Home was a little hole in a stone wall. It looked like any old grey stone wall, hidden in a shadowy alley behind several seedy bars but if you walked close enough to it (as drunks did sometimes and ended up falling on his doorstep and mewling drunken cries for help) you would see a set of stairs leading down to a very thick, wooden door.
His keys clanked as he fiddled with the lock, the heavy box balanced on one leg leaning dangerously one way then the other. Hustling a mile carrying a heavy box didn't sit well with him. He was an endurance walker, not strength and he sucked in deep breaths to drive the taste of copper out of his mouth.
The lock popped open and he stuck the key into his pocket, dragging the box the last few feet to it's resting place just inside the door.
He groaned at the unmistakable pop of something breaking in the box. Rather than waste any energy he left it, ignored the box and shut the door, sliding a huge deadbolt across the wood to fit into a worn hole in the stone.
He turned and took a deep breath of the musk in the air and felt tension melt out of his shoulders, like an itch finally scratched. Being away from home, even by choice, sapped a great deal of his energy.
He took it in, walking through slowly as though touring for the first time.
There was one bed, stuffed with some very nice straw he'd cut himself way out in the country. The sheets had been a gift from Swampbelly, something they'd found while picking through a merchant's destroyed caravan. Likely bandits without any taste for fine linen.
There was one table opposite it, a hefty beast of thick wood and powerful looking frame with a smooth surface. Dozens of bottles peppered its surface, many with odd hues of mostly well known colors, all carefully labeled just in case of accidents. Twisting tubes and metal pipes criss-crossed the air above it, some leading to large basins, others leading to blackened burn marks atop the table. At the fore-center of the table was a pitch black circle, swallowing up any light that touched it.
A wooden bucket in the corner for...things.
But other than that there was paper and books. Stacked in messy piles, none very straight or organized to a passerby but he knew what each stack was and when and what for.
He crossed over to his table and tossed his jacket around the arms of a similarly sturdy chair before taking a seat. He fished the wrapped silk organ out of the coat and laid it aside on a cooling slab, a flat cut stone with a bit of ice elemental underneath to keep ingredients fresh.
That'll keep for a while. God, it's good to be home.
Without the jacket he looked very small. Narrow shoulders and a slim body that were little use in a farming community. One of the many things he'd been teased for in his home town.
Time to unwind.
He reached into the pitch black portal on the table and rooted around, leaning over it for a longer reach until out came a well worn book. The spine was covered over in a dull metal and the cover was well worn cloth that protected the three inch thickness of yellowing paper.
He paused and stared at the book.
Bog didn't have anything new and I sure haven't found any leads. Why even open it?
It wouldn't be the first time the thought came to him or the first time he completely ignored it. It was a familiar thread to pull at, something that anchored his world and if he didn't have it, what did he have? He flipped the book open and there was the same unchanging beginning.
Mother kidnapped in Greater Rens. Mass amnesia about event and massive memory alterations to townspeople. I somehow remember it all but no one remembers me or her. Kidnappers used some kind of magic? And town was moved entirely. Why?
He startled at the loud knock on his door and glared its way, standing up to chase whoever it was off.
“This is not a hidden adventurer bar, no matter how neat it looks. I live here!”
“Oh, no sir! I'm here to see Clarke Script? Have a delivery!”
The voice on the other side was clear and boisterous, even through the door. A sliding panel would have been helpful right then but hindsight always knew a good idea when it saw it.
“You can leave it by the door. I'll get it.”
She yelled again and he could hear the shift of glass in her grip.
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“Can't. What kind of delivery gal would I be if I didn't look out for your package until it was safe?”
“Fine.”
He popped the deadbolt and opened the door for his unwanted guest and he quietly wished a curse on her great grandmother for giving out his address.
Even though he recognized her from years ago she'd grown, a freakishly tall five feet for a dwarf. She was a deep tan, one side of her dark red hair in braids and the other sheered close to her skull as though she'd been attacked by a pair of animate scissors. He wouldn't have said that to her face, not only because it was rude but she likely could have crushed his skull between her forearm and bicep, as muscular as she was. It was amazing how it was all compacted onto the frame.
“You're Hum's granddaughter, aren't you?”
“Yup!”
She pushed past as though she'd lived in his home her whole life and set the box down with just a slight rattle of bottles. The next moment he was swept up in the air, whirled around like he weighed nothing to her before she dropped him again.
“I didn't order those.”
“Then it's on me. You'll need 'em when you accompany me on my first adventure.”
