Flynt and I exchange looks as Meg weaves back to the bar where I apparently set our tray of drinks in my fog of protective instinct. I wonder whose it was that I used as an improvised weapon… probably Tyrus’s. His dwarven stouts typically have a good weight to them.

Jonas has his face in his hands as we approach, and he’s muttering something about being useless under his breath as Tyrus rubs his back, looking concerned. Both look up as we approach, and I half fall into empty chairs around the table. I’m still dizzy and my mouth tastes like old nickels—probably not a good sign.

“I’m sorry,” Jonas says, softly. His voice wavers a little and his expression is fragile, his eyes liquid. “I’m so, so sorry, Flynt, I wasn’t thinking. They just… got to me.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Flynt shakes his head and rests a hand on Jonas’s shoulder. “They were bullies looking for a fight and probably saw you as an easy target. You punished them for that.”

“Maybe. Mine was a dirty blow, though. Magic shouldn’t be used like that. I should’ve just let them knock me down.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Tyrus narrows his eyes, and his voice is hard. “It’s important to stand up for yourself. Maybe it’ll teach them a lesson.”

“I have a feeling it only caught their attention.”

“If so, we’ll deal with it. You’re not weak, and you’re not a burden.”

“Is that what they said?” I ask, peering at them. I cover one eye as my vision swims a little.

“They said a lot of things.” Jonas sighs. “I really… it’s not worth going over. They were assholes. And Flynt’s right, they just wanted to start something. I can’t believe I let them.”

He peers more closely at me, then, and frowns. He reaches across the table and touches my forehead, mumbling something low under his breath. The internal pressure lifts and everything settles inside. The nickel taste blissfully disappears. I sigh in the relief.

“Thanks.”

“What happened to you?” Tyrus asks, raising an eyebrow at me. “I’d expect you to try to stop something like that.”

“Yeah, me too,” I admit. “Instead, I hit one of them upside the head with a beer-filled mug and got thrown across the room for my trouble. It was… a new experience, let’s call it.”

The dwarf chuckles. “Must’ve been something to see. Not a thing that tends to happen to tall folks.”

“Weirdly, that’s exactly what I was thinking before I impacted. My height did not seem to bother that woman, though.”

He chuckles a little more at that, but we lapse into silence for a long while. Tyrus continues to lightly soothe Jonas, whose trembling gradually ebbs. I let my mind wander a little bit, playing through the last few days as I stare somewhat blankly across the tavern toward where Meg’s talking intently with the bartender and a couple of other patrons as they come up to place drink orders. I don’t really process that I’m staring until Flynt’s knee presses against mine and I blink to meet his inquisitive brow-raise. I just offer a light smile and a shrug.

“Well. We have another thing to thank Keira for, I guess,” Meg says with a roll of her eyes as she appears behind the empty chair to my right and begins to pass out the drinks. “According to the bartender, she knew no Hunter Elf would get involved in that kind of mix-up without good cause, so I guess we’re in the clear.” She cocks a crooked grin my way as she settles in the chair. “I almost said something about her not knowing this particular elf, but figured I’d let your mystique carry.”

“It’s just so weird,” I mutter, lifting my glass of cider and taking a long gulp. “Thank you all for never treating me like that.”

“Did you find out anything else?” Tyrus asks.

“Quite a bit, actually. According to Mira and Jake—the older guy who helped bounce them out—they’re a local party, just like I thought. Been working the woods and caves around here for a little less than a year now. From the sound of it, they’re actually pretty good—and more experienced than we are, at least from a number-of-quests standpoint.”

Flynt frowns. “They didn’t fight like they are. There was power there, but not a lot else.”

“Example of experience not always meaning competence, I guess. According to Jake, they’re more of a jump-in-first, think-about-it-later type of group. They don’t have a dedicated caster, and they rely on elixirs, scrolls, and mundane methods for healing and performance buffs. Mira thinks they might have been trying in their own special way to test the two of you out, and it all just spectacularly backfired because none of them are exactly…”

“Socially adept?” Flynt supplies.

She chuckles. “She used stronger wording but yes, basically.”

I glance around at our group. “Why would they have singled out Flynt and Jonas for that?”

“Well, look at us,” Tyrus replies with a shrug. “The five of us’re clearly a party. When we came in, Meggers had her sword, you’ve got your archery bracers, and I’m me—no one’s going to mistake me as a caster. Flynt’s not a stereotypical-looking sorcerer by any stretch, but he carries himself like one.”

“I do?” He frowns. “What does that look like?”

