From the hall of bedrooms she can see the crowd of people standing around the bar, whispers and booming laughs mix together as they bounce around the walls of Poor Richard’s Rags. Eventually all the unintelligible chatter fades into itself and comes to settle into the wood and stone like many spilled drinks before. She peeks around the corner to find the bar area really is packed with people. Some swamp scavengers, still caked with mud from their day’s work stand to the far side near the door joking amongst themselves. A big man with charcoal eyes and a bristly beard takes a swig from a wine flagon clasped in his hand like a flask and laughs at something one of his comrades has said to him. That’s the man with the hammer from yesterday. She notes.
At the bar proper sit a row of fishermen and tradeswomen talking to Mr. Cicero and a couple of his servers, a young wiry boy in a white cotton shirt and black waistcoat and the red haired girl from earlier today. The boy is leaning against the back of the bar where the window to the kitchen is positioned and sipping slowly from a crystal glass he has pinched between his thumb, index, and middle finger. On the other side of the bar sits Miss Marchetty along with two young girls, no older than maybe 12 at the best they’re smiling as someone comes from the kitchen and places an elegant silver tray on their table before ducking back into the kitchen.
So many faces and so much background noise. It’s been a while since I’ve performed for so many people. Somewhere amidst the small sea of pacing and chatting bodies, she can make out the form of a small stool and a stand to place sheet music on. The crowd is giving this spot a wide berth. Mr. Cicero looks up from the glass he’s pouring for one of the patrons at the counter and makes eye contact with Reigna from her hiding spot at the edge of the hall. He subtly nods towards the stool and gives her a thumbs-up.
She takes a deep breath, exhales and taps the triangle on her tail. Lyraax appears on her shoulder, staring straight ahead, saying nothing.
“Alright Lyraax, showtime.” She says. He bolts from her, leaving a trail of glimmering silver dust behind him, slowly falling to the ground and over the crowd like the first snow of the season. The lights in the tavern slowly dim, a few small orbs of light manifest above the stool. The falling silver dust leaves a visible trail, like a carpet, from where Reigna stands to the center of the floor.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Poor Richard’s Rags!” Calls Lyraax, his body hidden in a shroud and his voice amplified. “I bring you, from Leonis and its sweeping plains and boiling deserts, Reigna, The Larkspur!”
A mote of light appears above her as she steps onto the silver dust, the light refracts off the particulate still in the air and the specks on the ground sending small, prismatic lights spinning around the now dimly lit bar. With each step she takes, one light disappears and is replaced with a new one, reigniting the light show that Lyraax has manufactured.
The chattering around the bar falls silent, patrons maneuver where they sit or stand in order to face her, drinks in hand. She slings her lute over her shoulder on its strap and sits down on the little stool. She waves to the crowd and snaps her fingers, Lyraax’s artificial lights shrink and begin to float slowly around her in a bobbing circle as she plucks the lute strings, the silver dust spirals up from the floor and dances around her, creating little shapes and silhouettes of Reigna and her parents when she was young. From his hidden perch, Lyraax mimics the sounds of fiddles and tin whistles to accompany Reigna’s lute
.
When I was a young girl, my father said to me
The mind is a prison if you let it be.
Darling life’s far too short to spend salting the ground
He took my hand in his and spun me around and sang
This world’s full of music if you just listen close
The song of the birds and the waves along the coast
There’s far more to life than a full coin purse
So take your time, walk slowly and contribute a verse.
Since I was a child, my mother had told me
Hell is not a place, it’s a weight that you carry
Grief can be a shackle, and love may be a key
The world can be harsh, my love but promise me this
You’ll keep on singin’ ‘bout beauty
And all the things that we’ll miss.
When I was wee lass, my parents told me
About all that was out there
Under the sky, across the sea
They taught me about music
They showed me how to love
And I promised them I’d love the world in return
And we danced ‘round our pit as the fire did burn.
