Dahlia Astera sighed as she got away from the cold of Frost. She rested against the door of the infirmary, her eyes closed as she tried to will away the butterflies that wreaked havoc in her stomach.
‘Are relationships usually this complicated?’
Dahlia wouldn’t know. Her only relationship in the past was with a merchant boy whom she rarely thought of now and then. James was much different. He had a sort of dangerous attraction to him that Dahlia couldn’t resist. Despite his awkwardness, James was strangely alluring. His words and otherworldly phrases were interesting and exciting. His entire demeanor was–
“Hey!” a snobby voice called out. Dahlia snapped out of her stupor, her eyes turning to one of the few men in the infirmary. He was an elf with swept back black hair. His face was gaunt, his eyes eternally cursed with tired bags and a bloodshot look. Yet he had an air of nobility around him, his chin raised as he spoke out once more.
“Are you done?” Archibald Yevin asked.
“Yeah yeah,” Dahlia muttered as she approached the elf. Archibald was a mercenary that James had hired back during the blond man’s journey months back. The elf had proven useful in the hazardous journey and during the fight with the Lumen Knights. Archibald was even the reason Dahlia was alive. His outburst towards the end of the fight had saved the shaman from being stabbed by her own dagger. Unfortunately for the elf, he had suffered from a broken elbow and nose, which had caused uncontrollable bleeding. He would have drowned in his own blood if it weren’t for the town’s doctor coming in to save him.
“Am I all healed up yet? I cannot stand the stench of this place,” Archibald complained. Despite it all, the elf’s attitude and demeanor hadn’t faltered in even the slightest.
“It’s an infirmary for sick and injured people. What did you expect?” Dahlia asked with a raised eyebrow.
“I would think this town would have standards,” Archibald muttered as the shaman undid his arm sling and bandages. Dahlia gently massaged the elf’s elbow, her eyes moving to see if Archibald was reacting.
“Any pain?” She asked while prodding his muscle and bone.
“None. Maybe a little soreness, but I’m sure that’s from having this sling on for months,” Archibald answered.
Dahlia nodded, doing a couple more checks before deciding that the elf was fully healed. “You’re all fine for now. Just go easy on that arm,” she advised.
“Finally,” Archibald let out a breath of relief before he moved to grab at his nearby boots.
“Where will you go?” The shaman asked.
“Back to Vindis, of course. Back to the dirty streets and filthy taverns.” The elf shrugged.
“You don’t have a home to go back to? Or is Vindis your home?” Dahlia raised an eyebrow.
The elf paused at the question, his eyes averting to the ground. “I have a home. I just can’t go back to it yet,” he muttered a response before going back to changing into his warmer clothing. Dahlia watched the elf mercenary’s snobby attitude falter, his normally pompous look now that of exhaustion and spite.
“If you like, you can still stay here in Yorktown. I’m sure Bjorn would be glad to share his hovel with you, free of rent,” she offered.
The elf made a face of clear hesitation. “Eh. I’ll think about it,” he responded before he tightened the laces around his boots. Archibald stood up, his hand moving to grab the rapier that hung in a sheath nearby. Delilah, as Archibald had named it, was a special blade that had enchanted runes engraved onto its silver edge. It was something that Dahlia never expected to see on a sword for hire. She didn’t ask about it, since she knew the elf was too private about his past to ever reveal anything.
Both the elf and the shaman eventually made their way out of the infirmary, where the cold Frost air hit them both.
“Gods, can’t Bloom come in any faster?” Archibald hissed as he tightened his coat over his body. Dahlia shrugged, her eyes spotting a few townsfolk pushing along a cart of preserved food and alcohol.
“Well, the solstice is only a couple of weeks away. You don’t have to wait too long until all this snow melts. Not only that, but the Bloom festival should be something to look forward to,” Dahlia grinned at that. She couldn’t wait for the next week, to smell the cooked meat pies and to hear the wonderful music that accompanied the exciting commotion.
