calculating, analytical. He¡¯s either checking me for a curse, or searching me for a weapon. She thinks, doing her best not to move.


    ¡°I feel no curse on you, child.¡± He says finally, as his circuit concludes before her again. ¡°You seem, at least to me, to be unburdened by any curse of any arcane origin.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious.¡± She whispers to herself.


    ¡°However,¡± He continues, ¡°There is something else there. Give me your hand.¡± He reaches a hand towards her. She simply complies, placing her hand in his. With a sharp, talon-like nail, he pricks her finger and squeezes some of the blood from it into a vial produced from the pocket of his apron. When she pulls her hand back from his, the little puncture wound is closed.


    He slides the vial back into the pocket of his apron, ¡°How long do you intend to be in Hammerheim?¡± He asks simply, turning his back to her and examining a nearby workbench.


    ¡°I can be here for as long as need be, I¡¯m currently staying with a friend at The Lavaspur.¡±


    ¡°Ah, Marie¡¯s little nest. That is a good, quiet place with comforting food and drink.¡± He rumbles with affectionate familiarity. ¡°Bring her this, and tell her you are awaiting my arrival. I will come to find you once I have finished my analysis of your blood.¡± He hands her a small but strangely heavy piece of golden material. Its texture under her thumb is smooth, but it has distinct ridges and a subtle roughness that is unnoticeable due to the mercurial nature of its metallic luster. No way.


    Reigna offers him a curtsey and a deep bow of her head. ¡°Thank you, sir. I will await your arrival.¡± As she turns to leave, Furnax places a hand gently on her shoulder.


    ¡°Little horned one, you needn¡¯t be so polite.¡± He says, the slits of his eyes contract and expand for a moment as though refocusing on her. ¡°We may not be equal in power, but as for blood.¡± He pauses for a moment, contemplating. ¡°I¡¯ve met many of your kind, those like you and those from whom you are descended. Your people are proud and do not bow their heads.¡±


    ¡°I apologize if I offended you, sir. It¡¯s just etiquette I was taught to observe.¡± She says simply, trying to disguise the wracking of her nerves.


    ¡°That is the etiquette of humans. They require people to bow to show subservience and to acknowledge their positions of influence and insecurity.¡± He chides, the insult is not aimed at her, it¡¯s a critique of human political structures. ¡°Your horns, like mine, are a crown. You are a guest in my city, not a servant. When next we meet, hold your head high.¡± There¡¯s something about the way he says it, I¡¯m not sure what it is, but he means something else entirely.


    ¡°Of course.¡± She nods, maintaining eye contact. ¡°I¡¯m Reigna, Lord Furnax, it¡¯s been a pleasure to meet you.¡± She reaches out a hand.


    ¡°The pleasure has most assuredly been mine, Lady Reigna.¡± Furnax grabs her forearm firmly, a warrior¡¯s handshake. ¡°Enjoy your stay in our fair city, Hammerheim welcomes you and yours.¡±


    Reigna descends the stairs, reaching the bottom significantly faster than she reached the top. They must be enchanted. She ponders for a moment before carrying on past the makeshift bazaar in the city center. Her walk back to The Lavaspur is uneventful. There are children playing in the streets with toys and wooden swords they purchased or had purchased for them and small groups of older children and young adults, free from various work duties wandering the city in droves trying the exotic street foods and imported beverages.


    She passes a group of Orcs along one of the streets. There are four of them standing two by two and chatting amongst themselves in their mother tongue. They each stand easily two to three heads taller than her, their hair similarly styled to each other, shaved sides and long, thick single braids down the center of their heads and trailing to their lower backs. Each of them have what appear to be the tusks of other Orcs tucked into carefully measured spots down the length of the braids.


    I don¡¯t know why they do that, but maybe Will does. I¡¯ll ask when I get back. As she passes them, one of the men in the front catches her staring in their direction and offers her a nod of acknowledgement without interrupting his conversation. His large red eyes are outlined by a strategically painted circle of black face paint. Reigna offers him a friendly smile and a nod in return. One corner of his mouth turns up into what she figures passes as a friendly smirk among his people.


    They continue on their way, Reigna continues on hers, like ships in the night. This district is still quiet as the early morning fades into afternoon, many of the smiths are just now warming their forges for the day¡¯s work or beginning their commute to other districts. The quiet hum of a neighbor waking up has its own magic. Once she arrives back at The Lavaspur, the growing bustle of the streets once again fades back to an almost post-apocalyptic silence.


    The tavern is as quiet now as the night before, save for the crackle of the fireplace and the almost imperceptible scratch of Marie¡¯s quill against the pages of a ledger. Will is sitting at the counter, bleary-eyed, with his hair untied and plastered to the back of his neck, still wet from the bath. He¡¯s nursing a cup of coffee, raising it to his nose and taking a deep inhale causing the swirling tendrils of steam to race up his nose. He closes his eyes, a peaceful smile crawling lazily across his face as he takes a sip.


    I¡¯m surprised he bathed before getting coffee. She muses as she takes a seat beside him at the counter.


    ¡°Sleep well?¡± She asks, prompting him to turn his head slowly to meet her gaze.


    ¡°Too well, if I¡¯m honest.¡± He sighs. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to move, it¡¯s been so long since I¡¯ve slept in a bed.¡±


    ¡°It is a great feeling, isn¡¯t it?¡± She says, fishing the gold scale out of her pouch and placing it on the counter. ¡°Miss Marie, Furnax asked me to give this to you, do you know what it¡¯s for?¡± Marie looks up from her paperwork and lifts the scale from the counter, carefully examining it.


    ¡°Let me take this to my office, one moment.¡± She says, reaching for a cup and a pot of freshly brewed coffee from the short counter behind her and placing both on a wooden tray in front of Reigna and Will. ¡°Help yourself, I¡¯ll be back.¡±


    Reigna glances up and down the counter for a moment before staring blankly at the glass coffee pot and the plain white porcelain mug before her.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you gonna pour yourself a cup?¡± Will asks, taking another sip from his cup.


    ¡°She didn¡¯t give me any cream or sugar.¡± Reigna says, sounding a little defeated. ¡°I¡¯m not a monster like you, I can¡¯t drink my coffee black.¡±


    ¡°Rain, you can just say that you prefer lightly caffeinated milk, ya know?¡± He jests before reaching over the counter and retrieving a small metal cup with a spout and short bowl of sugar cubes.


    ¡°First of all, thank you. Second, go fuck yourself.¡± She laughs, dropping a few cubes into the coffee. ¡°How long were these back there?¡± She asks.


    ¡°Oh, I asked Miss Marie to prep this stuff before you got back because I know you prefer your coffee blasphemously sweet and at least mostly milk.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m surprised you didn¡¯t forget. You haven¡¯t had to buy my coffee in almost three years now.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s hard to forget the first time I fucked that up and had to run back to the cafe and get another one and almost be late to one the class critique sessions.¡± He remarks, an almost haunted look crossing his face. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    As Reigna takes her first sip of her coffee, Marie descends the staircase hastily and ducks below the counter to fetch a worn wooden sign hanging from a piece of leather cordage. As Marie passes to the other side and makes her way to the door, she catches a glimpse of the sign, it reads closed until further notice. Once the sign is placed outside, Marie re-enters the tavern and locks the door behind her.


    ¡°Is everything alright?¡± Reigna asks, a knot of concern beginning to coil in her chest.


    ¡°Yes, quite well actually, especially for you lot.¡± Marie remarks, taking a plate from the order window and placing it in front of Will. ¡°Whatever Furnax is doing for you must be important.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s, um, analyzing my blood?¡± Reigna replies, not entirely sure what to say or, frankly, how to say it. She catches a quizzical eyebrow raise from Will as he spreads butter onto a slice of rye toast and waves her hand at him under the counter. I¡¯ll explain later.


    ¡°Well, while you wait for his findings, you''re his honored guests here; anything you eat or drink will be covered by him.¡± Marie says, sitting down on a stool behind the counter and pouring herself a cup of coffee.


    ¡°Has Furnax done this before?¡± Will asks, trying to disguise the concern creeping into his voice.


    ¡°Typically he does this when specific political visitors come around or when he needs to speak with the Knight¡¯s or the Merc¡¯s leaders.¡± Marie replies, tipping her mug in his direction as she continues scratching notes into her ledger. ¡°There is a downside though.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± Reigna and Willl ask simultaneously.


    ¡°Until he comes to meet you and your business is concluded no one can come or go from The Lavaspur.¡± She puts her mug down and rises from her seat. ¡°That reminds me I have to go and let my kitchen staff know, and my assistant manager who lives upstairs. Do you want anything to eat by the way?¡± She asks Reigna.


    ¡°I guess I¡¯ll have a bacon omelette with wheat toast, if that¡¯s alright?¡± She says, still feeling conflicted about the whole situation. ¡°Uh, make that two actually.¡±


    Marie nods and passes through the free-swinging doors into the kitchen.


    ¡°So, I suppose that visit was pretty eventful, eh?¡± Will says, attempting to lighten the mood.


    ¡°More so than I thought, apparently.¡±


    ¡°What happened?¡± He asks, turning on the barstool to face her and leaning on one of his knees.


    ¡°One second.¡± Reigna holds up a hand to him before whistling a little tune. A few moments later, Lyraax emerges on the counter in a plume of purple smoke, blinking lazily.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been to see Lord Furnax, I see.¡± He remarks as his eyes focus.


    ¡°I have, Will was asking for details and I figured it would save time to tell you both.¡± The two exchange a look, Will shrugs, Lyraax turns back to face her and nods for her to continue. Reigna spends the next few minutes telling them about her exchange with Hammerheim¡¯s leader.


    ¡°I mean, not being cursed is a good thing, right?¡± Will asks, carefully wiping his face and fingers with a handkerchief.


    ¡°I suppose it is, technically.¡± Reigna says as her food arrives from the kitchen along with the second plate she¡¯d ordered for Lyraax. ¡°I just always figured my bad luck was a curse, so if it isn¡¯t, I¡¯m just unlucky I guess.¡± She idly prods at her omelette, her voice sounding hollow.