She finishes her song and for a moment all she can hear is her heart pounding in her ears. The dust cascades back to the floor and disappears, the faerie lights go out and the tavern is in pitch blackness for a moment before the lights return to normal. Suddenly the fishermen and tradeswomen at the bar begin pounding their tankards against the counter and hollering and whistling. The scavengers by the door clap.
“Aye, give us another then, Larkspur!” Shouts a man from somewhere behind her. She turns to look at Mr. Cicero behind the counter, he’s flashing a toothy grin at her. “You heard ‘em Miss Reigna, give them what they came here for!” He shouts over the cheering and chatter.
“Do you lot want another round outta me?” She stands and calls to the crowd who shout back and clap in response. She smiles back. “Do you mind if I take the mood down a tad?” The spectators whisper and nod in agreement.
One lady, a stout woman with braided brown hair calls from one of the tables by a window, “You’re the professional love, show us what you can do!”
“Well then, let’s do this!” Reigna says with a smile. Lyraax again, from his unknown vantage point dims the lights in the tavern. From nowhere the sound of a slow drumbeat, Reigna taps the triangle on her tail ring with the metal plate on the back of her left hand and taps her foot to the drumbeat, the small movement is enough to lightly rattle the tambourines on the upper part of her tail.
You told me once that you loved me.
And I’d never been so scared before in my life.
There was a time where love meant so much more to me than it does now.
And I wish I’d told you back then something to deflect
You’re my best friend
Or I really only like girls
Or made some joke to sink the mood a little bit
But I trusted you and I told you the truth and nothing else
I let you know how much you mattered to me, the brother I’d never had
I told you about how everyone who told me they loved me, left me alone
And I asked you as my friend if you would just stay in my life and we could pretend you never said that.
Can we please pretend that it’s the first time again?
Can we please pretend to start over?
Can we please pretend that you’re still my best friend?
Can we just pretend for tonight?
Because I don’t want to miss you tonight.
Because I miss you, alright?
I miss your critiques and your quips
Your green eyes, your quick wit
I think maybe I hurt you
We both know that it’s true
But I just want to see you again.
So can we just pretend to start over again?
Can we just pretend that it’s fine?
Can we just pretend we’re alright?
Because I don’t want to miss you tonight.
I just don’t want to miss you tonight.
The lights again return to normal, Reigna takes a bow and a slow, shaking breath, wiping her eyes while her head is down. She stands up straight and casts a look around the room, slow but appreciative claps begin to erupt around her. Many of the faces of the people who are clapping are red, their eyes misty. One of the clapping crowd is the Owl-eyed housekeeper from earlier today. She’s staring at Reigna, biting her bottom lip, a few tears caught at the edges of her eyes. Some of the scavenger men nod stoically in her direction. Ah, trying to keep up appearances I see.
Reigna spends the rest of her three hour block alternating between upbeat songs she’s collected or written in her travels and sadder, more personal poetry and songs to try and twist the hearts of her audience. They remain consistently enthralled the whole way through. At the end of the night Mr. Cicero closes up and only they remain in the tavern, he locks the door and motions for her to take a seat.
“How did I do?” Reigna asks, feeling more than a little nervous.
Mr. Cicero pours her a cup of fragrant tea and pulls a leather pouch from under the counter. “Your performance was perhaps one of the best I’ve ever had the pleasure of hosting in this place.” He says, his voice rings with pride as though he’s praising his own daughter. “This is your cut.” He says, sliding the pouch across the counter to her.
“Wait, all of that is for me?” She asks. He nods, motioning for her to take it. She turns the pouch over slowly, sending coins clattering onto the counter. Carefully she counts it all out. Mr. Cicero pours himself a small glass of whiskey and sips it thoughtfully.
“78 gold?” Reigna says, running her fingers back through her hair. “I’ve never been paid this much for a performance.”
“Well, now you have.” Mr. Cicero says, tipping his glass in her direction. “And I’d say you more than earned it with the show you put on tonight.”
“Thank you so much, you’ve been very kind to me, sir.” She says, sipping her tea as the wiry boy from earlier emerges from the kitchen and puts a plate down in front of her.