“Bloom festival? I’ve heard stories of southern islands celebrating its solstice,” Archibald yawned. “Never really experienced one myself.”
“Vindis doesn’t celebrate Bloom?” Dahlia asked.
“I doubt Vindis celebrates anything outside of Midsommar. The city itself is too full of thieves and swindlers to let your guard down for a simple day of celebration,” the elf sighed. Dahlia thought back to her experience with the floating city, back when she had last visited it. She recalled the fight she and James had gotten themselves into. She remembered those shadowy men and their talk of ‘payback’.
“I think I know what you mean,” Dahlia muttered.
“Where will you be heading?” Archibald asked, his left hand moving to adjust his belt. Dahlia sighed, her fingers moving to rub at her eyes. She then turned to the path that led to the eastern edge of town, where the training center was located.
“The one part of my day that I loathe,” Dahlia groaned. She frowned at the thought of today’s session, her arms aching with the memory of the past few months. Her training with the guardsmen was painful, to say the least. It was getting worse with every passing week, especially since Seamus had dodged classes. She shuddered at the thought of doing more laps.
“What do you mean?” Archibald asked. His voice cut through the shaman’s recollections, interrupting her pondering.
“Eh, it’s nothing you should worry about,” Dahlia assured the elf, who raised an eyebrow.
“All right then. I’ll get myself going to the tavern. Maybe I’ll find Bjorn there.”
Dahlia watched the mercenary walk off before she turned back to her initial destination. She grimaced, knowing that she had a lot to do before the day was truly over.
----------------------------------------
James stepped out of the small hovel, taking a deep breath of the salty air.
‘Where to next?’ Faust asked.
James had just left another of the refugee’s homes, right after talking with the distressed elder. The refugee had wanted to make himself a home, but because of his old age and shaky craftsmanship, only managed a small hovel that was on the brink of falling in on itself. James had assured the man that he would get on building a new home for him whenever the aspiring clan leader found the time and resources. This was just one of the many promises James had made to the small populace of Aldren’s refugees. He felt more than a little overwhelmed at the idea of fulfilling all of them, but he had little a choice.
“At least it’s better than your job back on Earth,” James muttered to himself. It was nice knowing that he wasn’t being constantly pushed by an overbearing supervisor. James looked at his surroundings, a small smile appearing on his face as he reminded himself that he wasn’t on Earth anymore. No longer was he tied down with meaningless people and meaningless possessions. He wasn’t a worthless employee anymore. He was now a leader to people, a person whom others looked up to.
“Best I started acting like it,” he breathed out in a puff of steam.
‘So, where to now?’ Faust repeated.
“To the orcs,” James responded with a sigh. “Silas has been meaning to speak with me.” Silas was an orc James had met back at Aldren, back when the young man had been freeing the imprisoned humans the orcs had taken. The well-spoken orc was a prisoner himself and helped James free the rest of the prisoners, along with the young man’s party. Now the orc was currently keeping the others of his kind in check, making sure they didn’t destroy half of Yorktown out of boredom.
James walked through the newly constructed streets of New Aldren, which was what some refugees were calling it. The former citizens of the destroyed settlement were adamant about keeping themselves separate from the other side of town, mainly because they refused to follow the new council. The other side of this barrier was the townsfolk of Yorktown, who insisted that a council was necessary to govern the small island.
‘At some point, this is going to cause trouble for everyone here.’
James would have to soon convince both sides of this barrier to come together, lest a civil dispute break out.
‘You should probably call an audience with the council, settle this before it gets ugly,’ Faust’s words wandered into James’ mind.
“Good idea. We can do it later today, after we’re done with our orc friends.” James stopped his short walk, his gaze settling on the small building ahead of him. It had a crudely drawn raven on its door, along with a sketch of what James could assume was a deformed orc. “I guess subtlety isn’t their thing.”
