“Pathetic.”
Even with no mouth to frown and no eyes to glare, the bleached skeleton of Kothkemi radiated inhuman contempt. Even as Arlet rose to his full height, a good half of a head taller than the imperious lich, something seemed to look down on him from the depths of its hateful, empty sockets. Adding to Kothkemi’s imposing presence, every inch of the monster was covered in astonishing finery. The silk-and-gold robes draped over its shoulders would alone probably be enough to buy half of Greynook, and the bracelets and rings hanging on just one pearlescent arm would certainly be enough to buy two or three Greynooks. All-in-all, Kothkemi’s wardrobe spoke of that mind-bending sort of wealth that one did not measure in gold, or land, or even titles. It suggested the kind of wealth that made somebody a force of history, that elevated people above mortal concerns, and burdened them with sheer, unquestionable consequence. A being that knew secrets from before recorded history, that had once held much of the wealth of humankind in its vaults, and had transcended death itself, stared with burning hatred into Arlet Haywin’s eyes. He threw his beer at it.
The projectile flew true, right into the lich’s collarbone, and passed through without so much as rustling its robes. After a moment, a muted thump sounded from the woods. If Kothkemi was impressed, it didn’t show on its skull. “Truly, I am trapped within a dim, feeble mind. You ought to be grateful, mortal. Having me sealed in your thick skull is more honor than your breed of pissant-magiker deserves to see in a dozen generations!” The skeleton was practically spitting the words out by the end.
“Merciful Sahtet’s fucking beard, Kothkemi!” Arlet sighed. “It’s too nice out for that.” He picked himself the rest of the way up and flashed the lich a winning smile. “Besides, what does it say about you, that some pissant-magiker like me managed to lock you behind this handsome face?” He continued to beam at the decorated skeleton. Kothkemi snorted mockingly.
“I remember the proud, brave wizard that managed to force me into his very brain. It must have required a will and talent unmatched within the borders of the kingdom of Fellen.” The creature made a sound and gesture that might have been spitting at Arlet’s feet. “I don’t see a hint of that man left in you, drinking and drugging your sanity away and hiding from the sun in that grimy hut. Whatever part of you there was that could have amounted to anything, has long since shriveled up and died.” Arlet shrugged off the barb and walked over to the forest’s edge, looking for any sign of his discarded bottle. He shrugged again and resumed walking down the path. “Does this mean you’ll be keeping my company today? Perhaps joining me in my errands around town?”
The monster’s form had vanished, but its deathly rattle seemed to come at Arlet from every direction. “One day soon, I’m going to break you. I’ll wear you like the shell you are, and you will become a miserable shade skulking in my mind! You think you’ve sealed me away, but all you’ve done is gift me, with a fresh suit of skin.” Kothkemi’s tone conveyed a sinister smile to Arlet’s senses. “I look forward to the… novelty.” Arlet rolled his shoulders to cover the shiver that went up his spine, and released a tight breath as an almost imperceptible darkness lifted from the forest, and an unnatural chill faded in the warmth of the midday sun. He walked on in silence, the beauty surrounding his home flatter, more muted than before.
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The township of Greynook had, by way of the sea, access to luxuries from many lands and cultures, near and far. Glassware and psychoactives from Khet could be found in pantries and sitting rooms in most of the more established homes. Masiri textiles, spices, and pottery were treasured by more than a few well-to-do merchants who worked around the port. Some of the wealthiest folk were even rumored to own pieces of pitch-dark Bolot jewelry, though nobody would ever admit to keeping that sort of wealth in their home. In short, the townspeople of Greynook generously sampled from the trickle of eclectic goods that used their port to skirt the tariffs, taxes, and laws of Fellen.
For all the material wealth that passed through and, indeed, collected in Greynook, the town itself was constructed with somewhat brutal functionality. Most of the structures were windowless, made from rough-hewn fir logs and rafters, with mud and moss filling in the cracks for warmth. As Arlet passed through the town walls western opening, just a break in the line of uneven, more-or-less five foot high stakes of fir hammered into the dirt to deter wildlife, he was welcomed by the smell of roasted meat and wild mushrooms, as well as sweet beer and horse manure from one of the town’s two inns, and a heady note of some spiced tea.
After considering each scent, Arlet picked the beer, and made his way towards the Last Good Night Inn. One of the only two-story buildings in Greynook, the Last Good Night Inn stood prominent on Greynook’s main thoroughfare and advertised itself with a painted sign depicting a canvas tent set up in a muddy clearing in a rainstorm, water leaking inside onto a sad, grey-haired man rolled up in a stained blanket full of holes. Above him, a cruel face painted on the moon laughed uproariously at his bad fortune. Arlet stopped short a couple of steps from the door, and looked up at that sign. For a long moment, he looked at the moon’s evil eyes, and the moon stared back, laughing.