“Figured you might be hungry, Miss.” He says with an awkward grin before bowing and retreating to the kitchen once again.
“Well, my hospitality doesn’t end at a plate of food and a cup of tea, Miss Larkspur.” Says Mr. Cicero, reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat and producing a wax-sealed envelope. “A voucher for your next stay at The Rags and a letter of recommendation from me to the proprietor of the next place you decide to play at.” He offers his hand to Reigna, “having you was quite the pleasure, dear.”
Reigna takes his hand and shakes it firmly. “It was a pleasure getting to play in your establishment, sir.” She says, happily. “Are there any venues in Hammerheim you’d recommend?” She asks, turning her attention to the plate of cottage pie in front of her.
“Hmm, there’s a place near the city center called Tooth & Claw that I hear is popular with the off duty knights and the common folk. You could also request to play at the Knight’s Barracks or for the Orc Mercs in the city, but those are both a bit riskier, for sure.” He says as he packs a small pipe with tobacco.
“Yeah, playing for Mercs and Knights sounds a bit intimidating to me.” She says, scratching the name of the pub down into a notebook. “Are there any places you’ve been or have contacts with where the letter might carry a little more weight?”
Mr. Cicero closes his eyes and swirls his glass contemplatively for a few moments. “In the Adventurer’s Quarter in Alexandria there’s a little bar called The Easy Knight, I used to travel with the owner back in the day, his name is Rafael. He might be willing to put a little more down for you with my recommendation if I add another letter to him personally.” He says before taking a sip from his cup.
“You don’t have to go through the trouble of writing another letter.” She says, carefully placing her silverware in the center of the now empty plate.
“No trouble at all. Besides, it gives me an excuse to make contact with an old friend.” He smiles. “I’ll have it for you in the morning.”
The kitchen door swings open as the wiry boy comes to collect Reigna’s plate. He is wearing a heavier overcoat this time. “I’ll run this back to the kitchen then I’m heading home for the night, is that okay?” He asks, almost sheepishly.
“Aye Lad, you did well today.” Mr. Cicero tips his glass in the boy’s direction. “And have Mirna make something for you and your father before you go. Make sure that stubborn old man eats.” He says waving a hand toward the kitchen door.
“Oh, thank you for reminding me, I almost left the food back there.” He says, doubling back to the kitchen.
“You know his father?” asks Reigna, sipping her tea.
“Of course, little towns like this, small communities, we all know each other.” He takes a drag from his pipe. “We wouldn’t survive if we didn’t try and take care of our own.”
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“Hence the competition to keep a good bard around?” Reigna askes, swirling her teacup.
“Competition between businesses is one thing, I do make a little more than the other taverns, but I’m also the only one who rents rooms.” He says, blowing a cloud of oak-scented smoke. “But, I’m also the only one who hires people I’m not related to. That’s how I serve my community.” As he finishes, the boy unlocks the front door and leaves, waving to both of them on the way out. Mr. Cicero walks over to the door and locks it again before bringing a heavy bar down across it.
“Abner,” He says, nodding towards the door. “His dad’s been sick for a while and medicine don’t come cheap around these parts. That boy ain’t made for salvaging and probably couldn’t handle himself on a fishing boat so I gave him a job that’ll keep him paid and fed and keep him safe.”
“That’s very kind of you, to help him like that.” She says, watching Mr. Cicero’s eyes scan the room carefully.
“Mirna, my cook and Leila, my housekeeper are Marchetty’s eldest daughters.” He says, motioning to the kitchen door. “Two of the six rooms here are theirs. They wanted to move out of Mom’s place so their sisters didn’t have to share a room since their place is so small. I don’t charge them for their room and board since they do good work, A habit learned from their mother no doubt.” He smirks.
“Do you have any children of your own, Mr. Cicero?” Reigna asks as he pours another cup of tea for her, its fragrant bouquet mixing with the bonfire-like smell of his pipe smoke.