Without so much of another comment, James entered the building. The first thing that hit him was the smell of mildew and sweat. He scrunched up his nose before covering it up with the collar of his cloak. James squinted through the dim interior of the orc barracks, which were only lit up by candles and glimpses of the outside light through curtains. He spotted the beds of the orcs, most of which were occupied by the sleeping behemoths. Nearby the sleeping orcs was a standing silhouette that was currently affixing one of the white raven banners to the wall. Once he got close enough, James could spot the orc’s coarse black hair that ran to his shoulders. The orc wore a tunic and torn, bloodied gambeson that covered up his dark green skin.
Silas tensed up at the sound of the front door closing, his head turning back to the young man who had entered.
“James. I was wondering when you would arrive.” The orc turned away from the blue banner to face the young clan leader.
“Had some errands to attend to,” James explained.
“Understandable. The needs of many are far more important,” Silas agreed. His hands moved to clasp behind his back like some advisor. The orc had a strange habit of being formal with his talks, even going so far as to raise his chin like a noble.
“So you wanted to meet with me?” James asked as he gazed around the barracks, spotting discarded gear and clothing.
“Yes, I’ve been meaning to have this talk with you for a while now.” Silas moved to take a seat at a nearby table, his enormous size causing it to shake. James stayed standing, his gaze moving to the table’s contents as he crossed his arms. He spotted what looked to be a shoddy map of southern Valenfrost, along with a couple of curious red circles around the eastern edge.
“As you can see, I have been busy with things,” Silas started, the orc gesturing towards the map. He seemed to be hesitant with his words, the orc’s jaw visibly clenching and unclenching. “I’ll cut to the chase already. About a week ago, after chasing away some bandits during a routine patrol, I had come into contact with another orc tribe east of here. Of course, I assessed them as a threat, until I had conversed with them.”
Silas paused for a moment, his hand clenched tightly. “After some conversation, I realized they weren’t the same marauding orcs you may have heard of. They are outcasts, not unlike me and my rabble. They wish only to have a place to call home, and a leader to follow.” The orc leader looked at James with a look that asked the young man to listen. “I had told them you, our leader, would think it over and possibly give them a home.
Silas’ words hung in the air like a haze, with only silence as a response.
James blinked, his arms slowly falling to his side.
‘More orcs?’
That was his first thought. James had to process what Silas had said.
“I assure you, they’re not a threat. I am sure–”
“More orcs?” James furrowed his brow. “Silas, it’s already enough that you and your friends are living here. The council is only letting you stay because of your contribution to the last battle. Not only that, but me and Dahlia had to convince the new council of letting you stay permanently. The people here barely tolerate you guys. If we keep bringing more orcs here, it’s going to cause even more problems.” James watched as Silas took in the words, the orc’s gaze moving to the map in front of him.
“I can see why you would object, but please trust me when I say that their help is needed,” the orc said.
“What? What the hell are you talking about?” James asked.
“I am not a fool.” Silas turned back to the young man, his eyes full of determination and resolve. “You are not a fool as well. You can feel it, can’t you? The dark feeling of something. The overwhelming sense of dread? I can’t explain it, but I’ve been having this feeling of uncertainty. This feeling of…fear.” Silas shook his head.
“Something is coming and I feel as if we need the manpower to fight it.” Silas tapped at the map of Valenfrost.
James sighed, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Silas, you are overreacting. We can’t just gather up a militia because of a bad feeling you have.” Granted, James was having the same gut feelings Silas was talking about, but it was easily explained by the amount of stress and nerves of leading an entire clan of people.
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“Please heed my words, James. We have made significant enemies in the past, have we not? Blood-Irk and those Lumen Knights, not to mention those green tunics that dwell west of these islands. We have trifled with those men and yet you expect no consequences arising from such things?” Silas pointed out.
James frowned a bit. Silas did have a good point. Despite the peaceful months that had passed, there was still the looming threat of Blood-Irk and Jarl Ivan. Not only that, but James had also fought and killed the two Lumen Knights who had attacked Yorktown months ago. There was no telling what kind of target he had painted onto his back.