    ¡°Dear Lady,¡± Lyraax begins after swallowing half a slice of wheat toast. ¡°It may not be the answer you had hoped for, but having one less metaphysical obstacle is not something to be sad about.¡± His words sting her a bit. It¡¯s a hard thing to articulate right now, but it somehow feels worse knowing that there isn¡¯t an external cause. She keeps the thought to herself and instead nods along to his reasoning.


    ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right, hopefully his analysis doesn¡¯t bring up any worse news.¡± She says with a forced smile. Will scans her face, attempting to find any buried emotion, but she¡¯s retreated into herself and he figures it¡¯d be best to drop the subject in favor of something else.


    ¡°Well, we¡¯ve got the whole place to ourselves in the meantime, may as well make the best of it.¡± He smiles and shrugs his shoulders at Reigna who nods her concession.


    ¡°I guess you¡¯re right. Although, I¡¯m not sure what else we can do while we¡¯re here besides eat, drink and sleep.¡± She says, twirling her hair around her finger thoughtfully.


    ¡°Do you really need to do anything else?¡± Asks Lyraax, licking the remnants of bacon fat from his plate.


    ¡°I know what I¡¯m going to do tonight.¡± Will says, a determined gleam in his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m gonna strip down, wrap a towel around my waist and do the largest load of laundry that I can.¡± His eyes practically glow with excitement as he says it.


    ¡°That¡¯s actually a fantastic idea.¡± Reigna agrees. ¡°I got some laundry done in Infrita at The Rags, but I have a few other sets of clothes I haven¡¯t had the chance to wash so this is a great opportunity.¡± The two of them enthusiastically high-five and head upstairs to gather their dirty clothes from their bags. Lyraax sits on the counter, squinting at one of the lights above the counter.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never, in my life, met this many young people who were that excited to do laundry.¡± He says out loud, his voice somewhere between confusion and utter disbelief.


    ¡°Kids get weirder every generation or so.¡± Marie remarks as she enters from the kitchen.


    ¡°So it would seem.¡±


    Later that night, Will descends the stairs into the basement of the building. The floor is made of carefully laid natural stone slabs and the walls on one side of the room are lined with small vents that gently pipe thin, white steam into the room making it warm and a little bit humid. Along the far wall from the door is a row of six faucets and a stack of wooden wash tubs each affixed with a collapsible washboard. Beside the door where Will has walked in is another, heavier wooden door with a sign that reads Co-ed baths, please be respectful. Beneath that is another, smaller sign that reads Couples: please clean up after yourselves!


    Reigna is seated against the dividing wall, still in her day clothes, scrubbing away at a green shirt that looks almost identical to the one she¡¯s currently wearing. Will adjusts his robe, tightening the waist sash and approaches the stack of wash tubs.


    ¡°Hey Rain, didn¡¯t realize you were already down here.¡± He says, as casually as he can manage.


    ¡°Yeah, I wanted to get this done as soon as possible, but I found this really stubborn sweat stain and I¡¯m trying to get it out.¡± She grits her teeth with frustration and effort as she drags a small fiber brush against a dark spot  in the armpit seam of the old shirt.


    ¡°You¡¯ll get it out, although you¡¯d probably do it a little faster if you mixed a little vinegar and soda on that brush first.¡± He advises, filling his tub with warm water and collecting his clothes from a basket he had left down here last night. ¡°How many of those green shirts do you own anyway?¡±


    ¡°Oh, just the one.¡± Reigna replies, grabbing a small cup and filling it with vinegar.


    ¡°But you¡¯re wearing another one right now.¡± Will says, confused as he shaves a sliver of soap into the wash tub and agitates the water until the suds arise.


    ¡°Wanna know a secret?¡± Reigna asks, giving Will a devilishly wide grin and narrowing her eyes.


    ¡°Um, sure.¡± He can feel a wave of sudden anxiety wash over him.


    ¡°It¡¯s an illusion. I¡¯m actually not wearing anything.¡±


    Will drops half of his clothes into the tub causing the water to splash up over the edges of the tub and send a deluge of soapy water cascading across the floor. Reigna looks up from her stool at him and lets out a full, belly-deep laugh, dropping her shirt and fiber brush into her basin.


    ¡°Great Maker¡¯s mittens, Rain!¡± He snaps, trying to keep a smile from spreading across his face. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t joke like that. Nearly gave me a heart attack.¡± He grabs a stool and sits down to start swirling his clothes in the soapy water, adding a bit more in to compensate for what was spilled.


    Reigna stifles her laughter with a deep, relaxed sigh before fishing the brush out of the tub. ¡°I¡¯m not joking.¡± She states flatly.


    ¡°You won¡¯t get me with that a second time.¡± Will puffs, staring into his soaking clothes, mentally counting to himself.


    ¡°Will, look at me.¡±


    ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll humor you.¡± He turns to face her. She turns on her stool to face him, dressed in her brown pants and green shirt and barefoot. She reaches her arm straight out causing the bell-shaped end of her poet¡¯s shirt to billow and dangle loosely around her wrist, as it should. She reaches with her other hand for the hanging part of her sleeve and Will sees a blue shimmer dance around her fingers as her hand passes into and eventually through the sleeve without it so much as moving.


    He goes pale for a moment, only to eventually turn bright red and turn his back to her. ¡°Alright, you win.¡± He squeaks.


    ¡°Of course I win.¡± She says, tilting her head back triumphantly.


    ¡°Who does laundry naked? Why would you do laundry naked?¡± He asks, a note of panic and confusion in his voice.


    ¡°Well for starters, it means I don¡¯t have to either come back down here to wash the clothes I was wearing before and prematurely dip into my clean clothes.¡± She says, having finally worked that stain out of her shirt and moved on to another. ¡°It was something a girl I dated back in school taught me.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± He asks, turning to look at her, one eyebrow cocked inquisitively. ¡°I mean, you dated a few girls back in school so that¡¯s just really vague. Also, it just seems like the kind of thing Jas would do.¡± He laughs, scraping a wire brush against the bottom of one of his pant legs.


    ¡°Do you remember Ellie?¡± Reigna asks, taking a few of her shirts and underthings out of the tub and bringing them over to hang in front of the steam vents.


    ¡°Ellie Reinbach?¡± He asks, stopping again to turn and look up at her. ¡°She was the girl who was always really quiet, sat in the front of the classroom during Elmhirsch¡¯s Satire lectures?¡±


    ¡°Yup. brown hair, blue eyes, human girl.¡± Reigna nods, adjusting her things and pinning them to a mini clothesline she pulled from an alcove in the wall and clipped to a hook on the other side. ¡°She was a freak.¡± She says, waggling her eyebrows at him.


    ¡°How much of a freak are we talking?¡±


    ¡°She taught me the illusory clothing thing because she was a bit of an exhibitionist, and it made it easier to do things in public spaces, like the campus laundry room, without making it obvious if someone walked in.¡±


    ¡°Huh, it¡¯s always the quiet ones.¡± Will says with a shrug and small, approving nod. ¡°Why¡¯d you stop seeing her?¡±


    ¡°She was a little needy. Let¡¯s say.¡± She says, her voice becoming a bit gravelly at the recollection.


    ¡°Well now I¡¯m curious, do tell.¡±


    Reigna sits back at her stool, empties the tub and refills it with fresh soap and water. ¡°Sometimes she was needy in the sense that she¡¯d come to mine and Jasper¡¯s room unannounced at ungodly hours and ask to stay for a while.¡± She recounts. Will just listens, making a small batch of the vinegar and soda mixture to get at the harder stains in his clothes.


    ¡°She¡¯d stop by abruptly to stay the night, she¡¯d sometimes get upset when I went to hang out with you and Jasper and try to make me feel bad about it.¡± She pauses for a moment and takes a deep breath. ¡°And sometimes she was just physically needy. We¡¯d go out to the local pubs or to walk around the lake, and it would be kind of romantic.¡± She says, her voice soft with nostalgia and fondness. ¡°But then she¡¯d start looking over her shoulder and she¡¯d pull me behind the boat house or a tree and start stripping.¡± Suddenly she sounds exasperated.


    ¡°So you¡¯d be out on a date, having a nice time and she¡¯d basically start asking you to undress?¡± He remarks, shaking his head.


    ¡°That¡¯s the thing, she wouldn¡¯t ask me to strip, she¡¯d just start undressing and asking me to ¡®take her like a virgin offering under the moonlight.¡¯ It was uncomfortable.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like she was reading too much erotica.¡±


    ¡°Her parents were merchants from Orion.¡± Reigna continues. ¡°She said they intended to marry her off to some noble¡¯s son when she turned twenty-one so they could move into Regulus proper, so she wanted to ¡®try new things.¡¯ I found some like demon-girl lesbian penny dreadfuls in her room when she invited me over. I was just some weird fetish to her.¡± She sighs heavily.


    Will looks up from his basin, ¡°I¡¯m really sorry Rain, that couldn¡¯t have been an easy break.¡± He says apologetically.


    ¡°Eh, I was weirded out by it when I found that out and I did feel a little bit used, however she did taste pretty good and I learned some things I certainly wouldn¡¯t have done by myself, so it wasn¡¯t a total loss.¡± She shrugs. ¡°It was just so weird in retrospect.¡±


    ¡°I bet, it¡¯s not everyday you get randomly fetishized.¡±


    ¡°Has that never happened to you?¡±


    ¡°What, someone using me to fulfill their strange fantasy?¡± He asks, looking up again to meet Reigna¡¯s gaze. She just gestures vaguely at him and nods.


    ¡°I¡¯m Dwarvish and Elvish, Rain.¡± He says flatly. ¡°People love tall, elegant, Elven men with sleek hair and aloof attitudes. People love short, strong Dwarven men with thick, well decorated beards and the fantasy of being taken to some subterranean stronghold packed with fine ale and gems.¡± He says, occasionally waving his hand over the wash basin. ¡°Nobody fantasizes about a halfbreed of those two things. I¡¯m a little too tall and thin by Dwarven standards, and I¡¯m too short and fat by Elvish standards. If not for my ears, alcohol tolerance, and long lifespan, I could pass for a normal human.¡± He laughs.