Meg scoffs. “Like you’re the smartest, bestest, most special person in the whole room and we’re welcome for the honor.”

Flynt actually looks a little hurt. “But I don’t do that.”

“It’s part of your charm,” she replies. “People like it for some reason.”

“Thanks?” He exchanges looks with me again and I can’t help but laugh a little and pat at his forearm on the table.

“And then look at me,” Jonas mutters. “I’m so… me that I can’t possibly be anything but a healer.”

“Which is not a bad thing, you know that, right? I don’t know how else we can tell you that.” Meg leans in to reach across the table toward him, resting her hand flat on the wood in front of him. “It’s what makes us as good as we are. We’re well-rounded. We check all the boxes that groups like those jackasses can’t. We all play a part in that. Any one of us isn’t here, and we don’t work as a party.”

“The only reason we give you a hard time about anything is because we care about you,” Flynt says, his voice low. His nose bleed has mostly stopped at this point, but he busies himself with caring for it anyway as some kind of distraction from the earnestness of his statement. “I’m sorry for my role in making you feel less valued. I never realized how it would come across.”

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“I know.” Jonas sighs, his straightens up, adjusting his shoulders, and rubbing a hand back over his short-buzzed hair. “It’s just something I need to figure out and I’m struggling to balance who I am and my expectations of this lifestyle with its realities. I think it’s something only I can do. None of this is on any of you.”

He looks over as the bartender approaches with a younger dwarven woman, each carrying a tray of standard tavern food: a hot pie for each of us, some steamed green vegetables, a basket of elvish sweet rolls (which taste like Hawaiian rolls but with a crunchy crust like a French baguette), and a family-style bowl of celettir (an elven dish that has the sharp, cheesy tang of my father’s loaded mashed potatoes, but with the texture of polenta). My stomach rumbles as they pass the food around and depart, the bartender, Mira, smiling at Meg as she does.

We begin to dig into our meals in silence. It’s not the best pie I’ve had, but it’s hot and fresh, and it hits the spot.

“Anyway,” Meg says after a while. “According to Mira, the village has been dealing with a series of disappearances since the snows melted and the road opened for the travel season: two seasonal field hands from the village, and four reports of people disappearing from traveling groups passing through. Each report dates eight days from the last, with the most recent happening five days ago. Search parties have gone out, but all tracks go cold at the Crag.”

Flynt frowns at that, and Tyrus makes a thoughtful noise. I remember that sense of being watched as we passed through the woods on our approach to the village: the skin-pricking, electric awareness of it. The tensions spikes all around the table, so everyone else must have a similar thought.

“Is that eight days, exactly?” Flynt asks, and Meg nods in affirmation. “That sounds too intentional to be an animal.”

“Not likely a creature, either,” Tyrus agrees. “Lesser monsters wouldn’t be that consistent.”

Flynt nods. “So it has to be something with some degree of intelligence.”

“Or at least restraint,” Meg agrees. “It would also fit with what Keira sensed out on the road. We’re nearing the eight-day mark. Something just operating on animal instinct would act more out of opportunity than any kind of set schedule, and it certainly wouldn’t think to hide.”

Jonas pulls apart a sweet roll and takes a bite. “How can they be certain it’s not just run-of-the-mill highway men?”

“Highway men don’t tend to have a predictable time table,” Tyrus says. “And they’re either going to rob someone, or they’re going to kill and rob someone. They’re not going to go about the hassle of abducting people.”

“Even if trying to hide their presence?”

“It’s just not worth it. It’s not like an outfit or something where you have specific territory and are trying to send a message. It’s more about the quick reward, in and out and move on.” The dwarf takes a long draw of his ale, then wipes his hand across his mouth. “I suppose it could be a person though. Didn’t Ruska have a string of disappearances few years back? Ended up finding the remains of half a dozen folks in some half-elf’s cellar?”

Flynt considers this a moment. “Could be, I suppose. Seems unlikely though, at least out here. What do they mean when they say ‘tracks’?”

“Artificial, obvious stuff from the sound of it,” Meg explains. “Footprints, damaged foliage, clothing being discarded. Dogs found a few drops of blood from the fourth disappearance.”

“You say the tracks go cold at the Crag—is it always in the same place?”

“Not the exact location, no, but there’s a general area. The search parties are able to pick up the missings’ trails and follow their paths in a fairly direct, straight line from the road to the Crag, but then the traces just stop. Nothing along the Crag. Nothing beyond it. Just gone.”

“What is the Crag?” I ask.