‘Don’t forget that thing we fought,’ Faust reminded James. The young man almost shuddered at that thought. The abominations he had fought all those months were still a threat, even with no proof of its continued presence. James knew they weren’t truly dead, even with all of their known vessels destroyed.
James looked back at Silas, who remained adamant in his points. The young clan leader took a deep breath, his hands clenched into fists.
“I’ll talk with the council about it,” he answered finally.
Silas let out a breath of relief, the orc’s tense form relaxing. “Thank you, James. You will not regret this.”
“Let’s hope not.”
----------------------------------------
“Sir Halvorson!” A voice called out, the words they spoke causing the mentioned young man to squirm with discomfort. Seamus turned to see another of Aldren’s refugees running up to him, a gnome from the looks of it.
“Yes?” Seamus asked, doing his best to remain inconspicuous. The young gnome didn’t seem to notice Seamus’ discomfort.
“Lowe requests your presence at the tavern, sir.” the gnome chirped.
Seamus raised an eyebrow. “Oh, uh… sure. Thank you.”
The gnome grinned at the response before he ran off into the side streets of Yorktown. Seamus let out a breath of relief. He was thankful that the gnome hadn’t praised and kissed his arse out of respect for the Halvorson name.
Since the last Battle for Yorktown, Seamus’ secret had been revealed for all to hear. How it had happened was a question that was irrelevant now. The exposure of the significant name had caused the Aldren refugees to constantly swarm him and give their respects to Seamus’ family name since the young man’s father had previously reigned over them. Of course, without Yorn Halvorson to rule over their populace, Seamus was the default go-to. Seamus had instead led them to follow James instead, proclaiming the blond man a much more capable leader. While not a lie, the real reason behind this was because, to put it simply, Seamus loathed the attention his name brought him.
He had already had to deal with the hundreds of ‘Praise be the son of Yorn!’ or the all too common ‘Bless Yorn’s son!’. Seamus was tired of the name and was more than glad to burden James with the responsibility and weight of the refugees’ expectations.
‘Still, I do feel a little bad for putting all that on him.’
Seamus sighed, his hand moving to run through his hair. He had been trying to keep it neat and cut, but his shaky hands didn’t do much of a good job cutting his hair. Currently, his head of hair looked lopsided and vaguely resembled the bowl of black that he had before. Seamus looked more like a vagrant now, but a well-groomed vagrant at that. The young man shook away his idle thoughts, his mind going back to what the gnome had said to him.
“Lowe wants to see me. Right…” Seamus nodded to himself before he headed his way to the only tavern in Yorktown.
‘What does Lowe want?’
The man–gnome–in question was another of Aldren’s refugees. Lowe Arclite had served under Yorn Halvorson as a watcher over Aldren during its initial construction. The gnome had even known the location of one of Yorn’s old vaults, something that wasn’t easily known. After the orc invasion that set the motions that caused Aldren’s fall, Lowe survived and avoided becoming orc food, thanks to Seamus and his party.
Seamus stopped at the entrance to the tavern, his hesitation clear in his movements. After he made sure no one was watching, Seamus pulled his cloak hood over his head, obscuring his face. After taking a breath, he stepped through the entrance, careful to not let his presence known. The tavern was mixed between refugees and native townsfolk, a clear split between them.
Seamus realized that the Yorktown folk were stuck to the left side of the tavern, while the refugees stuck to the right side. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like a violent separation, more of an ignoration type of thing, if anything. Seamus soon spotted what he was looking for, which was a gnome drinking at the bar, his balding scalp visible from behind. The young man headed his way to the bar, careful not to bump into the tavern’s patrons.
“Hey!” a woman’s voice suddenly called out behind Seamus. The young man froze in place, his hands clenching as he realized his cover was blown.
‘Here come the praises,’ he internally groaned.