    ¡°Do you think those facts have hindered your luck romantically?¡± Reigna asks, sincerely.


    ¡°Hm, I don¡¯t think so. I think I¡¯m just more of a person you learn to love, not someone that people fall in love with by looking, ya know?¡±


    ¡°Honestly, you should be thankful for that.¡±


    ¡°Based on that story you just told, I kinda am.¡± He smirks.


    ¡°Oh fuck you, Rowan!¡± She says, flicking water from her fingers at him.


    ¡°No, fuck you Larkspur!¡± He laughs, cupping his hand in the water and squeezing a small jet in her direction.


    And just like that, the laundry room had turned into a full blown water fight. They were like kids at a riverbank or lakeside, splashing and squirting water at each other, sending water all across the floor. Eventually their rambunctious game settled and they returned to the more adult business they were here to accomplish. As they rose to hang some wet clothes in front of the vents, the previously hung clothes were finally dry and ready to be folded. They pull a collapsing table from a closet under the stairs, and stand idly folding their dry clothes and chatting about nothing.


    By the time the dry clothes have been folded the next batch of soaking clothes is ready for scrubbing and other treatment. A cycle that continues and repeats a few times over until it¡¯s time to fold the last batch. As they climb the stairs and enter the main area of the tavern, they find Marie unbarring the door. In steps Furnax in his human guise, without his horns. He casts a glance over to the counter where Lyraax is sipping at a cup of coffee and then to Reigna and Will.


    ¡°I¡¯ll wait until you¡¯ve concluded your business and are properly decent.¡± He says, taking a seat at the counter beside Lyraax.


    Reigna and Will rush upstairs and get dressed as quickly as they can before barreling back down to the counter. When they arrive they find, in Lyraax¡¯s a place, a small, lean man of fair complexion with vibrant blue hair sitting cross-legged on the counter. He has the same amethyst eyes as Lyraax and is wrapped in a small robe and mantle that mimic the color of his scales and the pattern of his wings.


    ¡°That was fast.¡± He remarks.


    ¡°Lyraax?¡± Reigna asks. Another thing I wasn¡¯t sure he could do.


    ¡°Who else would it be?¡± He replies, smirking as he takes another sip of coffee. ¡°It would be undignified of me to meet on so revered as Furnax without donning an appropriate guise of my own. We¡¯ll talk about it later, you two have business.¡±


    Reigna resists the urge to bow her head, ¡°Lord Furnax, I thought your analysis would take longer considering your generous offer to have us as guests.¡± She says in her most respectful, businesslike tone.


    ¡°The analysis was fast because I am unable to identify the components of what was given to you, however I was able to identify the effect.¡± He says, casting another glance around them. ¡°Is there anyone here besides Lyraax and yourself that you would like to share the discovery with?¡±


    ¡°Just my friend Will.¡± She says, patting him firmly on the shoulder. Will jumps slightly and offers a sheepish nod of agreement to Furnax. A sudden rush of air fills their ears, and they are all sitting in what appears to be an opulent study. Soft, plus rugs cover the floor, a collection of floor to ceiling bookshelves cover every inch of the walls in all directions, interrupted occasionally by a glass showcase containing a sword or suit of armor.


    In the center of this new room is a large, intricately carved, mahogany desk with three chairs situated around it, and a fourth atop its surface, presumably for Lyraax. Furnax saunters to one of the chairs and sits down, placing his hands down on the desk and nodding to the other chairs. ¡°Please, have a seat.¡± He invites, with the utmost sincerity.


    Will opens his mouth only for Furnax to respond, ¡°My lair, boy. You¡¯re no longer in The Lavaspur, nor in Hammerheim for that matter. Let¡¯s not get hung up on the details.¡± Will quietly nods and takes a seat. Reigna and Lyraax come and do the same.


    ¡°Well, Miss Larkspur.¡± Furnax says with a nod, ¡°I am not sure whether to congratulate you or offer my condolences.¡±


    ¡°Why, what did you find?¡± She asks, her heart racing.


    He produces the small vial of her blood and gives it a little swirl. ¡°You have been dosed with an elixir. I¡¯ve seen variations of this effect in the past but not this one specifically.¡± he hands the vial to Lyraax to examine. ¡°It¡¯s an elixir of Immortality.¡±


    Reigna can feel her body go cold for a moment as the word Immortality lands on her shoulders with an inexplicable weight. Will slumps back in his chair, his eyes wide with disbelief. Neither of them say anything for a long time.


    ¡°Can it be undone?¡± she finally asks, not knowing what else to say.


    ¡°Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, no.¡± There¡¯s a cold finality to his words that siphons the warmth from air in the room. ¡°The exact effect is quite odd, however.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡± Asks Will, seeing that Reigna is currently in a shocked staring contest with the floor.


    ¡°The Elixir still allows her to die temporarily before resuscitating her and seems to accelerate her body¡¯s natural healing and immune response.¡± He says, stroking his chin. ¡°It¡¯s odd seeing as how most immortality spells are supposed to prevent death, sickness, or mortal injury, not just allow you to recover from death.¡±


    ¡°I really wish that it was a dream, now.¡± Reigna says, mostly to herself.


    ¡°To what are you referring?¡± Furnax asks.


    Reigna tells Furnax about her encounter with the strange, winged man and the glowing liquid he used for an infusion on her and about her experience with the Hangman¡¯s tree on the to Ifrita and her meeting with the entity who called himself Death. Furnax listens to her story intently, taking mental notes of the information she can recount.


    ¡°The man who did this to you, based on your description, is an angel or some other type of celestial servitor. Although I can¡¯t fathom a reason why he would do such a thing to a random girl who has no qualm nor oath with whomever he serves.¡± He pauses, pondering. ¡°Meeting something calling itself Death, as opposed to a God of death, is unprecedented.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps because most of the people who meet him don''t come back to talk about it.¡± Lyraax remarks from the small chair atop the desk, his now humanoid face contorted into a scowl.


    ¡°I can attempt a deeper analysis on your blood when I have a bit more time.¡± Furnax offers as a consolation. ¡°For now though, is there anything else I can help you with?¡±


    Reigna brushes her bangs back from her face with her fingers before making eye contact with Furnax, a look of bone-deep exhaustion on her face. ¡°Can you help me find a few people?¡± She asks, before taking a deep breath, made to steele her nerves. ¡°If I might live forever, there¡¯s some unfinished business I need to address with a few people who won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Who do you need to find?¡± Furnax asks, opening a drawer in his desk.


    ¡°Amaryllis Faberos, Talion The Fox, and Jasper Nachtstern.¡±

 Chapter 8: Airships & Islands

    A week passes in Hammerheim, Caravan Day and the festivities of days following also pass. Furnax had paid a small amount, by his standard to allow Reigna, Will, and Lyraax to remain at the Lavaspur, undisturbed while he performed what magic he had to and contacted whoever he knew to find out where to find Jasper and Reigna¡¯s parents. Reigna spent much of this time alone in her room, not even allowing Lyraax to enter. Each night Will would bring her meals up to her room, she¡¯d open the door and he¡¯d catch a glimpse of her face before the door would slam, an hour later he¡¯d hear the clatter of the serving tray sliding across the floor and would bring it down to Marie.


    Will is standing before the fireplace swaying as he bows his viola, playing a rendition of an old folk song he heard once when visiting family in Mae¡¯Andel. A simple, but poignant one-four-five-one progression in D minor. Lyraax is seated regally, like some nobleman¡¯s cat on one of the plush armchairs, gently rocking his head to the movement of the music. The sound of footsteps descending the stairs snaps Will from his flow state, he and Lyraax turn their focus to the top of the staircase.


    Reigna descends slowly, leaning on the bannister for support. She¡¯s barefoot and still in her night clothes, a set of soft green pajama pants and a baggy button-up shirt. Her hair appears dry and matted and her eyes are puffy and swollen.


    Will places his viola on the coffee table and runs over to her. ¡°Reigna, are you-¡± He pauses abruptly, ¡°No of course you¡¯re not. Do you need-¡± She raises a hand to him.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine, Will. First I need a bath.¡± She pauses for a moment before staring confused at her empty hands. ¡°I left my change of clothes on my bed.¡± Her voice is hollow and disinterested.


    ¡°You go and run your bath, I¡¯ll grab your clothes and leave them on the folding table in the laundry room for you, okay?¡± Will offers, a tactic he¡¯s hoping she¡¯ll fall for just to keep her from going back to her room.


    ¡°That¡¯s fine then. Thanks Will.¡± She passes him, offering him a gentle pat on the cheek before descending to the bathing area downstairs. Once she¡¯s out of sight he casts a look over to Lyraax whose eyes are locked on the door to the basement, squinting with concern.


    ¡°I¡¯ve not seen The Lady like this in quite some time.¡± He remarks. Will nervously runs his fingers back through his hair as he climbs up the stairs to the first floor of rooms. Reigna¡¯s is the third door on the left side of the hall coming up from the tavern floor. He enters to find the room in utter disarray. Scraps of parchment scribbled and scratched onto with illegible writing scattered all across the floor and small desk in the corner of the room. The trash bin is overflowing with the discarded remains of uneaten food which have started to fill the room with the sickly-sweet aroma of rot.


    Somewhere amongst the mess of papers and the unmade bed, he finds her  clean clothes, neatly folded and carefully placed on a bedside table. The drawer of the bedside table is slightly ajar, as he reaches out to close it something inside catches his eye. A simple sewing kit lies open, sitting atop a row of neatly arranged spools of thread is a large, hook-shaped, leatherwork needle. The tip of the needle glistens with a single ruby pin-prick.


    ¡°Oh, Rain.¡± He whispers to himself. A tightness forming in his chest and throat.


    He makes his way down to the laundry room and places her clothes on the table as promised before knocking on the door to the baths.


    ¡°Your clothes are out here, Rain.¡± He calls. A few moments of silence pass.


    ¡°Okay, thank you.¡± He hears her say from the other side.


    Once back upstairs, he approaches the counter, ¡°Excuse me, Marie?¡±


    ¡°What can I do for you, son?¡± She asks, flashing him a tired smile.