“The dividing line between the upper and lower forest in this area,” Flynt says. “A wide strip of bare rock that runs for several thousand paces about two bells’ hike up the mountain from here. It’s visibly notable, but not necessarily special.”

“The village council, which consists of only two people, let’s be clear, have apparently been trying to get Gerai to send some rangers with Essence Talents to help with the search,” Meg adds. “But they’ve been told that this situation isn’t unexpected given the time of year, and that local jurisdictions are responsible for the protection of their citizens and visitors. They don’t have anyone local to run any kind of tracking spell, and no one coming through town the last couple of weeks has admitted to having that degree of mastery.”

Tyrus scoffs and mutters something about elves under his breath, quickly followed by a mumbled and reflexive no offense in my direction.

“The local party you all just met have apparently been investigating since the previous disappearance, but, without access to meaningful magic, they’re not having much more luck than the other searchers.”

“Interesting. Is there a reward?” Tyrus asks.

Flynt looks at him. “What do you mean?”

“For tracking down whatever it is and getting rid of it. You know: doing what we do.”

“Aside from the knowledge of a job well-done and that you protected innocent lives?” Meg arches her eyebrows.

“Come on, I know you asked. You all tease me, but I’m not the only one who thinks about it.”

She sighs. “There’s a collection that’s been taken. They’re offering eight gold pieces for clear and actionable information. Double that with proof that the threat is dealt with. Twenty, if any missing people or bodies are recovered.”

Tyrus whistles between his teeth. “Explains why local talent don’t want us here.” He takes a bite of his pie thoughtfully, then shakes his fork in my direction. “You know, though. If we wanted to help, I bet Keira could get us some flexibility with the twins. Something-something, duty as a Hunter Elf, rangers protect the helpless, etcetera. They’d not only eat that up, it would also give them even more of a story to tell. And it’s not like we’d be leaving them at a camp in the middle of the woods. Their rooms here are very nice.”

I shrug a shoulder. “I mean, sure, I suppose we could try that. I’d worry about our schedule, though. We don’t want to go all the way to Gerai and then end up missing Nyssa.”

“If we can help, we should,” Jonas pipes up. “Do we know anything about the missing? Anything that links them?”

“A little. They’ve all been young,” Meg says. “Not children, but late teens. None were last seen to be carrying much on their person, and none were especially noteworthy in any way. The two from the village were seasonal field hands, no established local ties yet. The others were traveling through as part of larger groups but doing so independently—not with family or friends. Four were human, one was from a mixed human and elvish lineage, and one they think was gnomish.”

“Gnomish? Really?” Flynt cocks his head at that.

“Why is that interesting?” I haven’t interacted with any gnomish people, but I’ve seen a few around Oosal. They’re generally very elven in appearance, but they’re only about three feet tall, and have brightly colored hair and metallic eyes that are credited to some type of fae heritage.

“Gnomes tend to have a fair amount of inherent defensive magic. Someone or something operating with a strategic intelligence probably wouldn’t want to risk tangling with one. Not intentionally. Are there other gnomes in town?”

Meg shakes her head. “No. The missing was the fourth report, part of a small caravan from a few weeks ago originating from Oosal. The gnome was new to Qeth, hitching a ride. No one knew them well or asked many questions, and the caravan didn’t stick around after reporting the disappearance.”

“That’s pretty callous,” I murmur.

Tyrus shrugs a shoulder. “Or pragmatic. People come and go from caravans like that all the time, especially those who are just passing through. You’re running one of those things and have twenty other people in the group plus wares to worry about? You report the absence to local authorities and leave it in their hands. Lot of times, that’s the best you can do.”

“You’re not wrong,” Flynt agrees with a sigh. “That said. I do agree with Jonas—if we can work it out with our clients, I think we should take a day and try to help. I doubt we’ll be able to solve the problem, but I have a feeling we’ll be able to find evidence of what they’re dealing with, and that should give the village a chance to get the outside aid they need.”

“I’m guessing that you have a theory what it is.” Meg’s tone of voice is flat, and it suggests she does, too.

“If we’re limiting it to creatures capable of planning and some degree of subtlety?” He shrugs with a slight cringe. “This area of the country, there’s really only the three-Hs.”

I frown as I search my memory. “Harpies. Hydra. What’s the third?”

Meg and Flynt exchange glances while Tyrus groans and sits back in his chair, interlacing his fingers behind his head and tilting his gaze to the ceiling.

Jonas, meanwhile, draws a slow, deep breath and nods his expression knit. “A hag.”