“Leave. Allow me time to think, Zealot. What you have reported is… troubling.”
The oracle’s final words before Saren had left his chamber were the first to rumble through the paladin’s mind as he woke from a fitful slumber. Even the beam of mid-morning sun shining through his open window was not enough to dispel his nightmares, so he remained in his aery for a time. He shrugged off his blankets, allowing the brisk air to breeze through his wings and take his lingering troubles away from him.
Solace of light, return our might. Give back what was taken by the curtain of night. Solace of light– Saren continued his recitations for long moments as he recited a verse from his youth. Its comfort this morning was welcome, and the chant soon had its intended effect. His mind cleared, and the paladin’s fears and nightmares fled back to where they could not harm him.
At least, for now.
Saren hopped down, shuffling his feathers to clear them before the chill could set in. Living in his parent’s home was a blessing he was often grateful for. With its constant access to cool air granted by a proximity to the cloud-drinkers few of his rank could afford, the desert heat so many constantly endured was little more than a distant concern. Unless he left his street, Saren might go a whole day without feeling it.
Most days, that luxury was welcome. Today, its weight felt oppressive. No, more than that. In the face of what he knew the citizenry were suffering through it felt… Unearned.
Saren was out his door and down the street before the sun had risen another notch, his robes fluttering in the wind behind him. His shoulder bag, prepared the night before, held everything the paladin would need to carry out his orders today. Everything the oracle had told him he would need, including a gift from the bearkin himself.
May it be enough. The paladin prayed, one hand rested upon his bag’s clasp to deter any who might have quick fingers this day. In the distance, the morning sun was just starting to rise above Dervash’s walls. As the gates separating this section of the city were opened before him by the guard, Saren recalled another chant from his childhood. One he hoped would prove true in the coming days.
We are always enough.
—------------------------
The owlen’s first stop of the day was to check in on Karson, the boy whose former master had sacrificed himself in order to save. His house was close, not far from the district Saren himself lived in. Karson’s father, Marcus Karr, being one of the city’s more ambitious wagoneers, was key to this. As Saren understood it, some degree of politics had been involved in the boy’s journey across the sands, not to mention a considerable amount of coin.
This was no surprise. Saren knew little of what had gone into that trip, and even less of city politics. From what he knew however, such journeys always involved heavy investment. There was rarely only a single buyer and seller taking part in such transactions, so the owlen expected the walkway leading into the house to be packed. Perhaps even guarded, with furious merchants demanding answers they were unlikely to get from Dervash’s famously silent city guard.
Instead, the walkway was quiet. Almost eerily so.
Saren’s sharp eyes noted the small, brightly colored lizard slide in between the cracks of the doorway as he approached, and he was grateful for the distraction. The roughly finger-length creatures were famously shy, and in Dervash they were used to announce both the presence of guests waiting outside as well as one’s willingness to accept them in. Relief spread through him, helping to steady his still turbulent emotions. Now, Saren would be spared the rudeness of having to knock.
He did not have long to wait. Footsteps approached and a curtain slid back from a nearby window. Saren turned politely in its direction making sure to keep his Gold Spire emblem prominently in view. A second later, the footsteps moved towards the door where latches were quickly unlocked. The door opened, and a haggard-looking human in his mid-forties appeared.
To Saren’s astonishment, the older man threw his arms around him without a single word. Bringing the owlen in for a tight hug before Saren had any chance to refuse.
“Thank you!” The man said, true gratitude rough in his voice. “Oh, light and life– Thank you! They told us it was one of your kind, but I didn’t think you’d stop in yourself.”
The man squeezed harder, nearly lifting the owlen off the ground before stepping back and grasping Saren’s upper arms. There were tears streaming freely down his face, and his near-sobbing smile all but cracked Saren’s heart.
“You saved my boy.” The man, Marcus, said roughly. Emotion thick in his throat. “I don’t know how, and I don’t know why you did– but thank you. If you ever need anything, I–”
“I do not serve to earn favors from those I help.” Saren said politely, his training finally returning to him as he gently removed the man’s hands. “The Light is here to preserve us all. You owe me nothing.”
Marcus shook his head, unwilling to budge. He wiped his face with his sleeves, pulling some of himself together. “No–no. I’ve heard some of the tale already. I know you paladins are a selfless lot, but a Karr pays his debts. You ever need anything.”
Dark eyes bright with emotion and promise met Saren’s as Marcus finished his vow. “You need only ask.”