She looked around, walking the room with the curiosity of a nosy dog with Clarke stumped for an action at this intrusion and revelation. She leaned close to the silk organ on his table.
“Hey, don't touch that!”
“I was just getting a look. Making some crazy potions, huh? That how you manage to stay alive all the time?”
He ran a hand over his face, tension mounting in his shoulders and hot prickles collecting along his shoulders.
“Hang on, let's go back. Why are you here?”
She sat on the bed which groaned near to cracking.
“Breaking my things.”
She pointed at Clarke with a big smile on her face.
“Because I finally figured out your secret.”
“The one where I make stamina potions out of dead dwarves who break into my house?”
She didn't bat an eye but smiled and slapped her leg.
“No, the other one. You're an adventurer scribe. Even though you never put your name on your stories-
“Factual records.”
“- and after a lot of asking around in adventurer bars and at the scribe office I managed to figure it out. You're the Bloody Pen of the Reaper. Cool name by the way.”
He crossed to his chair and sat back down, pushing his book into the magical hole and grabbing the spider organ. He'd do a little work at least, that might lessen his irritation. He slit it open, pouring the liquid silk into a beaker.
“One, it is not cool and I did not pick it. Two, you still haven't gotten to the point.”
“So? What if I am? Do you think I killed someone you loved and you're here for revenge? Or are you just a fan? Cause I don't write the story versions, just the records.”
“That's what I want!”
She shouted and he startled in his chair, whirling to see her looming over him. If she hadn't seemed to be in such a good mood he'd have more seriously considered throwing something paralyzing at her.
“I want you to be my scribe! Boxing has gotten stale lately so I decided I wanted the thrill of discovery! Of thrilling adventure and punching cultists and monsters in the face!”
He shook his head and turned back to his beaker. It was starting to harden now that it was out of the sac. A few drops of this...and that...
“So why me? There are a dozen people working at the scribe society.”
“But you have a special something! When people come back with you, alive, it's like they've passed some special test. I looked into it. Not everyone you go out with dies. And the ones that do come back? Only the very best quality.”
He couldn't really argue with that. It happened a lot more than it had any right to but the few times things went well was due to excellent competence on his employer's part. She put her hands together, shaking them as though begging the biggest favor.
“No. Door's that way.”
He turned back to his solution, watching it expand. The forceful expansion fluid needed time to settle.
“Why not!?”
He glared at the solution and motioned at the boxes over by the door.
“Bring me a small bottle. One of the thin ones.”
She stomped over and picked one out for him before repeating the question.
“Why not!?”
He took the small vial and unstopped it, a funnel over it, pouring it very slowly, carefully, just enough of the solution to fill it halfway before stopping it up again. A little shake for no real reason other than that it was alchemist's mystique.
“Because if I kill the only granddaughter-”
“One of four.”
“-one of my favorite glass maker's granddaughters it's going to make my trips in there very awkward and I hate leaving the house as it is.”
He threw the vial at her forcefully and it shattered, bits of glass swallowed up by the explosion of silken threads wrapping around her arms, snapping together like a straitjacket. She staggered back in surprise, arms jerking and her body swinging as she tried to break free. Her balance slipped and so did she, landing on her side with a hefty whump.
“It worked! Very good.”
Clarke began dragging her by the feet out the door. It was hard work. She didn't look as heavy as she was so it must have been all the muscle she had packed away.
“Look, I took you out pretty easy. There are loads of people in the world much worse than I am, some trickier than me, some stronger than you. Stay in town. Make stuff like most dwarves do. Stay alive.”
He managed to prop her against the wall, using his whole back and legs to get her upright. The effort made him woozy with blood rushing all around his body to accommodate the show of strength.
“Okay?”
Her teeth bared and veins popped out on her neck as she exerted effort. Clarke hopped back inside his house, pulling the door halfway shut as something to hide behind when she snorted like a bull, jerking side to side until the faintest pop caught Clarke's attention. She stamped her foot, screaming out loud now like a berserker until the bonds finally snapped and tattered shreds of webbing stuck to her arms and body.
“How about that, smart guy?”
He slammed the door in her face.
She glowered and gave the door one good punch that rattled it in its frame. Any ill will she had from being tricked giving way to admiration in how she was tricked.
“That was actually really good!”
She waited for a response.
“Fine, you win this round but we're gonna end up working together. You can put that in your ink well and write it!”
She ripped the webbing from her arms and made a high pitched squeal of pain as it tore every hair off of her arms.
Clarke listened as she stomped away. His time off was back on track. He relaxed.