In the aftermath of Thread’s accusations, the conversation becomes light and blunted until she returns. When she does, she stares down at her empty chair, as if examining the seat for dangerous riggings. After several moments of this, without looking up, she says, “I should have handled that better” and slides back into it. No one addresses the comment directly, but the tension created by her outburst slowly retreats from the gathering like a dispersing vapor. Encouraged by this, Gereb speaks up, releasing a question that has been gestating betwixt his tongue and tonsils for several minutes.
“Chlora?” he begins.
“Yes?”
Gereb nervously traces a fingertip down his cheek as he asks, “Your, um, master; he performed enchantments, you said, on behalf of various customers?”
“He did.”
“And…. Presumably then, uh, he was infusing those mystical enhancements into… weapons and maybe even...armor?”
“He did,” Chlora repeats, smiling tolerantly as she ventures, “And you’re going to ask if I brought any along.”
“Absolutely!” Gereb pipes excitedly. “Please tell me you have a cart-load stowed around back.” He indicates Thump’s warhammer with an excited wave. “That thing looks like finely-crafted artistry compared to MY armaments.” He reaches for the mottled scabbard at his belt, and begins to slide its blade loose. He stops, though, when he notices Chlora’s smile droop into a consolatory frown. She shakes her head. Seeing this, Gereb sighs and releases his grip on the hilt. The dull weapon plops back into its ragged sheath, sounding just as dejected as its wielder.
“Oh,” he says.
“Seriously?” Grove asks. “You inherited a store full of enchanted weapons and you brought…”
“None,” Chlora confirms.
“None,” Grove echoes, staring blankly at her.
“I LIKE my hammer,” Thump complains, glaring at her bodyguard, wounded.
Gereb attempts to reconcile with his charge, telling her, “Yes, I know; I’m sorry. It’s just, well… it’s about two good whacks from breaking in half.”
Thump curls her lip and looks away, muttering, “ALL of my whacks are good.”
Chlora feels the conversation slipping away, and raises her voice to interject. She says, “TRUST ME; you will ALL be well-supplied before we set out, I promise. It just can’t be with any of my master’s inventory. It has already been sold.”
“There is an explanation,” Oath reasons aloud, perhaps to convince himself as much as his beleaguered colleagues. His mouth has only recently begun to function again after being muted by crippling disappointment. “I can’t imagine what it could BE, but I’m sure it’s a good one.” He stares at Chlora pleadingly. “Right?”
Chlora grins, “Indeed, it is. I wasn’t allowed.”
“Um…” Gereb begins uneasily, “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or to speak ill of the dead, but… well, surely your master, in his present condition, wouldn’t have minded terribly if you’d have just selected a few choice pieces--”
“Correct,” Chlora interrupts, “a dead man wouldn’t care, but I do.” Before any further arguments can arise, she hastens, “What drove me to seek him out in the first place was selfishness. I never believed he would accept me as a student. I’d heard of him, of the exploits of his youth, and the amazing work he continued in his retirement. I wanted to use him, to confide in him and sway his sympathies until he agreed to join our Cause. So I told him everything, weepy-eyed and tragic. I didn’t like to him, and I didn’t need to fabricate my tears, but I knew what I was doing. I wasn’t worried about mentorship and training, not yet. I didn’t want a sympathetic confidant; I wanted THIS man to kill my enemies, nothing more. I can admit this all to myself now. I can accept the corrupted inception of our relationship.”
“I don’t know if he recognized my wiles straight away or if he was actually taking me at my word that I was begging for instruction only, but he accepted me as his pupil. Frustratingly, however, that was the full measure of his offer. Begrudgingly, I accepted.”
He made it clear right from the start – he respected my mission, and would do his best to provide the tools and knowledge so that I may eventually complete it. But this was my burden, my duty. If he intervened, if he served as a surrogate ‘avenging angel,’ the retribution would be hollow and unsatisfied. I would never find peace.”
“I don’t care about satisfaction or peace,” Thread growled, “I just want the bastards dead.”
Chlora ignored her. “I was very resentful. At first, I largely completed my studies out of stubborn hopefulness. I reassured myself -- he would come around, change his mind. But he never did.”
“His abstention extended to his goods as well.” She pats her robes and the staff beside her. “None of these bear his mark. None of the tools of my training have been enhanced by his hand in any way. His wisdom and his teaching, absolutely, but the physical manifestations of his acumen? Not one.”
“As time went on, he never wavered, and I grew embittered. I simply could not understand his position. I thought he was being a stubborn old man or a coward; perhaps he was punishing me in some way. Like Thread, I didn’t care about the honor in it, I just wanted – NEEDED -- to see my enemies suffer. I wanted to watch them endure some measure of the misery I – we – have experienced. The old man could do that, I knew he could, but he refused, and… well, at times, I suppose, I really did hate him for it. I considered giving up on the old fool, moving on, trying to find someone to train under who would agree to be more proactive in my vengeance.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“And yet… it took months, perhaps even years, but I slowly began to understand. To this day, I can’t say that I entirely agree with the stance, but I at least understand his reasoning for it; I understand him. I respect him. He gave me a great gift, even if it is not the one I’d initially wanted, and the least I can do to repay him is to respect his sole request now that he is gone. Thus, when I sold the store, all of the remaining stock went along with it.”
Grove smirks. “Apparently his decree didn’t extend to his fortune, huh?”
“Apparently it doesn’t,” Chlora says, developing her own mischievous grin. “THAT aspect of his legacy was never addressed. Whether intentional or oversight, it is a convenient one – for all of us.”