Saren had been unsure how to bring up the fact that he had promised part of this man’s lost cargo to a literal monster now presumably prowling the dunes. Assuming it yet survived, that is. But seeing the honest resolve in this man’s eyes, and knowing that he had not earned it – Gel was the one who had saved them all, not him – the paladin made his decision.
“It was not I who saved your son.” Saren admitted, and the words freed up some of the tension remaining in the owlen’s heart. “May I come in? The whole tale is a fair feather longer than your doorstep.”
Confused, Marcus furrowed his brows and tilted his head to the side as if ready to ask a question before thinking better of it.
“Of course, come right in.” The older man stepped sharply into his house, swinging the door open wide. “You are always welcome here, sir…?”
“Saren.” The owlen said, lowering his head and stepping in as softly as he could. “Just Saren, is fine.”
—------------------------
“That… is an incredible tale, Sir Saren.” Marcus said finally, once the paladin had finished his recitation of everything he knew regarding Karson’s rescue. “To think, my boy was saved by a monster…”
“Yes.” Saren said gravely, setting down the too-sweet beverage he had been offered after only the most cursory of sips. “I know this is a lot to take in…”
“No, no.” Marcus held a hand. “I know you paladins can’t lie, right? One of your things. “No true lie shall I tell”?”
“One of our many oaths, yes.” Saren said, impressed that a simple merchant would know the oath off the top of his head. Then, because the Oracle’s words were still fresh in his mind, Saren added. “Even the lies we pretend not to know about.”
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Marcus’s brow furrowed at that, but the merchant appeared to take it in stride.
“So I owe this ‘Gel’ creature then, is what you’re saying. That’s why you refused my offer earlier.”
Saren paused, before inclining his head in a nod. That hadn’t been the only reason, but it had been the primary one. He reached into his bag, pulling out the faded and partially bent bar of life mana and setting it on the table.
“This material was instrumental in saving your son’s life and, as I understand it, part of the cargo assigned to one of your wagons.”
“Part of the deal you struck with Gel, is it?” Marcus questioned. “You didn’t share the details, but a man can guess and a merchant always does.”
“Yes.”
Marcus leaned back, sucking in a large breath. “Well, then I have good news for you paladin. That bar is yours, as far as I’m concerned.”
It was Saren’s turn for his feathered brow to furrow. There were rarely guarantees in long-distance deliveries, but a buyer who lost expensive goods in shipping was not often a repeat customer. The owlen had come prepared to pay fair coin for the bar, and here Marcus was threatening his own future business by giving it to him.
“I cannot–”
“You can.” Marcus said firmly, standing abruptly to make his point on the matter clear. “A Karr pays his debts, no matter who or what those debts are to. Besides, Barry Aleweather is the understanding type. Former adventurer, I hear. I know his sort. Always prepared for more loss than the rest of us.”
“You’re sure…?” Saren couldn’t help but ask as he stood as well. Adventurers as the owlen knew them were rarely the forgiving type. More of the once wronged, twice offended variety. Especially the local guilds.
“Absolutely.” Marcus said, heading towards the nearby stairs leading to the bedrooms. “We’ve got a good relationship, he’ll understand. Now, my boy hasn’t woken up yet but his mother seems certain he will by the day’s end and I could use an excuse for fresh air. So if you’ll give me a minute I’ll take you to see a contact of mine. He’s an expert smith, and if he doesn’t know someone willing to do what you need ‘em to do with that bar then I’ll find you one myself.”
Saren tried not to let his relief show on his face. Finding a capable blacksmith willing to rush a difficult, specialty order for him in time to meet his promised deadline had been the other concern burning a theoretical hole in the owlen’s coin pouch. Talented smiths were never cheap, and for obvious reasons this was not the sort of job he could ask the ones who served Gold Spire’s armories.
“I would appreciate that.” Saren said, stepping lightly towards the door. The rooms of Marcus Karr’s home were stacked high with boxes, crates, and papers of every variety, but the owlen would never be so impolite as to comment on the mess. Especially after what this poor family had already been through. “I will await you outside, then.”
—------------------------
It wasn’t until Saren had bid farewell to both Marcus and the merchant’s surprisingly helpful contact that the owlen began to notice he was being followed. In truth, it was embarrassing that it had taken him this long to notice. If he hadn’t been so distracted already this morning, first by his nightmares and the emotional conversation with Marcus, and then by the blacksmith Eerie who had given him an enormously fair price for the rushed order, then Saren would have noticed earlier. Whoever it was wasn’t exactly being subtle… and he thought he knew who it was.
Sellis. Saren guessed, making his judgment based on the telltale sound the woman’s high tops made striking city paving stones as she followed him almost a full street back. And one– no, two. Two of her squad. Badjin and Russel, maybe?