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Suddenly, Arlet felt bone-deep exhaustion. His skin felt cold and clammy, and the dull pain in his hands and knees from he had tripped on the path screamed like broken bones. Every sore muscle in the wizard’s arms and back shook with weakness, and his whole body seemed to beg him to lie down in the hard dirt where he stood. He lifted a trembling hand to his head, running his fingers through his hair, feeling for the cold metal of a crown so heavy that he was surprised he could heaven stand while he wore it. Instead, he felt the wet slick of blood, hot against his skin. His breathing quickened as his head started to spin, but when he pulled his hand back, it was clean and dry. A rasping laugh sounded from inside Arlet’s skull. He took three deep breaths, turned his back on the inn, and made his way to the apothecary.
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Moethe Brewster, son of Geb Brewster and proprietor of the Last Good Night Inn, was one of the few townsfolk of Greynook who was born there. Indeed, he was one of less than ten of the township’s citizens to legally own property in town, most of the surrounding structures being too impermanent to bother with any sort of deed. He enjoyed innkeeping and bartending, and he especially enjoyed the different sorts of people he got to meet, Greynook being the sort of place it was. He rented beds to strange-smelling alchemists, served beer to grizzled mercenaries, he even had a Fellen Circle Magister for a regular! He did wish the man would return his bottles, soon, so that he could wash and refill them with his latest batch. His customers were, he supposed, mostly criminals of some sort or another, but he loved to listen to their stories all the same. He had even begun writing down his favorites into a collection, as much to work on his letters as anything, but had given up the practice when he realized that distributing such a book might put his business, and his person, in some danger.
This particular afternoon had brought Moethe a most unusual traveler. He couldn’t place her by her features, or by the fur-trimmed leather coat she was wearing, though that wasn’t in itself strange. She was traveling alone, which was very unusual for a woman, though not unheard of, and she had the watchfulness and posture that he associated with soldiers and mercenaries. In fact, he thought he had seen one or two leatherbound handles peeking out of the front of her coat. For all that, the thing that truly set her apart was that she was a maybe-mercenary woman traveling alone from parts unknown, and she was making friends, quickly, with two of the most unsociable, gruff, boorish men Moethe had ever known.
Half an hour before, when the woman, who called herself Hatti, had come to the inn, Mack Stickle, or “Stick”, and Grud Sturge, “Stump”, had been sitting at the corner of Moethe’s bar, grousing about their difficulties hunting and foraging, and spitting on his floor like they did every day they were in town. He had fully expected her to pay for a room and, if she ordered any food, to make her way to the very opposite corner of the common room from Stick and Stump, and eat in silence. Hatti did not do that. Instead, she ordered beer, sat herself right down on Stump's left, introduced herself to the pair, and started asking questions about life in Greynook. Stick and Stump, who pretty women generally did not speak to, and almost never made eye contact with, suddenly found themselves trying to be friendly with another person for the first time in years.
Now, a full thirty minutes later, the two men had warmed to conversation like feral cats that had just discovered head-scratching and belly rubs. They were gleefully swapping stories about their adventures and misadventures. Bears that had ransacked their campsites in the night, close calls experimenting with unfamiliar herbs, days spent lost in the thick woods less than a thousand paces from Greynook, and other tales flew out of them. Moethe was more than a little shocked at the charm the two old grouches were able to muster, when given a good reason and opportunity.
Hatti, for her part, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their company, and, despite not having total mastery of the Arundi language, shared plenty of stories of her own. She talked enthusiastically about the different kinds of plants and animals she had seen, and especially the many varieties of foods she had tasted, from rich, spiced meats cooked in pits dug into the ground, to colorful, aromatic salads made almost entirely from flowers, to the very marrow of a cow, roasted and served still in the bone. Though she spoke at length about her travels, Moethe noticed that Hatti was vague about the exact places she had been to, and she never mentioned where exactly she was from. That was fine, and not at all unusual for his patrons, and the talk stayed jovial until, in response to nothing Moethe noticed, Hatti’s head swiveled to face the door.
She motioned Stick, Stump, and Moethe to silence, and slowly rose from her chair, hand brushing against a now clearly visible knife-handle at her waist as she continued to stare at the entrance to the Last Good Night Inn. Moeth whispered, “What is it?” Hatti quieted him with a hand, but replied, “Be ready to hide, all of you.” Despite feeling a bit silly, Moethe found himself preparing to duck under his bar, staring, rapt, at the door. For almost a full minute, Hatti was perfectly still, and everyone was silent. Then, as soon as the moment had arrived, it ended. Hatti relaxed and gave a long sigh, smiling apologetically. “Sorry, friends. I’ve had a long, long day.” “I think I might be… rattled, yes.” She chuckled a little, sheepishly, and adjusted her weapons so that they were once again hidden by her coat. Then, she quickly paid Moethe for her room and her beer, and walked out of the inn, waving to the three of them as she left the door.
Stick spoke first. “What the hell was that?” Moethe, nodding in agreement, walked to the exit of the Last Good Night Inn’s common room, and poked his head out of the door. After taking a moment to adjust to the light, he picked out Hatti standing across the street, head cocked in consideration as she looked off into the distance. He followed her gaze to a tall figure in blue-green robes walking away down the Greynook thoroughfare. “Arlet?”, he muttered to himself. Frowning, he shut his door and made his way back to the bar. Stick spoke again, his earlier charisma nowhere to be found. “What the hell?”
Stump spit on the floor.