    ¡°Where do you keep your cleaning supplies? I¡¯m afraid my friend has made a bit of a mess of her room after receiving some troubling news.¡± His tone is firm but apologetic.


    ¡°Oh well, I¡¯m sure it¡¯s fine. That¡¯s what housekeeping is for.¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯d like to take care of it. If you don¡¯t mind.¡± He insists.


    ¡°That¡¯s fine, but why would you want to do our jobs for us?¡± She asks, her eyes scanning his face and, a look of tired, motherly concern falls over her face.


    ¡°My friend is in a bit of a crisis and I think she may be feeling a little isolated.¡± He pauses for a moment, running his fingers back through his hair as he looks askance, a miserably attempt to mask his own worry. ¡°I suppose on the one hand, I¡¯m just trying to be supportive. On the other, I guess I just don¡¯t want strangers to see the mess and judge her for it because a bad week isn¡¯t who she is.¡±


    Marie adjusts her sleeves slightly as though a chill has just run through the room and ducks away into the kitchen. A few minutes later she returns with a bucket of soapy water, a mop, a broom, and a pair of heavy leather gloves with a matching apron. Will receives them with a polite bow and a softly whispered ¡°thank you¡± before sliding on the gloves and apron and ascending the stairs, a mixture of anguish and determination on his face.


    Will spends the next hour emptying the trash bin, gathering all the sheets of parchment into a neat pile, making Reigna¡¯s bed and sweeping and mopping her floor. As he does so he finds more things that leave him feeling cold and deeply worried. There are little patches of dried blood here and there all over the sheets and a pile of freshly stained bandages piled under the bed. Aside from the bloody needle in the bedside drawer, he also finds an empty bottle of a lavender bath water additive.


    He examines the bottle carefully and sits down on her bed turning it in his fingers. A wave of sadness crashes against his heart like a tidal wave, threatening to overwhelm him. He regains his composure to the best of his ability before returning downstairs with a basket of the dirty sheets under one arm and the bucket of dirty water in the other. He places them down to rest before moving the sheets downstairs and finds a cup of hot coffee and a plate of fresh rye toast and delicately sliced fruits.


    ¡°Thought you might be a little peckish.¡± Marie says, entering from the kitchen and sipping from a mug in her hand. ¡°I also figured you wouldn¡¯t want anything too heavy.¡±


    ¡°Much appreciated.¡± Will nods before sliding onto a stool at the counter. ¡°I¡¯ll bring those downstairs in a few minutes.¡± He says, gesturing to the bucket and basket nestled beside the basement door.


    ¡°I can have one of the housekeepers bring it down for you. Just eat and relax.¡± Despite the calm cadence of her words, Will knows an order when he hears it and relents, nodding a concession and choosing to focus on eating.


    Meanwhile, down in the bath house section of the basement, Reigna sinks neck-deep into one of the stone tubs. The warmth of the water seeps into her skin, simultaneously alleviating some soreness and stiffness she¡¯s acquired through bad posture and oversleeping this past week, and making her quite painfully aware of all the small pinholes she¡¯s left around her inner thighs. She stares through the clear water at the scars she¡¯s given herself, focusing intently and watching as a couple of them slowly close over a manner of minutes, leaving no sign that she¡¯d ever made the marks. It still stings. I guess the effect of the elixir repairs the damage quickly, but takes a little longer to dull the pain.


    She raises her head and casts a glance around the room before standing to approach a cabinet mounted onto the wall. She opens the little door and starts sifting through the bottles of perfumes and essential oils until she finds a mixture made for hair and brings it back to her tub. She haphazardly empties the contents of the little bottle onto her head and massages it into her scalp, carefully combing her fingers through her hair to detangle little mats and kinks, occasionally flinching at the sound and sudden pull of tangled hairs either snapping or being unceremoniously yanked from their follicles.


    Once the soap has begun to bubble up and cascade down the back of her neck she leans back and slides under the water, shutting her eyes and listening to the way the water rushes into her ears. She lies there, at the bottom of the tub like a stone beneath a tranquil lake. The steady stream of fresh warm water from the faucet above her fills the tub with a dull drone.


    When I was still in school, we learned about the funerary traditions of some of the various Merfolk tribes. The Merfolk who live in Lake Syrril¡¯s famous Crater Lake are said to take the bodies of their dead and cover them in coral and sub-aquatic fungi. They say that the coral and fungi create beautiful colors as they absorb their bodies and are later harvested for food or to be made into armor, weapons, and pigments. The soul is gone, but the body can still serve the community, I¡¯d always wondered what that¡¯d be like. To be a statue underwater or to possibly feel the earth take back my body.


    I¡¯d always figured that if things had gotten too heavy or too desperate, I could always find a creative way to bow out from what Professor Eidelweiss had called The Great Stage, but I suppose that¡¯s not an option anymore. Outliving my friends wasn¡¯t something I¡¯d ever considered as a possibility, and now it¡¯s just my reality. I¡¯m not sure how to feel about it. I guess I just feel empty. On the one hand, I have all the time I¡¯ll ever need to get to where I want to be, on the other, I¡¯m going to get to see everything and everyone I love grow old and die. I don¡¯t want to be alone. Not like that. If I¡¯m being honest, there are days where I lie down in my sleeping bag and think that I wouldn¡¯t mind if I never opened my eyes again.


    Eventually she finds the strength to sit back up off the bottom of the tub, her hair sticks to her face as rivulets of water and residual soap trickle down her body, back into the tub. She parts her hair and stands up from the tub, grabbing a small stool and sitting down to run her brush through her hair. Glad I left this here last time.


    Once she has brushed through her hair, she steps out into the laundry area. As advertised, her clothes are on the folding table, still as neatly folded and pressed as they were when she prepped them this morning. She dries herself off and slides into them before heading upstairs. One more laundry night before we leave shouldn¡¯t hurt.


    When she emerges from downstairs, Will is asleep in one of the chairs by the fireplace, his face contorted into a grimace and his brow furrowed. Lyraax is asleep in the other chair, his back to the chair¡¯s arm and his front claws flexing as he snores loudly. She can see the basket of sheets, presumably from her bed and winces, a mixture of shame and embarrassment stirring in the pit of her stomach, followed immediately by a loud, rumbling growl.


    ¡°You must be hungry, dear.¡± Says Marie from behind the counter. Reigna jumps at the sound of her voice and whips around to look at her. She just blinks slowly at her from above the rim of a pair of round reading glasses perched on her nose before returning to the page of the book in her hand. She motions to the counter where a cup of tea and a bowl of warm soup sit, trails of steam twirling and twining from them and reminding Reigna that despite her new found inability to die from hunger, food, especially the free kind, is never an unwelcome sight.


    She sits at the counter, slowly sipping at spoonfuls of soup. Despite knowing the Lavaspur¡¯s food is great, her sense of taste feels dull and she can¡¯t find any joy in this bowl at the moment. Despite that she finishes everything and sips at her tea, her eyes locked absentmindedly on a row of clean, white mugs on the back counter beside the various coffee paraphernalia. I think I should apologize to Miss Marie for the mess. The thought drops abruptly into her head.


    ¡°You made quite the mess up there, hm?¡± Marie says, nonchalantly as Reigna opens her mouth to speak.


    ¡°I¡¯m so incredibly sorry, I know it must have been abysmal up there.¡± She bows her head in shame, staring daggers into her reflection in the rosy sheen of the tea.


    ¡°Don¡¯t apologize to me.¡± Marie sighs, finally looking up from her book and glancing over at Will. ¡°Apologize to your friend, and thank him while you¡¯re at it.¡±


    Reigna follows her gaze and manages to catch a slight twinge in Will¡¯s hand when Marie says that. He¡¯s awake, but doesn¡¯t want to make it awkward.


    ¡°Will cleaned the room upstairs?¡± She asks rhetorically.


    ¡°Oh yes, the boy insisted that my housekeepers not be troubled with whatever you¡¯d done. He said he didn¡¯t want them to judge you.¡± The statement comes and goes in curt, matter-of-fact tone. Although not the complete intention, it sends a cold wave over her heart. Well, I guess it¡¯s a little harder to feel hollow when you¡¯re full of shame. She chides herself internally.


    ¡°Did he seem upset with me?¡± Will tightly clenches his fist in his lap, trying not to be seen.


    ¡°He seemed concerned and worried. He insisted that this was not a reflection of who you are but rather the result of a bad week and that you needn¡¯t be remembered for a bad week.¡± Marie recants his words simply, squinting her eyes down at her book before turning a page. ¡°We should all be so lucky to have friends who still believe in our capacity for good when we can¡¯t find it in ourselves.¡± She stands up and stretches. ¡°I¡¯m going to lie down for a bit, if you need anything just go in the kitchen and ask.¡± She ascends the stairs, leaving Reigna, Lyraax and Will alone in the front of house.


    Reigna approaches the chair where Will is sitting, aware that he¡¯s awake. She sits on the floor behind it, her back against the bottom of the chair and her knees tucked up to her chin. She takes a few deep breaths, trying to find the words and instinctively she just says the first thing that comes to mind.


    ¡°Will, I know you¡¯re awake.¡± No response save for the measured rhythm of his breath. ¡°I know it was a nightmare up there and I should¡¯ve thought about that before I agreed to let you get my clothes for me.¡±


    After a moment, she feels the chair shift as Will leans forward on his knees. ¡°I had to. I-¡± His voice cracks for a moment. Reigna bites her lip. ¡°I couldn¡¯t let you go back in there. Who knows what you¡¯d have done to yourself if you did?¡± He says, his voice quavering.


    ¡°Will I just-¡±


    ¡°No!¡± He barks, loud enough that someone in the kitchen drops what sounds like a piece of silverware on the floor, the sudden volume jolts Lyraax from his slumber, he stares wide-eyed and wordless at Will. ¡°Don¡¯t do that Reigna. Please don¡¯t try to rationalize any of what you were doing in there.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not fair. I can understand you being upset with me but you can¡¯t just shut me out and not let me explain!¡± She shouts, standing upright as quickly as she can and turning to face him. His expression isn¡¯t what she expected.


    He¡¯s standing there looking her straight in the face, gritting his teeth in frustration. His eyes are narrow and bloodshot, a stream of fresh tears rolling down both sides of his face.