“Aye, two sons and a daughter.” He says, pointing to some of the metallic beads threaded into his beard. “One of my boys lives in Orion, trying to climb the ranks to become one of The Queensguard. My daughter got married to a Gnomish boy and moved to Orewood some ten years ago.” He recalls, his eyes locked pensively on the flickering candle light above one of the tables.
“What about the other son?” She asks, hesitantly.
“I lost him and his mother a few years ago to sickness.” He says, there’s a long pause as he takes a deep pull from the pipe, slowly blowing the smoke from his nose. “They couldn’t travel to Hammerheim and I couldn’t afford to hire another cleric to come see them because the costs are too high around these parts.” He stops again, placing his pipe and glass down on the bar. His hands are shaking.
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” Reigna says, placing a hand over his. He looks up at her for a moment and nods a quiet thanks, patting the back of her hand with his.
“Losing a loved one is hard, losing a child is harder.” He says, quietly. “Children are supposed to outlive their parents.”
“Is that why you give work to some of the older kids and young adults in town?” She asks.
“One cannot call themselves a mother or father if they’re not a mother and father to all the children they meet. It takes a village to raise a child, teach them young that the world is not, does not have to be cruel. Teach them young that we can be good to each other.” He says, one of his hands gripped tightly on the counter. “If more people did that, maybe we’d live in a kinder, more stable world.” His voice trails off a moment, a few rivulets of tears streak down his face. “In a world where we use magic so freely, where a young lass like you can spend years of their life learning to bring joy to miserable old cesspit like this, where cities can fly, and people travel by airship, why should young children have to die of sickness or hunger?” He asks, his voice pleading for an answer. Not from Reigna, not from his drink, probably not from his God. It’s a question aimed at the amorphous they. The powerful, the wealthy, the world at large, the people who see it and do nothing.
“I wish I had an answer for you.” She says, carefully navigating her vocabulary. “I know it doesn’t make it any easier, but sometimes this is the best we can do. We can’t fix the world all at once, we can’t make a whole world where these things don’t happen, but we can start with one bar.” She says, raising her teacup.
“One bar at a time.” Mr. Cicero says, tapping his glass against hers. “I think we can both use some rest, Miss Reigna.”
“That we can.” She agrees.
The following day, Reigna wakes up just before dawn to a light tapping at her door and the sound of retreating footsteps. Outside her room she finds a basket with her freshly cleaned clothes and gets everything packed up. Clean clothes for the trip to Hammerheim. She smiles to herself as Lyraax relaxes into his usual spot across her shoulders. She takes her time eating her breakfast at Poor Richard’s Rags, Hammerheim may only be a day and a half away, but you should never miss an opportunity to enjoy a good meal at a fine establishment. Especially one you don’t have to pay for that you know is great quality. Her next order of business is a final trip to Marchetty’s to collect rations for the road and see about the tent salvaging.
Miss Marchetty takes her time examining the remains of the old leather tent. The slash where Lyraax’s tail bisected the old thing is a clean, even cut and despite a few holes from years of wear and tear and the tumble they took, it’s still a workable piece of leather with a warm inner lining. Ultimately they come to an agreement and Reigna receives three gold in store credit which she immediately spends on her ration replenishment and buying a new tent. She takes a few minutes to peruse Miss Marchetty’s wares before leaving and finds herself spending a few more silvers on a tinderbox and firestarter. She also purchases five more gold’s worth of store credit to cover costs for a future visit.
“You know, I’ve never had someone purchase credit at the shop before,” Miss Marchetty comments as she scratches a note down into her ledger. A column with Reigna’s name at the top and the amount of store credit available to her and the source of said credit.
“When I was still studying in Lake Syrril, one of my friends, Will, was very particular when we would travel out of town to places like Alexandria and Orion.” Reigna Recounts as she slides things into her bag. “Our friend Jasper and I would always poke fun at him about buying credit at some of the shops we went to and he would tell us ‘If you have money enough to buy something now, it could be worthwhile to have a plan for when you don’t’ and honestly, I wish I’d listened to him more back then.” She laughs softly.
