“It’s a complicated relationship,” Thump suggests, shrugging. She punctuates her point with a quick gulp of ale and a particularly aromatic belch.

“Complicated,” Gereb agrees, partaking daintily of his own measure. “Symbiotic, really.”

“How so?” Grove asks. “No offense intended, but I saw her handiwork – even felt it once or twice – in our youth and the idea that she needs protecting by ANYONE…”

Gereb chuckles, setting his mug down. “Yes, I can understand why you might be dubious.” He smiles at Thump but, distracted by her brew, she doesn’t notice. Before her throat has finished fully evacuating the burp, she is already resupplying it with additional fuel. “She does have a rare gift, our Thump.” Regarding Grove once more, he continues, “I am her bodyguard – and in OUR relationship, that means I spend most of my time protecting the bodies of OTHER people from her.” He considers a moment, and then decides, “I’m a filter for her impulses. I stop her from hurting people who maybe don’t REALLY need bruising.” He casts a remorseful glance toward a distant table; specifically the rag-stuffed nostrils of one of its occupants. “At least, I TRY to. She supplies a great deal of opportunities.”

The table’s attention shifts to Thump just as she finishes draining her mug in one extended pull. After smacking the empty tankard against the table, she glances up and smiles at her companions. “I like fighting,” she announces proudly.

Chlora reaches across the table, gently touching the back of Thump’s hand with her own. “Then friend Thump, you are VERY much going to enjoy this reunion.”

Thump’s grin extends for a moment before drooping thoughtfully. “Why are we here, Chlora?” she asks. “HERE?”

Grove stabs his mug in Thump’s direction. “Thank you,” he tells her. “That’s my question as well.” He turns to Chlora, raising his eyebrows expectantly, “So…?”

Chlora shakes her head slowly. “We’re still expecting more guests.”

“So they’re all coming then?” Grove asks.

“No,” she admits in a long sigh. “But many have given their words. Whether they keep them is another matter.”

Thump spies the tavern wench and demonstrably waves her empty mug above her head. Without looking over, the woman waves a flustered hand toward it and slides a delicately balanced pyramid of steaming plates onto a nearby table top. Turning, she grumbles inaudibly as she hurries toward the kitchen.

Thump lowers her mug, frowns at it, and then notices that Gereb’s is still half-filled. She turns in her seat, rests an elbow delicately on the table and leans upon it. With lashes batting seductively, she eyes his mug hopefully. Gereb sighs and pushes it toward her. Thump offers an appreciative beam, scoops it up, and ingests a long, slurping gulp.

Grove watches the exchange, shakes his head, and turns back to Chlora.

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” he tells her. “The night grows no younger.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“So we shall,” she agrees. “So we shall.”

* * *

Outside the warmth and cheer of Guido’s Bones, the Fort has lulled into its nightly repose. Residents not interested in sharing the tavern’s camaraderie are inside their homes relaxing or already sleeping off the day’s toils. Dimly lit by occasional, flickering sconces, the streets are mostly abandoned, save for the infrequent passage of the single guard patrol. Disinterested and bored, the pair exchange grumbled whispers decrying receiving the local militia’s least-attractive duty. Even the sentries posted at the gates are cozied into thick cloaks, enjoying nips of warming brew as they attend their vigils. Life, the glum patrol members agree, simply isn’t fair.

The guards are not the streets’ only visitors this evening, however. Having just negotiated the Fort’s southern gate, a robed figure walks the city’s main thoroughfare. He follows the simple directions provided by the gatesman. “See ‘at BIG LIGHT up yonder?” the guard had instructed with a mild slur, “’yat’s yer tavern. Jus’ follow the light, ‘an don’ trip over yer’ shad-aw.”

So he has. Yet, in pursuing his destination, something else has begun pursuing him as well.

The man pauses. An unnatural shifting of light to his right stirs his attention. He doesn’t adjust his gaze, though; he keeps his eyes fixed on the distant tavern as he announces, “I can still see you.”

A splutter of defiance erupts from the disturbance. “No you can’t; there’s no way you can see me!” it insists.

The traveler sighs and turns to face the trailing shadow. He lifts his hand, narrow sleeve of his robe sliding down his arm. He points demonstrably at the figure, drawing an invisible zig zag with his finger. “There’s a band of light painting your face like a lightning bolt – I SEE you.”

The chastised stalker sidesteps, holding her hand back toward the location she’d just been standing. A streak of illumination cuts a yellow swath across her palm. “Dammit!” she curses. “Where did that even come from?”

In the road, the traveler chuckles quietly to himself as he begins walking once more. He calls back, “From that torch you didn’t take note of, I’d imagine.”

The shadow-dweller turns her back, searching the walls and roofs of the buildings nearest her until she locates the offending ball of light. She condemns it with a jab of her finger and a snarl.

She takes a moment to calm herself, then hurries up the street, paralleling her quarry’s pace. There is more accursed illumination here, but she nimbly weaves toward a swollen shadow, gently pulling the darkness toward her like threads of midnight gossamer.

“Observe, appraise, act,” she chant-whispers to herself, “observe, appraise, act.”

“Thread, I can STILL see you,” the traveler warns.

Thread balls her fists against her thighs in frustration, “Hold ON, I’m not ready yet. Just give me a --”

“A moment?”

Thread leaps from her carefully manicured shadow, stumbling into the road. She staggers to a stop near her companion and whirls to face the darkness she just vacated.

Her companion chuckles from her side, “Ok, now THEM; them I CAN’T see.”

“Not funny, Oath,” Thread groans. She addresses the shadow then, a slightly nervous contour to her voice. “Good job,” she says, “You got me. I’ll buy you a drink at the tavern and you can teach me your trick. Apparently I need all the help I can get.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” the voice from the shadows says. “I think perhaps your friend wasn’t being entirely honest in his assessment. Even the greatest thief can’t evade the spells of a capable cleric.”

Thread glares sidelong at Oath. “Ahem,” she prompts him.

Beneath the cowl of the Oath’s clerical hood, his mouth blisters into a reluctant grin. “There… may be some truth in the accusation.” He raises his voice to address his accuser. “Surely you must be of the Order to have detected my trickery. Come, friend, announce yourself and share our hospitality. You have surely earned it.”

At this beckoning, the figure steps forward allowing the pale lantern light to finally reveal him. He is short, shorter than an adult human, narrow of frame, angular of jaw. Two pointed ears twitch as his face succumbs to a thin, broad smile. “I am no cleric,” he admits, “just an old friend who recognizes the tell-tale twinkle of one of your tricks, Oath.”

“Errow!”