    ¡°Not fair?¡± He says, his voice low and hoarse. ¡°You know what¡¯s not fair Rain? For a week, you say nothing to me whatsoever. I bring you food, you just throw it away. You slam the door in my face, won¡¯t look me in the eye. Then, when you do finally come out, you¡¯ve turned your room into a trash bin and spotted your sheets with your own blood.¡± He stops to cough and try to regain some level of composure or something composure adjacent.


    ¡°I told you the first night we stayed here that you¡¯re not alone. You asked Furnax to help you find Jasper and you know they wouldn¡¯t take it easy on you either. Rain, I always knew, even when we were back in school that one day you¡¯d be gone.¡± He stares down at the floor. ¡°You always had this gloomy disruption about you, it only really surfaced when you¡¯d sing about love and family, but it was always there. I always thought you¡¯d be gone for good one day, and I know it¡¯s hard to hear that you¡¯re gonna be the one to stay when we go, but don¡¯t do this to yourself.¡± He takes a few steps forward and leans his head against softly. ¡°Please don¡¯t take the time we have left together away from us.¡±


    She wraps her arms around up and around his shoulders, resting her chin on the top of his head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I worried you Will.¡±


    ¡°Just promise you¡¯ll talk to me or at least Lyraax.¡± He hugs her a little tighter. ¡°I know it¡¯s a selfish thing to ask you, Rain, but can we at least take some time to make some memories so when I¡¯m gone, maybe you won¡¯t feel as lonely?¡±


    ¡°It is a little selfish.¡± She gives a tired laugh. ¡°But I¡¯m a bit selfish myself, Will. I wanna find Jasper because even if it¡¯ll be a long time before you both go, forever is longer still. I need time with my people. You guys have always grounded me and in school I took that for granted.¡± She sighs, still holding onto him. ¡°Do you wanna grab some drinks and humor me for a bit?¡±


    ¡°Now that I got that out of my system.¡± He pulls away, wiping his eyes, his face red and puffy. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I was just really worried. But can we not be terribly graphic?¡± He asks.


    ¡°I¡¯ll spare you some of the details.¡± She knocks on the kitchen door and places an order before settling down at one of the tables. Will and Lyraax each take up a seat across from her, waiting intently.


    ¡°First, I¡¯d like to clarify that I didn''t do anything so drastic as repeatedly killing myself.¡± At her opening statement, much of the tension in Will¡¯s shoulders seems to relax. Lyraax nods his acknowledgement, signaling for her to continue. ¡°Furnax had mentioned that the elixir should accelerate my healing and recovery and, up until he¡¯d mentioned it, I hadn¡¯t noticed that my bruises and other injuries from the encounter on our way to Ifrita were already gone¡± She turns her hand over, displaying her middle finger which previously had the nail split open, revealing it to be back in one solid piece.


    ¡° Granted I still have some residual pain. So, I decided to do some testing. Just little things.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what you were using the sewing needle for?¡± Will asks, bluntly. She winces a bit at the question.


    ¡°Yes, just a few pokes on my inner thighs so it wouldn¡¯t be noticeable in case it left any scars.¡± She heaves a sigh. Hopefully he doesn¡¯t ask any followup questions about why I know that. ¡°It does not, however, repair any scars or injuries that were sustained before the elixir was administered.¡±


    ¡°You have scars from the past?¡± Will asks, confused.


    ¡°One of my teeth is cracked from an accident when I was young and I have a scar on my right ring finger where I cut myself in the kitchen I used to work in.¡± She says, turning her hand over to show the minor discoloration on a spot where she¡¯d once almost sliced off the tip of her finger while chopping onions.


    ¡°And the empty bottle of the bath additive?¡± Will asks,abruptly.


    ¡°I diluted it with some water and spritzed it around my door to try and hide the smell of the rotting food.¡± She admits, as their food order arrives at the table. Again, her stomach growls loudly. I figured a bowl of soup wouldn¡¯t be enough.


    Will sighs in relief. ¡°Oh good, I thought you¡¯d drank it to try and poison yourself.¡±


    Both Reigna and Lyraax give him a look of bewilderment.


    ¡°Gods Will, that¡¯s grim.¡± She says, her stomach contorting at the thought of swallowing infused liquid soap.


    ¡°That sounds like a terrible way to go.¡± Lyraax remarks as he nibbles on a roasted carrot.


    ¡°It is.¡± Will replies, quietly. ¡°Someone I was friends with when I was young drank three small bottles of the stuff after a heated argument with her parents about an arranged marriage.¡± He stares at his fork for a moment before eating.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that, Will. But no, I was trying to hide the smell, that¡¯s all.¡±


    They eat their meal in relative silence. He asked me to leave out the more gruesome details so I won¡¯t mention the rest of what I tested. Good to know I can grow back some body parts at least.


    ¡°I was thinking we could do one more big laundry night before Furnax comes to give us the information he found.¡± Reigna says, placing the used plates and silverware on the window to the kitchen.


    ¡°Oh, I forgot to mention.¡± Will runs over to the chair by the fireplace and retrieves an envelope. ¡°Furnax had delivered this while you were, um, processing. He said to give it to you and that we can stay for as long as it takes for you to be ready.¡±


    She breaks the wax seal on the envelope and finds a handwritten letter and what appears to a set of boarding passes.


    The letter reads:


    Dear Miss Larkspur,


    Given the time I¡¯ve had and correspondences with friends of mine overseas, I have located the people you¡¯ve asked for.


    Talion The Fox can be found tending a bar in Port Atreya called The Siren Song. It would seem he has been in Port Atreya for nearly a decade now and shows no sign of leaving any time soon.


    Amaryllis Faberos is currently known as Lady Feigenbaum of House Feigenbaum. She¡¯s married to a Regulan chamberlain and tends to host small gatherings for the other ladies and daughters of the Regulan Ton.


    Jasper Nachtstern has been in Alexandria for the last few months as the young lord that they serve has been there ¡°indulging in various carnal pleasures¡± and intends to remain in the city until he has stayed for at least one week at each brothel in the city districts.


    Accompanying this letter you will find a set of boarding passes for yourself and your companions for the Leonis Exemplar, an airship that leaves from the town of Gimmerfrost in one month. The Exemplar will stop for three days to resupply in Port Atreya before continuing to Alexandria. I will continue to pursue any information about your condition and the strange man who may have afflicted you with it.


    I apologize that I could not do more for you at this time. Marie has agreed to accommodate you and yours until you are ready to depart.


    Best of luck on your travels


    Furnax, The Forger.


    Will watches as she reads, her face mostly neutral until something makes her eyebrows furrow in what seems to be a mixture of confusion and disgust.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Furnax located Jasper and my parents.¡± She pauses, handing him a boarding pass and tucking the letter back into its envelope. ¡°Apparently my mother is married to another man. A Regula chamberlain, last name Feigenbaum.¡±


    ¡°Hm, the name doesn¡¯t ring a bell to me. Probably not someone who is commonly in the public eye.¡± Will remarks, sliding the boarding pass into his coat pocket. ¡°I assume that¡¯s what these passes are for then? To get us to Regulus?¡±


    ¡°No, the ship we¡¯ll be taking is heading for Alexandria and makes a stop in Port Atreya.¡± She clarifies, sitting on the arm of the chair.


    ¡°Ugh, Port Atreya is a miserable place.¡± He sits down in the other chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never been there, but I know where it is. I¡¯m guessing you¡¯re not a fan?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not.¡± He leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. ¡°Port Atreya is a neutral territory and has three embassies for Ambria, Regulus, and Rsha respectively. They¡¯re heavily guarded but what military presence from each nation exists there is very lax about what happens outside of embassy grounds.¡±


    ¡°How bad is the area?¡± She asks, leaning forward and making no attempt to disguise the apprehension creeping into her voice.


    ¡°Atreya has a Smuggler¡¯s Hub, so a lot of illegal contraband moves through the place. On top of that, many of the people who pass through regularly or, Gods forbid, live there are typically slavers, bounty hunters, or traffickers of one type or another.¡±


    ¡°My dad¡¯s there.¡± She says quietly, her eyes locked on the floor. Will catches himself and manages to avert a tirade about the endless vices of Port Atreya and its veritable scum. ¡°Why has he been there so long?¡± Reigna asks no one in particular. They sit in a solemn yet contemplative silence. I have so many questions, I suppose I¡¯ll have to wait to get answers this time around.


    ¡°When¡¯s our ship leave?¡± Will breaks the silence, before biting on one of his thumbnails.


    ¡°In a month, so considering we¡¯ve been here a week, we have three more to kill in the meantime.¡± Reigna says, sliding into a proper sitting position on the chair. ¡°We¡¯re supposed to leave from Glimmerfrost.¡±


    ¡°Hm, ship can¡¯t be that big then,¡± Will notes, passively. ¡°Glimmerfrost doesn¡¯t have a huge airship terminal, so we¡¯re probably getting passage on a small freight vessel.¡±


    ¡°If it is a smaller vessel that would explain the three day resupply, I suppose.¡±


    ¡°Three days in Port Atreya? Not the best vacation spot, but tis what tis.¡± He says, sounding more than a little unamused. ¡°Either way, I¡¯m with you, Rainy.¡±


    ¡°Thanks Will.¡± She says, a small smile playing at the edge of her lips.


    ¡°Do you want me with you when you go to see your dad?¡± He asks, his tone soft but serious.


    ¡°You can come with me to the bar, but could you wait outside?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, of course I can. And you¡¯ll know if anything goes wrong because I¡¯ll scream like a terrified piglet.¡± He jests, making a high-pitched pig-squeal before clutching his chest and pretending to fall back against his chair, his tongue lolling out of his mouth like some panting mutt.


    They laugh and eventually fall into a comfortable silence, listening to the crackle of the fireplace and basking in its radiance until a comfortable tiredness falls on Reigna and she drifts off to a quiet, blissful sleep for the first time all week.