“Sounds like a smart young man.” Miss Marchetty says, one of her eyebrows cocked mischievously.
“He is, at least he was last time I saw him.” Reigna remarks before noticing the way Miss Marchetty is staring at her. “Oh, no, we weren’t like that.” She says, waving her hand dismissively. “Will was more like a big brother than anything.”
“Was he the boy you sang about last night?” She asks.
“Yeah, that song was about a conversation from a long time ago that I think about sometimes.” Reigna says, a bit crestfallen.
Erin takes the hint and wishes her well, before sending her off on her way. Once outside, the chill of the early morning autumn air cuts a cold line across Reigna’s face and down her left side causing a dull sting from her injuries to resurface. She shivers a moment before stopping to call up her coat from within her bag. It’s an old brown coat made of thick, patchwork leather and lined inside with soft sheep’s wool. She slides it on, the wool-lined collar coming up and covering her mouth and part of her nose. Lyraax snuggles in as best he can, poking his head out of one side of the collar.
“Ah, this is exquisite, Dear Lady.” he says as a puff of cold air escapes his nose. The coat drapes down to Reigna’s knees and has two deep outer pockets, also lined with wool to keep her hands warm. She buries her hands in the pockets and sets out for the main road. The main entrance to the town has a line of people carrying what looks to be mining and farming equipment. Must be the salvagers Mr. Cicero Mentioned. She thinks.
Standing beside the stable is the big man from the show last night and the incident the night before that. He stands about a head and a half taller than Reigna and is built like a house foundation, that is to say he’s broad shouldered and square, someone who is very accustomed to labor and more than a little used to a fight, by the look of him. He wears a long, muddy brown duster. Across the shoulder and upper back section of the coat there are diamond shaped pads layered over each other that let out a metallic jingle when he walks. Chainmail lined jacket, probably not a bad idea.
He covers the top of his head with a matching bucket shaped, wide-brimmed hat. His hair is carefully braided into long locs that are tied back with a grey piece of string. In his right hand is what Reigna had initially thought was a blacksmith’s hammer but she can now see is actually a heavy, pick-shaped mace, on the other end of the shaft is a shovel. Engraved into the shovel is a symbol, an insignia of a skeletal dragon coiled into a tight spiral, a symbol of one of Dragon Gods, Ereshkigal. Ereshkigal is the Primordial Dragon who is said to represent death and the underworld, very few people worship her these days because it’s believed that was felled in combat during The Lost Years which is the colloquialism for “The Years Before People Started Obsessively Recording Everything The Happens”.
As Reigna passes him, he calls to her. “Excuse me, Miss Larkspur.” He says, his voice a soft baritone. “Would you like an escort back to the main road?”
For a moment Reigna is confused, having never been offered an escort anywhere. She leans back to look at his face. He gives her a simple closed mouth smile, the kind of awkward expression made by someone who doesn’t do it often.
“Of course, how much will it cost?” Reigna asks with a smile. May as well get down to business. She thinks.
“Oh, no cost,Miss.” He says, a confused expression crossing his face. “I’m the town’s Cleric, it’s my job to escort visitors into and out of town when I have the chance.”
“I didn’t know there was a Cleric in town.” She says, surprised.
“Yeah, I’m sorry I couldn’t do more in the way of healing for you when you got here.” He says, a look of embarrassment crawling onto his face.
“Well then, I’d be honored to have you escort me, sir.” She says with a sincere bow before reaching out to shake his hand.
“My name is Marcus, by the way.” He says, taking her hand delicately into his own. His hands are rough and calloused, but his grip is oddly gentle, as though he’s holding a baby bird or a field mouse. “Marcus Laveau.”
“Pleasure to meet you officially, Marcus.” She says, giving his hand a little shake and nodding towards the road. “Shall we be off?”
“Daylight’s dwindling, the sooner we go, the sooner you’re out of the swamp.” He says, leading her down the old cobblestone road.
