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Chapter 1: Reigna's 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.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

* * * *

“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.