    *   *  *  *  *


    During the final days of their stay at The Lavaspur, Reigna and Will make the necessary preparations for their expedition to the village of Glimmerfrost. The trip up the mountain path from Hammerheim is expected to last three days, barring any incident or inclement weather. Following prior experience, they make plans to leave two days earlyr allowing themselves, in the worst case scenario, a head start to compensate for any misfortune that may befall them and in the best case, a couple days to enjoy what Glimmerfrost has to offer tourists and travelers.


    The week prior to their departure is spent gathering supplies for the road such as dried meats and hardtack and a small supply of fresh produce and seasonings to prepare meals for their camp at night and utilizing the Lavaspur¡¯s utilities, alongside Furnax¡¯s gracious benefaction, to keep themselves fed and well rested and keep their clothes clean. Will delivers on his promise made to Reigna back at Tooth & Claw and teaches her the spell he¡¯d used to topple the mouthy merchant and, as an extra precaution, the pair spend some time creating scrolls of some spells that they know.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°If we run into any trouble, not having to expend energy to use some spells is always useful.¡± Will states, carefully copying down a few bars of sheet music using a glimmering golden ink.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never considered creating quick-releasing spells, I didn¡¯t even know we had that capability.¡± Reigna says, squinting down at her sheet of parchment and carefully penning her sheet music in a midnight blue ink.


    ¡°Anyone who has studied a school or style of magic can do it, Rain. It¡¯s just very tedious and the final touches vary based on your style.¡± Once his sheets have all been penned carefully and the ink has dried, he stands and bows his viola along to each song, leaving a few moments pause at the end of each. Reigna watches intently as the golden ink distorts as though viewed through a heat shimmer before flashing with an intense glow, the ink of the finished scrolls looks freshly wet once again, the pigments spiraling fluidly in place. When she leans down to inspect the finished work, she can hear the faintest echo of the music Will had played.


    ¡°That¡¯s so cool!¡± She exclaims. ¡°Some of the mages I¡¯d met convinced me that scroll making was just glorified transcriptionist work.¡±


    ¡°Well, for mages it typically is.¡± Says Will as he rolls up his scrolls and slides them into a round leather case strapped inside his coat. ¡°My uncle is a magical transcriptionist who used to work in Ambria. According to him, mages have to lay out all the material components for their spells in specially designed circles, copy the formulas onto paper, then recite the necessary incantations in order to capture the spell and ¡®ready¡¯ it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, like loading ammunition into a firearm before pulling the trigger?¡± Reigna proposes. Will turns to her, looking surprised. ¡°I stayed in Rsha and got friendly with a marksman who tried to teach me how to shoot.¡± She waves a hand dismissively, Will simply shrugs and nods agreement.


    ¡°It¡¯s an apt comparison, in all fairness.¡± He quickly glances around. ¡°Where¡¯s Lyraax, by the way?¡± He asks.


    ¡°Every month he takes a one week sabbatical back to the Fae Realm to visit his demesne and assure his companions that he is still alive.¡± She explains, continuing her delicate transcription. ¡°I told him to do it early this time round so he¡¯d be on the airship with us in case something dangerous happens during the flight.¡±


    ¡°How could he help? Not meant to be an offensive question, but I am curious.¡±


    ¡°Well, he can create simple illusions to disguise or hide us if we get boarded by pirates, give enemies an overwhelming euphoria that will typically knock them out or drive them into a rage against their own people.¡± Reigna lists the possibilities in a concerningly nonchalant fashion. ¡°Worst case, he can open us a small portal into the Fae Realm and we can traverse their land until we¡¯re within a reasonable distance of our destination.¡±


    ¡°Hm, considering what I know about Faeries, that may just be our worst option, but it¡¯s not death by drowning, sudden impact, or a sword through the chest, so I guess I can¡¯t complain too much.¡± He chuckles.


    ¡°Careful Will, there¡¯s at least a dozen Faeries who might find it fun to fuck you senseless before you succumb to exhaustion.¡±


    Will opens his mouth to reply before pausing to consider. ¡°I think my statement still stands. I¡¯ll take horny Fae over drowning six out of seven times a week with the seventh being drowning via Siren encounter.¡±


    ¡°When we get to Alexandria, we need to get you laid, my friend.¡± She gives him an exaggerated unamused look before they both cackle at the idea.


    ¡°As long as you¡¯re paying, I won¡¯t say no.¡± He says with a wink.


    ¡°We¡¯ll ask Jasper to get their Noble boytoy to cover us, then we can all have a good time. Gods, it¡¯s been so long.¡± She sighs wistfully, finishing her first transcription.


    ¡°Tell me about it.¡± Will agrees, looking over her music. ¡°A minor memory charm?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, the same one I tried to use on the merchant you mauled.¡±


    ¡°Could be useful, I¡¯ll try and follow your lead next time.¡± He looks away, mildly embarrassed. ¡°Also, calling it a mauling is a bit much.¡±


    ¡°Worst case, we make half a dozen of these this week and sell or trade them when we reach Alexandria.¡± She muses as she plucks her lute strings.


    ¡°Oh, I hadn¡¯t considered that! Good idea.¡± Will snaps his fingers excitedly and begins transcribing again.


    ¡°Thanks, I have those every now and again.¡± She furrows her brow with focus as she carefully plays the melody in reverse from the page, the sound off key and dissonant.


    ¡°Oh, that was unpleasant. Impressive, but unpleasant.¡± Will says, wincing at unsettling reversed crescendo.


    ¡°It¡¯s a charm to make those you¡¯ve been talking to forget what you¡¯ve said to them in the last five minutes. Well, five minutes is the maximum at least.¡±


    ¡°Still, it sounds like a useful charm.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s gotten me a couple second chances in bad price negotiations and has relieved me of consequences for the occasional faux-pas, so yeah, I¡¯d say it¡¯s pretty useful.¡± She sits to begin transcribing her next spell.


    They continue their transcription work for another three hours until finally taking a break to have dinner and tea. Will opts for his usual late night coffee as opposed to Reigna¡¯s herbal tea. It¡¯s odd, having been here for a whole month, just us and Lyraax and the staff. Furnax was kind to extend such an offer to us and Marie is equally so, she didn¡¯t have to accommodate his request, although she is being paid one way or the other so I suppose it doesn¡¯t matter to her. Still, a month of free food, laundry, and bathing, despite the bad news does put a shiny silver lining on my new found dark cloud. Plus reuniting with an old friend. I can¡¯t complain too much.


    Reigna is snapped from her thoughts by the sound of Will placing the coffee pot back onto its wooden platform between them at the counter. When he looks over and sees that she¡¯s back in the world of the waking, he sips his coffee thoughtfully before speaking.


    ¡°Mind if I ask you an uncomfortable question, Rainy?¡± He speaks slowly trying to keep his tone neutral.


    ¡°I think I know what it is, but sure.¡± She places her teacup down and turns in her stool to face him. He stares straight ahead over the counter, his eyes locked on nothing.


    ¡°Are you sure you want to see your parents again after all this time?¡± The question comes as a cold wave lapping at the back of her neck, causing her spine to go rigid. ¡°I¡¯m not trying to discourage you, never that. I guess I just want to check in with you and see where your head is at.¡±


    She stares into the glossy varnish of the bartop, seeing the faint glimmer of light in her own eyes staring back up at her. She bites her bottom lip, flipping pages in her mental dictionary, desperately trying to find the words to describe how she feels about this endeavor.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t spoken to either of them in eighteen years. I knew they were alive, I didn¡¯t know they weren¡¯t together anymore.¡± The phrase lingers a moment, Will quietly sips his coffee, still avoiding eye contact. ¡°I guess the idea that I could die and never know why they left me was always fine to me, especially if I died before them.¡± She pauses again. Will casts her a sidelong glance.


    ¡°If I passed before they did, I always figured it¡¯d be the kind of thing that would hurt them the way they had hurt me. They¡¯d have to go on knowing that, potentially, I had died alone and they never got to see me again and they don¡¯t know who I became or the life that lived or how full or empty it was despite or because of their abandonment.¡± She smirks. ¡°I¡¯d hoped that maybe if things had gone that way, they¡¯d be able to empathize with me a little bit.¡±


    ¡°So what¡¯s changed?¡± Will asks. ¡°Well aside from the whole you being on a strict Death-Free diet thing?¡± He says, his tone colder and more sardonic than is typical for him.


    ¡°Well, now I know that I¡¯m going to outlive them, and I can¡¯t let them die without giving me an answer. I may never talk to either of them again after this, but they owe me that much.¡± She says coldly.


    ¡°Will it help? Will it change how you feel about them?¡± Will turns to face her as he asks, his gaze softening and his mouth contorting as he bites the inside of his cheek.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure, but I can¡¯t live forever not knowing what drove my parents away from me and I suppose, what drove them away from each other.¡±


    ¡°Then I guess we¡¯ll find out together.¡± Will half smiles, further skewing the asymmetry of his now patchy beard as he reaches over and pats Reigna on the head.


    ¡°Thanks Will.¡±


    ¡°Of course Reigna.¡±


    The day of their departure arrives, their things are packed and ready. Marie makes them one final cup of coffee this morning which they enjoy in relative silence along with a light breakfast. Before they exit the bar and allow it to return to normal operating procedure, Marie provides them each with a simple packed lunch to ease their travels for the first day. They thank her and set off back through the red brick streets of the city¡¯s hovering plate and across the arcing bridge back out to the main road.


    Immediately they are blasted by a gust of cold, early winter air sending them both into a fit of shivers. The total opposite effect of what had happened on their first day in the city. Quickly the pair find themselves rummaging through their bags for their coats. Reigna again slipping into her patchy brown, wool-lined peacoat and Will wraps himself snugly in a thick, charcoal colored frock lined with the distinct orange and brindle pattern of marten fur.


    ¡°Wow, that looks warm¡± She exclaims as they follow one of the branching roads up the mountainside.


    ¡°Oh it is.¡± He closes his eyes, smiling smugly. ¡°I got a good deal on this last time I was in Glimmerfrost actually. Marten fur is tough and water-wicking so it doesn¡¯t wear down easily and doesn¡¯t soak through in anything short of a hurricane.¡±


    ¡°Lucky, the wool in this coat wasn¡¯t treated properly before it was used so everything soaks through. It is warm though.¡± Reigna concedes with a shrug, squinting to scan the path ahead. The dark hue of the night¡¯s curtain is slowly diluting and evaporating into the endless clear blue of sunrise. The treetops ahead lie completely bare, save for the occasional evergreen, a cavalcade of naked grey-brown spears stand sentinel at either side of the road, quietly swaying in the gentle morning breeze.