Early morning in the swamp is entirely different than the previous nighttime escapade in the rain. The sun’s rays leave golden bars of light suspended in the fog, outlining the warped silhouettes of the dead, grey-barked trees. The thick, morning mist swirls and coils around their feet as they walk, much the same way that water in a shallow stream does when you dip your toes in. The carefully laid cobblestones inevitably give way to a broken and particularly hazardous section of road where old tree roots have grown and swelled to the point of disrupting the order and pattern of the masonry and making room for the muck and swamp water to fill it all in.
Marcus carefully guides Reigna up and over the intertwined roots and the sludge that envelopes them. She casts a glance around them, despite the mist she can trace the roots of the trees back to the hollowed out husks that would have been their trunks once upon a time. Now they’re little more than roadside monoliths demarcating a natural hazard. Across one of the stumps they pass, she can see a collection of etchings in a language she is not familiar with.
“What does that say?” She asks Marcus, pointing to one of the roadside stumps.
“It’s a memorial.” He says simply, taking his mace and splitting the branches from a felled tree with a sickening crack.
“Oh, do you know who for?” She asks. Lyraax’s head emerges from her coat to listen. They exchange a glance silently.
“Kaid McFannon, Aaron Cartland, Iro Fastpaw, and Ji’gen Half Tusk.” He says, without sparing it a second glance. Whack. “Friends of mine, some dead, some moved on to other endeavors.”
“Why would you have a memorial to someone who isn’t dead yet?” Reigna asks, apprehensively.
“In Aaron and Kaid’s cases, it’s a memorial to the men they were once.” He says, solemnly. Snap. “That’s not who they are anymore. For Iro and Ji’gen, they were good men and brave warriors until the end.”
“I’m sorry you’ve lost so many.” Reigna says, stepping up to where Marcus is severing the tree from what remains of its stump.
“It’s alright, nothing is lost which can still be remembered.” He says with a smile as the mace splinters the last stubborn section he’s working at. “I’m just glad I got to know them.” He motions for her to step back as he places one hand against the rotten tree’s trunk and mutters something to himself in some guttural, unknown tongue. A series of black lines ripple their way down his arm to his fingertips and spread across the surface of the dead wood. They scatter in a twisting, spiderweb pattern across its surface. The pale wood slowly turns black as charcoal and once the whole of the tree and its served branches are covered in that carbonized sheen, they turn white as chalk and scatter like dandelion seeds.
For a moment, Reigna and Lyraax just stand there, watching the remains of the old tree scatter into the air, the particles reflecting the sun’s rays through the morning mist. Marcus bows his head and utters what Reigna assumes is a small prayer, his thumb slowly tracing the spiral of Ereshkigal on his mace.
They continue their walk in relative silence. I’m not sure what to talk to him about. She thinks to herself. Despite the silence, it isn’t an uncomfortable feeling. Walking with someone, not needing to talk is a special kind of comfort. Marcus is clearly not a talker by nature, but he isn’t what Reigna would call the Strong Silent Type. There’s no bravado or machismo in the way he keeps quiet, no arrogant swagger to the way he walks, and no stoic acceptance in the way he talks about death and the passing of others. As they walk he stops to dispose of every felled tree and bury or burn every dead woodland creature to prevent them from being raised either by the Hangman’s Tree or by the errant magic of the swamp, he treats every act with the same care and respect you’d expect someone to give at the funeral of a loved one.
Soon, they reach a place where some trees have been shifted and Reigna can see the thick, gnarled trunk of the monstrosity from nights prior. It stands tall and still, the slimy, noose shaped vines dangling, suspended in the air like spiders awaiting prey in the center of their webs. Between then and now, she can see that a few of the vines have new additions. Four men in slick leather coats and hoods, hanging by their necks, their toes pointed limply to the ground. Where one would typically expect to see the bulging eyes and swollen tongues of the recently hanged there is nothing. Empty, bleeding sockets and drool-like trails of blood running from their open mouths are all that remains of their faces. The bloat and sag of waterlogged skin and the discoloration of gangrene further distort their features.