Beside Chlora, Errow releases a long sigh, “All of those imbued weapons and armor…”
Chlora nods. “And rings, amulets, potions – the man’s life was devoted to his craft. During any intermission that he lacked a specific commission, he was still enchanting, brewing, creating. He fostered amenable relationships with local blacksmiths, jewelers, and the like. There was always plenty of mundane equipment on-hand ready to be embellished. The store was well-stocked at the time of his passing.” She pauses, then, “All gone.”
Errow groans and shuts his eyes.
“You could have saved SOMETHING,” Thread laments quietly. “I needed to hawk my short bow before leaving to pay for my own set of Thieves’ Tools.” She frowns wistfully, “An enchanted replacement would have been a nice consolation.”
“Excuse me?” Oath asks, staring at her, wide-eyed. “But you HAD a set.”
Thread shrugs. “Those were borrowed from the Guild.”
Oath slumps, “You gave up your bow? I hadn’t even realized…’” He, sighs, but forces an optimistic grin, “Well, at least you’ll have better tools to work with now. That set they lent you needed to be retired from active service.”
Thread pulls out and unrolls a discolored square of thick fabric. A variety of metal implements are loosely bound inside. “These aren’t much better,” she admits, sliding a thin gray pick from the sheath. Its scarred teeth wobble slightly, barely maintaining some measure of functional integrity.
Oath stares at the pack in disbelief, even as the thief rewraps and pockets it. “Best I could afford,” she tells him. She looks at Chlora once more, her expression resentful. “One or two,” she repeats.
“I’m sorry,” the wizard says. “Everyone, I’m very sorry. And, yes, I do have moments of regret that I didn’t do as Thread is suggesting. But the truth is, I needed that money, all of it – not just from selling the store – more so, I needed the payout from selling off the remaining inventory.”
“I’ve been somewhat facetiously telling you ‘I’m rich,” she admits. “But I’ve needed – WE’LL need – every copper. The building itself held little value. It was no better than a hovel and we lived in a small apartment above.” She pauses, speaking with visibly-painful shame, “My master didn’t maintain any kind of standing fortune. He didn’t live lavishly, exactly, but he did enjoy a few extravagances. He often said that all the platinum in the world held as much value as a pocket of sand to a dead man, and that was certainly how he conducted himself.”
“A portion of his income was spent on me, I won’t claim otherwise. I helped around the shop, as I have said, but most of my time was spent studying and practicing, so he accounted for all of my financial needs. ‘A student studies,’ he insisted whenever I offered to devote more time to the shop. ‘The master teaches – and pays the bills.’ So, I did as he commanded, and my education was better for it. My spellbook is empty, save for a few pages, but of those spells I do have transcribed, I must say I have become quite competent with them – in training situations, only, of course.”
She takes a long breath, forcing a smile. “And all of that, apart from inducing boredom, is meant to illustrate a sad truth : no, I suppose I COULDN’T have afforded to spare a few artifacts or trinkets. Arranging for all of you to join me tonight was expensive. Too, in fact, was finding each of you in the first place.”
“Yes,” Errow agrees, “an oversight at the time of our pledge : promising to reunite without describing a location. A victim of our necessary expedience, perhaps.”
“Indeed,” Chlora says, “I do not say this to circulate blame – standing amongst the ashes of our lives, surviving solely on hatred and naive perseverance – it is incredible that we escaped at all. Still, searching the entire continent for a handful of disparate childhood companions was no simple task.”
“You have done us all a great service. No one is denying that,” Oath notes. He then extends a pointed glance toward his sister.
Frowning at him, she echoes, “No one is denying that.” Then, with visible reluctance, she adds, “Without your resources we’d probably never have found each other again. Your magical weapons wouldn’t have done us any good stranded hundred of miles apart.”
Chlora smiles in appreciation. “As I said, we’ll provision ourselves as best we can at the outfitter here before we disembark tomorrow. That, at least, I can provide.”
“Ok, ok,” Grove interjects. “So we’ll look the part, potentially be armed to the teeth; great. But, come on, Chlor, tell us more. You apparently researched this place, this ‘Hill.’ What are we getting ourselves into? What’s awaiting us beyond the river?”
Chlora searches the faces of her companions as she considers the question. Eagerness, excitement, but also apprehension and reservation stir like warring shadows across their visages.
As she opens her mouth to respond, however, a sharp crackling interrupts, and the party’s attention is momentarily diverted toward the back of the room. The glowing hearth shrieks mightily. Its violent flames surge, crimson fingertips clawing up through the chimney with desperate vitality, before settling once more.
Beside the hearth, the old man smiles smugly. He assures the entranced taverneers, “I’m here all night.”
From the middle of the room, the exasperated tavern girl shrieks, “Not if you burn the whole place down first! Stop doing that, old man!”
A nearby table of patrons begin to laugh at the exchange, until the tavern girl redirects her steely-eyed glare in their direction. Their amusement is promptly dispelled. In an abashed croak, one of their number notes, “I-uh-I could use another round.”
The tavern girl scoffs, mumbles something blasphemous, and hurries toward the kitchen.
“Chlor,” Grove says his companion’s name once more. She, as well as the rest of the table, refocus, turning their attention to the warrior once more. He repeats, “Please; what awaits us on the Hill?”
Smiling, Chlora’s eyes smoulder with an intensity matching that of the recent conflagration. When she answers, her voice is hushed, almost conspiratorial. “Adventure.”