    Unlike the main trade route from Ambria, the path up the mountainside is not nearly as well-worn. It still bears the distinct wear and erosion of being used and traveled with some frequency, but the usage has not yet dissuaded the grass from growing nor worn the smaller stones into dust just yet. The ground beneath their feet is hard, made even more solid by the dropping temperatures.


    We can at least be thankful it hasn¡¯t rained or snowed yet. This path would be Hell if we had to traverse it under those conditions. Reigna quietly ponders to herself. Will stops and offers her a piece of jerky as he tries to catch his breath, the cold white steam of his breath escaping from the collar of his coat buttoned up to his face, like some strange fur-lined chimney.


    ¡°Perhaps it¡¯d be easier on you if you unbuttoned a bit so you could actually breathe, Will.¡± she remarks around the strip of pork belly jerky now hanging brutishly from between her teeth.


    ¡°You know I hate the cold.¡± He retorts, his voice muffled by the aforementioned over-buttoning of his coat.


    ¡°I do too, but we need to be able to see and communicate clearly in case something happens.¡± She gives him a flat stare, her eyes half-open as though she were bored of this discussion. Eventually he relents and unbuttons, revealing his mouth and chin.


    ¡°Alright, you got me there. Take a couple of these too.¡± He says, handing her four small black stones that are warm to the touch.


    ¡°Ooh, that feels nice, what are these?¡± She asks, jamming them into her pockets and turning to continue their ascent.


    ¡°I bought these in Rosetta a few years back, travelers and sailors use them to stay warm.¡± He explains, producing one from his pocket. ¡°They¡¯re called bonfire crystals. I¡¯m not sure where they come from but they sell in packs of a dozen. You can keep them in your pockets or tuck them into the foot of your bedroll at night. I usually leave a couple in my boots on nights like tonight so they¡¯ll be warm in the morning.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a really good idea. I wonder if they¡¯ll have them in Glimmerfrost.¡±


    ¡°Hm, they might. I know in Rosetta they¡¯re really cheap, about two silvers per dozen.¡± He says, scratching his neck and adjusting his cravat under his coat.


    ¡°Well if they¡¯re that cheap here, I¡¯ll spend a few gold on them for that convenience. Do they stay warm the whole time?¡± She asks, carefully clutching the pair in her left pocket.


    ¡°They stay warm for a pretty long time, four to six hours at least. After that they¡¯re basically just rocks for another eight hours so it¡¯s best to use them in small groups if you can.¡±


    ¡°How many do you have?¡± She asks, suddenly concerned about the nighttime use case he¡¯d mentioned.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Rain. I did what you were thinking about doing and bought about six packs of them, we¡¯ll have plenty for later.¡± He Smiles wide, reassuring her.


    By midday, they find a small footpath off the main road and into a clearing of trees. The path is wide enough that singular horses and smaller carts or carriages could be brought down it to the clearing and the indentation of wheels implies that to be the case. They take a few moments to examine the area, searching for traps, potential assailants, and signs of large, predatory animals. Their careful combing of the area reveals no signs of bandits or other large threats, and the tracks seem to be only a few days old.


    Perhaps some of the merchant caravans came up this way. Reigna considers.


    ¡°If we had left a couple days sooner, maybe we could¡¯ve made a little extra coin escorting the merchants.¡± Will says, completing her train of thought.


    ¡°I was just thinking the same thing, please don¡¯t tell me you developed telepathy.¡± She says with a shiver and a suspicious glare


    ¡°Um, no? At least I don¡¯t think so.¡± he blinks a couple of times in confusion before kneeling down to start a small fire. ¡°Is Lyraax telepathic?¡±


    ¡°He is, I think it comes with the territory of being a Fae. We have a strict agreement about him staying out of my head though.¡±


    ¡°Must be useful though, you can communicate information without needing to speak out loud.¡± He says, producing a tinderbox from one of his pockets and igniting a piece of charred, black cloth.


    ¡°It certainly can be. Along with some of the other magic he¡¯s capable of.¡±


    ¡°Do you ever borrow his power?¡± He asks finally climbing onto a stump as the fire slowly builds.


    ¡°Only for escaping or avoiding fights and sometimes to add effects to performances. I try to avoid his specialty though, which is charming people. It¡¯s another thing we have a strict rule about.¡± She says simply, fishing her flask from her bag and taking a drink.


    ¡°I recall in school, some people believed your good grades were a result of you somehow charming the professors.¡± He shakes his head at the idea.


    ¡°Yeah, I remember that too. I had to spend an absurd amount of time in the Dean¡¯s office proving that I wasn¡¯t. It was ridiculous.¡± She scoffs. ¡°It¡¯s not like I was one of the people actually trying to fuck Professor Karmilla to pass her class.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true, but considering her class was literally a course on the history of seduction and eroticism as a performance tool and means of negotiation, I think getting her to actively consider it was part of making the grade. Actually doing it would be a powder keg though.¡±


    ¡°Okay, bad example. But you get my point.¡± She waves a hand dismissively.


    ¡°Actually, did you even take that class?¡± He asks, opening the little boxed lunch provided by Marie.


    ¡°I did in the second semester of the first year and immediately dropped it for a composition class.¡±


    ¡°Oh, why?¡±


    ¡°She had a specific dress code for her class days where she wanted the boys in suits and the girls in dresses and one of the class projects was going to be modifying the day one outfits to be more ¡®appropriately inappropriate¡¯ and I really didn¡¯t want to have to dress like a courtesan on the days I had her class.¡± She flinches away from the idea entirely


    ¡°To be fair, proper courtesans are very well educated and only ever have to engage with their clients if they want to.¡± He hands her a metal cup of hot tea.


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing against their trade, I assure you. I was trying to avoid the use of a word like whore or slut because I find that to be demeaning, especially considering Jasper¡¯s preference for that type of ¡®traditional barding¡¯ as some call it.¡± She sips her tea and makes uncomfortable eye contact with Will. ¡°It was my second semester at the school, I didn¡¯t wanna show up to class with my tits out twice a week. Plus I hate walking in heels.¡± The pink of her face deepens a few shades with blush as she pouts around the rim of her teacup to take another sip.


    ¡°That¡¯s entirely fair, that kind of thing was never your style. I can respect that.¡± He says, spooning some rice into a small cup of warm soup.


    ¡°Did you take that class?¡± She asks, partially hoping to get an equal response from him.


    ¡°I did.¡± He says, staring down at his food. ¡°It was a really helpful experience for me.¡± His voice is wistful and rimmed with something Reigna can¡¯t quite place. ¡°When I started at the school, I wasn¡¯t the most confident person, honestly I¡¯m still working on it. But Professor Karmilla¡¯s class wasn¡¯t just about how to fuck your way out of a tight spot.¡± He pauses a moment, taking a sip of water from his flask. ¡°A big part of her class was exploring and understanding what she called your ¡®personal charismatic charm¡¯ and learning how to draw it out of yourself.¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯m guessing her class made a pretty big impact on you as a freshmen?¡± She asks, leaning in so as to give him her full attention.


    ¡°You could say that. I was always a pretty awkward and quiet kid, Karmilla had each of us write a few pieces of poetry at the start of the course and perform them for the class. Based on that performance, she assigned each of us an era of fashion to explore. She told me that I should consider the fashion of the late Regulan Regency era, before the rise of Queen Almira I.¡±


    ¡° We spent a good portion of that class learning a lot of self-beautification techniques. Identifying good skin and hair care regiments for our specific hair and skin types, designing meal plans that would be good for in and out of bedroom activities.¡± he pauses to wiggle his eyebrows. ¡°And pairing up with others in the class to help identify notable features in our appearances so we could further accentuate them. I learned a lot about how to really like myself from that class.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad it was so valuable for you, Will.¡± She says with a small smile. ¡°Maybe I should¡¯ve taken that class. There¡¯s a few things I could¡¯ve stood to learn from her.¡±


    ¡°No matter how unusual or uncomfortable it may seem, there¡¯s something to learn from every experience.¡± He hums as he packs away the empty lunch box. ¡°Besides, part of being an artist of any kind is learning how to capitalize on your own discomfort.¡±


    ¡°Lyraax would agree. He always says ¡®if you or your audience aren¡¯t at least a little uncomfortable, you¡¯re doing something wrong.¡¯ I used to think that was a joke but I¡¯m slowly learning that discomfort isn¡¯t always a negative experience.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Do tell.¡± Will leans in, cupping his hands over the fire and staring into her face as she watches the flames dance.


    ¡°Discomfort isn¡¯t just the feeling of dread right before something bad happens or you receive terrible news. Sometimes, discomfort is the excitement of standing before a crowd or the catharsis of doing something you¡¯ve been putting off. It¡¯s the way your heart races the first time your hand touches the face of someone you think you love.¡± She stops for a moment, twining her fingers together and rubbing the inside of her palm with one of her thumbs. ¡°You feel just as uncomfortable before some of your best moments as you do before some of your worst and you never know which is which until it¡¯s passed, and sometimes hindsight recontextualizes it and you can appreciate those moments more.¡±


    ¡°I can agree with that.¡± Will nods. ¡°It¡¯s at the peak of discomfort that you can take a step in any direction and find out what you¡¯re made of. The greatest disservice to yourself that you can commit is allowing the unfamiliarity of a moment or situation to prevent you from taking action. If you don¡¯t walk, you¡¯ll never run.¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t run, you¡¯ll never fly.¡± Reigna completes the statement. The motto of their Alma Mater, the Lake Syrrill Bardic Academy: If You Don¡¯t Walk, You¡¯ll Never Run. If You Don¡¯t Run, You¡¯ll Never Fly. A phrase from a bard of The Classical era named Heward Silverstring and a piece of advice he was known to give to young, aspiring bards. It¡¯s always been interpreted as a way of saying ¡°If you don¡¯t start somewhere, you never will.¡± This simple motto became the ethos of a school committed to training bards and artists of all kinds, giving them a place to start. Giving them a running start so they could fly.