Rivulets of black, stagnant blood run down their stomachs and legs from gaping wounds in their chests. Scraps of clothing and skin litter the ground around them along with fragments of shattered bone. This is not a display of the killing to ward off those who would try and kill the tree, this is just its pantry. A macabre wind chime of corpses to be puppeteered and, inevitably, devoured. A chill runs down Reigna’s spine and she can’t help but rub the back of her neck. That was almost me.
Lyraax presses his face under her chin, snapping her from the daze. “You’re fine, Dear Lady. Let’s go.” He says, trying to comfort her, she can see that despite his calm reassurance, his eyes are narrowed into slits. The kind of hatred only dragons and demons know. A small growl rumbles from his throat. She’s mine you bitch. It seems to say. She gives him a comforting scratch under the chin.
“Hey Marcus?” She says as they take a more circuitous route around the creature, giving it the widest berth possible.
“Yes?”
“Why hasn’t anyone tried to get rid of that thing yet?” She asks, nodding towards the Hangman’s Tree.
“We don’t have enough skilled combatants in town to take her out, for one.” He says casually. “The second reason being, despite the threat she poses, from here to where that fallen tree was is her territory and she doesn’t come near the town and she’s a hell of a deterrent for bandits.” He says motioning a hand towards the bodies..
“That’s a bit morbid, don’t you think?” She asks, avoiding following his gesture. I saw those men when they were alive, I’d rather not look at them again in their current state.
“It may be, but it’s the course of things out here. This is her territory, she’s the apex predator here. There’s nothing stopping her from meandering her way into the town center and either butchering all of us or chasing us out, but she never does.” He says, Reigna can’t place the tone of his voice. Something between reverence, sympathy, fear, and anger. “Do you know how long one of those things lives?” He asks.
“Are they functionally immortal as long as nothing takes them down?” She asks, unsure.
“They were Fae once, it would make sense.” Says Lyraax.
“No, they have a finite lifespan.” Marcus says, holding a set of branches aside for Reigna to walk through. “When you use a Dryad’s tree as a gallows, eventually the spirits of the deceased, if they’re angry enough, will become wraiths or revenants. Those spirits, rather than go out and seek revenge the traditional way, seize control of the Dryad's tree and drive her insane. Revenants have a lifespan of one year after which point they cease to exist if they can’t avenge themselves.” He stops to take a drink from a waterskin on his belt. Reigna takes the opportunity to do the same. “It takes at least 50 people over the span of a year for there to be enough revenants to begin this transformation, and each new victim is a new revenant and another year to the tree’s life.”
“So, she just prolonged her life by another four years?” Reigna asks for clarification.
“Yeah, that seems to be the case.” Marcus shakes his head. “And we have no way of knowing just how many hangings triggered her change or how many victims she’s had over the years, if she’s been around since the Founder’s Conflict, Gods forbid, We may never be rid of her by natural causes.” Finally Reigna can make out the main road ahead of them.
“Do you think you’ll ever kill her yourself?” She asks him.
“More than likely, a day will come where I have no other choice but to come out here and fight her myself with or without anyone’s help.” He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. “I only hope on that day, there’s someone on my side so I can come home.” He says, taking his hat off to wipe sweat from his forehead.
“I hope you make it home too, Marcus. I think the people of Ifrita would be in a lot of trouble without their Cleric.” she says, patting his arm. He just smiles down at her and gestures to the end of the road.
“Next time you come through, send a letter to Rich.” Marcus says. “I’ll meet you and escort you in.”
“I will, thank you for everything Marcus. It was a pleasure walking with you.” She says, offering him another polite bow.
“Likewise, Miss Larkspur. I wish you the best. Stay safe out there.” He says before returning back down the road to Ifrita. The old, armor-lined coat flapping in the breeze behind him. Straight ahead there’s a fork in the road with three signs hanging off of it that read Ruins Of Old Kyrrodhil, Atton’s Court, Straight down this road due east. The third Sign points north and reads Hammerheim.