The Oracle was right. The Spire is actually having me watched. Saren was hardly surprised the bearkin’s words had proven true, but it did still sting that the Spire thought he needed to be cared for like a mere chick even after his wounds had been healed. The owlen tried not to take offense, just as he tried not to imagine where his organization’s resources might be better spent right now.
He failed on both counts. Miserably.
It won’t do to confront them. Saren mused, heading swiftly down another street to deal with the next item on his list of errands. If they’re on detail then nothing I say will matter. Best to just pretend I don’t notice, and see if they get bored.
They wouldn’t, Saren knew. He may not care much for Sellis or any of her squad, but they were still zealots of the order same as him. They would do their duty.
Pained memories threatened to well up at that thought. Memories of commiserating with Bacchus and Wain on many of the often boring assignments the three of them had been forced to endure in order to prove themselves trustworthy. Saren shoved them down, focusing instead on his next task: checking in with the rest of the survivors he had escaped with, and seeing if they had done as asked.
Saren fully expected to pay for the exotic meats he and all of his fellow survivors owed Gel as part of their bargain for the undead’s aid. He had a list from the city guard of each of their residences – an accounting having been taken by the fennekians on their arrival – but he didn’t expect all of them to respond. Given what they had all gone through, he wouldn’t have questioned it if many had chosen to simply pretend as if the entire event had never happened at all. In his line of work, Saren was used to those who chose that path as their coping mechanism.
And yet, once again, the owlen was surprised by the reactions he was met with. One by one, house by house, every single one of his fellow survivors opened their homes to him. They invited him in, handed him fine, exquisite meats – the sort whose purchase alone implied no expense had been spared – and embraced him as if he were family. Even those who had seemed fearful of the undead up until they had last parted ways now spoke of Gel with fondness in their voices. As if the undead were some distant hero who had swooped in to save them all.
Saren suspected the change of heart was due, at least in part, to the city’s high walls and armed guards now separating these men and women from the horrors of the desert. Back amongst their loved ones, and no doubt repeating the harrowing story of their encounter many times, it was clear the undead’s reputation – to say nothing of his own – was increasing with each telling.
That fact was troubling in a way the paladin didn’t have words for.
It implied the citizens of Dervash were not as afraid of what Gel represented as they potentially should be. That they didn’t understand the danger a sentient monster represented. One that could reason, learn, and scheme at least as well as the enlightened could. He could not blame them for their lack of trepidation after all. How could he? For many it was obvious that Gel had been their first real encounter with a monster someone else wasn’t in the process of slaying for them – if indeed they had seen one up close at all before the slaver ants had taken them.
Saren knew he wasn’t helping, here. The willingness of a Gold Spire paladin to engage with the creature, and to then follow up on promises made with it, appeared to be all the citizens had needed to overcome their fear. Here too, the oracle had been proven right. Saren was beginning to question if the bearkin’s blindness was really a handicap at all, with foresight like this.
Maybe it is I who is blind. Saren mused, slipping the latest haunch of cured meat into the locket the oracle had given him. Its magic compressed the size and weight of the meat down to that of a grain of sand, and would keep the selection both preserved and edible for some time. The owlen snapped the locket shut, setting it back into his shoulder bag before heading out once more.
He only had three more stops to make today. Two of which were aligned with his plans for tomorrow. The first was a visit to the guild of the lizardkin known as Daerkin, whose reception as a fellow survivor was not likely to be as cordial as the rest given his hatch-brother’s death in the final moments of their escape. Saren was not looking forward to that one. His own emotions were raw enough today he felt, but he would manage somehow.
The second stop was his own trip to the city guards, both for a retelling and report on his version of events as well as to meet with the pair who had flown back down into that nightmare-pit with him to save Gel. While they had parted ways without even sharing their names – as was customary amongst their people – Saren knew he would have little trouble finding them. Silent as the fennekians were, their people had a knack for showing up when you went looking for them.
His final stop was the one Saren tried, and failed, to keep his thoughts from as he walked. Even with the noisy, bustling crowds around him, and the trio of too-obvious observers failing to hide their presence, the owlen’s thoughts drifted inexorably to what he would do when he returned to the Spire that day. To what he should do, even if it would undoubtedly get him in trouble.
To what Wain or Bacchus might have done, had one of them been here instead of him.
I will make them understand. Saren swore to his slain comrades, whose presences felt all-too-real in his head lately. And once they do…you will be avenged, my friends. I will bring your souls peace.
… No matter the cost.