    Maybe with a whole eternity before me, I¡¯ll learn how to fly the way that Will has. At least, for the time being, I have someone to help me work on my sprinting form. She muses to herself as Will stands up and puts out the fire, carefully.


    ¡°We still have a few hours of daylight, let¡¯s put them to use, yeah?¡± He says cheerfully.


    ¡°Yeah, may as well cover more ground while we can.¡± She agrees, packing away her teacup and flask and rising to her feet.


    They continue up the mountain path, the incline occasionally leveling out as the road twists and turns before continuing in a gradual incline. The bare oak and birch trees slowly blend into a see of evergreens whose foliage cast dappled shadows over the mountainside as the sun dips westward, slowly the patchy shade of the fir branches gives way to long, shapeless spires of shadow broken only by the final radiant spears of the golden hour. Reigna and Will agree to find a spot off the main road to camp for the evening.


    Once they find their spot Reigna grabs her lute and begins to pluck out a simple melody as she walks a circle around their designated space. Will watches, curious as to whether this is a spell or a simple habit. Once she has completed her circuit and plucked the final note, there is an abrupt hum as a translucent dome forms over them. Within a few minutes the space is warm and comfortable and well-illuminated despite the blanket of night falling over them.


    ¡°When did you learn to do that?¡± He asks, impressed and surprised.


    ¡°Lyraax had penned some spells for me to study before he left that he felt would be appropriate for travel. According to his notes, from the outside we should blend into the area and no light or sound from us will escape this space.¡± She explains, her mouth curling into a satisfied grin at her handiwork.


    ¡°Almost defeats the purpose of having a tent.¡± Will remarks, slowly unpacking his gear.


    ¡°Nonsense, why only have one layer of defense against the elements when you can have two or even three?¡±


    ¡°Hm, as someone who generally hates the winter, I can¡¯t argue with that. I can always stand to be warmer.¡± He agrees. They take the next few minutes to arrange and pitch their tents within the area so as to not disrupt the veil. Will¡¯s tent is up and ready first, giving him time to begin building a fire for them to cook over.


    ¡°If sound and light from within can¡¯t escape, what about smoke?¡± He asks, arranging some logs from a small bundle into a neat, square pile.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure, but I doubt it¡¯ll be an issue.¡± Reigna shrugs ¡°I don¡¯t think Lyraax would suggest that I learn a spell that runs the risk of killing us via smoke inhalation.¡±


    ¡°Goodness, I¡¯d hope not.¡± Will chuckles. ¡°I mean if the goal was to cause you harm or try and kill you, I¡¯m sure he¡¯d have more efficient ways if need be.¡±


    ¡°I would assume so. Lyraax is hard to anger, but from some of the things he¡¯s told me, I wouldn¡¯ want to be the one to light that particular fire under him.¡± She shudders at the thought.


    ¡°From the little chats I¡¯ve had with him, he doesn¡¯t seem so bad.¡±


    ¡°You would think, but there are few creatures aside from demons that are more vindictive than an enraged faerie. A demon might torture you for a bit before killing you. A faerie will strip away everything that makes you a person and makes your life worth living and then sit and watch you struggle to find purpose for decades before you die unceremoniously of starvation.¡± She says, coldly.


    ¡°Hm, glad I don¡¯t owe any fae any favors then. That sounds awful, but not out of character to my understanding.¡± He stokes the campfire until it is fully lit and watches as the escaping smoke collides with the upper dome of Reigna¡¯s spell before slowly dissipating across its surface and disappearing. ¡°Huh, looks like the spell redistributes the smoke across its surface and then allows it to pass outside so we don¡¯t have a big column of smoke to signal our position.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s very useful, I do enjoy the practical spells.¡± Reigna nods her approval as she pulls a pot from her bag and sets it beside the fire.


    ¡°Should we have a watch schedule?¡± Will asks, chopping carrots and potatoes and sliding them into the pot.


    ¡°I would say so. We may blend into the area but, anyone or anything with the right knowledge or equipment, or enough presence of mind could still find us and dispel the dome and we wouldn¡¯t want to be caught out.¡± She says, filling the pot with stock and setting it on a rack over the fire.


    ¡°From what I understand, bandits are pretty rare around this area because of the presence of the Knights, but there are always things worse than bandits.¡±


    Their conversation trails off in silent agreement. Will retrieves a small journal from his bag and begins scratching down on the pages with a thin piece of charcoal. Reigna retrieves a sheaf of paper from her own pack and begins miming chord shapes over her lute strings and plucking notes from them, jotting down the arpeggiations that sound best in her head. Every so often she shifts the pot and opens its lid to stir the contents.


    Will lifts his head from his small, blue leather journal and stares at Reigna for a moment before glancing over her shoulder and out of their illusory dome. Somewhere, out in the darkness of the forest, he sees a shape slithering over the ground towards them. At first, he assumes it to be a snake of some kind, but as it draws nearer the slithering becomes less snakelike and the sudden realization that its shape lacks any dimensionality sends a chill down his spine.


    ¡°Reigna.¡± He whispers. She looks up at him from her parchment and opens her mouth to speak until she sees that his face has gone pale and he¡¯s holding a trembling finger to his lips. He motions with his eyes to the spot outside the dome behind her.


    She turns slowly, gently placing her lute on the ground. Beyond the veil of their little dome she can make out three amorphous, slithering shapes gliding across the ground and coming to a halt outside their boundary. They rise, as though bubbling from a boiling inkwell, their bodies slowly coalescing into a solid form.


    They stand five heads tall, no notable limbs to speak of except for their heads. Their bodies, if you can even call them that, are darker than the night itself, causing them to stand out like painted wooden hunting dummies. Despite their heads bearing no distinct facial features, somewhere beneath the thick curtain of blackness are the vague shapes of eye sockets and mouths, frozen in a perpetual agony, begging to be released from this suffering.


    Will carefully shifts the soup pot from the fire as the contents begin to bubble. Good plan, the sizzling or clattering of the lid moving would be bad. Reigna nods to him before turning back to where the shades stand, staring into what should appear to be nothing to them. Reigna quietly searches the area around them, looking for more.


    While she doesn¡¯t find any more shades, all around them, blinking into and out of sight are ethereal blue lights. Fantastic. She bites her tongue.


    ¡°Will-o¡¯-Wisps?¡± Will whispers sounding both intrigued and terrified.


    ¡°Unfortunately. And we don¡¯t know how many.¡± Reigna confirms. Will-o-Wisps never fight alone and their constant flickering helps to obscure their numbers and patterns of attack. Many adventurers die either being led astray by them or by simply overestimating the difficulty of fighting them.


    ¡°Only three shades, right?¡± Will asks for confirmation. Reigna nods. They both scan the area around them. While not common, sometimes shades and Will-O-Wisps can be pressed into service by necromancers, or, on some occasions, by wraiths.


    ¡°They shouldn¡¯t be able to enter, hypothetically.¡± Reigna says, her voice betraying her lack of confidence. ¡°At least according to Lyraax¡¯s instructions.


    ¡°Well that¡¯s a relief, so long as there isn¡¯t a wraith with any magical capacity we should be fine then. Well minus being watched.¡± Will shudders. ¡°They can¡¯t see us right?¡±


    ¡°Typically, no, but they¡¯re undead so they can sense us. They don¡¯t rely on sight.¡± Something she distinctly recalls about The Hangman Tree and that she can assume about these creatures since they clearly lack eyes.


    ¡°Great feature to have I suppose¡± Will says, sarcastically.


    Despite their unwelcome guests, they manage to eat dinner in relative peace. After an hour of being left to their own devices, the shades eventually retreat elsewhere. The wisps stay an hour longer before their flickering lights desist. The duo heave a sigh of relief.


    ¡°Remind me to thank Lyraax for leaving you that spell, Rain.¡± Will says with a shaking breath, collapsing back against his bag, by the look of him, his legs are all jelly.


    ¡°Yeah, we¡¯d be in for a pretty terrible night otherwise.¡± She agrees. ¡°Do you want me to take first watch?¡± she asks, thinking it best he try and rest a bit after the scare.


    He mulls it over for a moment before nodding to her. ¡°I would love to be a gentleman here, Rainy, but that scared the life out of me.¡± He admits, sounding more than a little ashamed.


    ¡°Will, you don¡¯t have to be a gentleman, you can just be Will. go get some sleep, alright? I¡¯ll wake you in a few hours.¡± She helps him to his feet and pats his shoulder before stretching and walking around their campsite, mentally willing the light within the dome to dim a bit so that only the firelight remains. The night of the new moon casts a curtain of thick, imposing shadows across the forest, leaving everything beyond the light of the fire shapeless and depthless.


    Despite that, through the canopy of firs, the night sky is still delicately splattered with the white drops of starlight. The whole of the night¡¯s canvas couldn¡¯t be appreciated without the glowing alabaster of the moon''s face. The distant twinkle of far off stars without the moon¡¯s glow for contrast leaves Reigna feeling smaller.


    She returns to her parchment from earlier, scanning the bars of music and quietly strumming along to them. She hums a melody to herself encouraging it to form into words, an attempt to capture this apprehension in her chest. As her mind wanders, some part of her finds the words.


    It¡¯s been so long since I last saw you.


    Do you remember me?


    Do you even care?


    Father dear, can you hear me?


    Did you miss me while you were away?


    Father, dear father, can you hear me?


    If I find you, would you ask me to stay?


    Father, oh father, do you love me?


    Am I still the fire that lights your soul?


    Father, dear father, did you run from me?


    Tell me, when did your fire run cold?


    Is there still a home there


    Inside of your heart where


    My mother and I are still your world?


    Did this world change you


    Was there ever a thing that I could do


    To bring me back to you?


    She stops. At a loss for what to say next. A tear welling up in the corner of her eye. She lays her lute on the ground beside her and tucks her face into her knees, trying to stifle her sobs.


    Inside his tent, Will lays on his side staring into the darkness biting his bottom lip and trying not to make a sound. I¡¯m sorry Reigna.