Upon turning, however, Seamus realized that the person responsible for his near heart attack wasn’t a refugee. The brown-haired woman wore a wool cloak over her training gambeson, which was torn and dirty at the seams. She also had a blue sash visible underneath the cloak, signifying her as a town guard. Seamus blinked, realizing that she held a single blue valdora in between her index and thumb. Still, his surprise wasn’t from the coin that had dropped from his pockets, but that of the woman herself.
“You dropped this sir,” Kate Rowan spoke with a voice laced with sweetness, her smile innocent as can be.
“Ah yes. Thank you.” Seamus coughed and leaned in, his fingers grabbing at the valdora. However, Kate's grip on the coin was stronger than Seamus' pull, causing the man to stumble slightly during the attempt. “Hey–”
“You missed training again, Falken,” Kate spoke out in her sweet voice, her smile straining slightly as she leaned closer.
‘Fake name. Either she’s trying not to blow my cover or she’s pissed. Maybe it’s both.’
Seamus swallowed his fear. “Yes ma’am. I just have not been feeling so well, you see… I–”
“Cut. The shit,” Kate almost hissed. “Helen and Harald have been giving us hel for your laziness. You see…” Kate’s other hand moved to grab at Seamus’ wrist, her grip force enough to nearly make the young man crumble in defeat. “For every hour you’re not there, we have to do a repeat of our exercises,” Kate explained, her smile straining even more whilst her words remained sugarcoated.
“Do you feel this, Falken?” Kate squeezed harder, her grip forcing Seamus to shift uncomfortably. “This is the result of your incompetence. The hours of training you have missed and the amount of training we had to make up for because of you,” Kate explained.
“I’ll… I’ll come next time! Promise!” Seamus whispered a shout, his jaw clenching as he felt the blood flow to his fingers cut off. Kate kept her grip on Seamus’ wrist for a while, almost as if she was pondering his word. Finally, to the young man’s relief, she let go.
“Fine. But the next time you miss a day, I will be back with the rest of the class. Believe me, they would love to show you what they learned in training,” Kate muttered, her smile falling as her voice became low.
“No worries. I’ll be there,” Seamus answered back, his hand rubbing his hurting wrist. Kate sighed and turned away before walking out of the tavern, presumably off to return to her duties as a guard.
Seamus sighed softly before making sure that the scene didn’t catch any nosy folk. Thankfully, aside from a couple of turned heads, no one seemed to care about the small interaction between the guard and the young man. Seamus thanked his stars, his hand pocketing his valdora as he made his way to the gnome at the bar. Upon sitting on a nearby stool, Lowe finally spoke up.
“Took you long enough to settle that with your woman.” The drunkard’s words caught Seamus off guard.
“She is not ‘my woman’. Kate is a friend. Nothing more,” the young man shot back.
Lowe Arclite turned his balding head to Seamus, his tired eyes narrowing at the young man. “Right. Deny what you will. Just know that most of the town sees what I see.”
“And what is that?” Seamus asked, a tinge of hostility in his tone.
Lowe laughed at that. “Getting defensive, are you?” The gnome grinned. “Ah, don’t give me that look. I’m just busting your chops.”
Seamus blinked, realizing then that his expression was contorted into a hostile look. He coughed nervously, his facial muscles relaxing soon after. “What did you call me here for?” he asked.
Lowe shrugged. “I can’t have a drink with you?”
Seamus frowned at that. “I know you didn’t call me over here for a pint. If you did, Bjorn and Haggard would be here, ready to ambush me with mead and alcohol.”
Lowe laughed heartily, the sound of it catching the attention of a couple of patrons. Seamus shrunk in his seat, careful not to expose himself to the prying eyes.
“You know your friends well, young Falken,” Lowe finished with Seamus’ fake alias, something that most of the young man’s friends used to call him whenever in a public area.
“Lowe, are you all right?’ Seamus asked worriedly. The gnome wasn’t the type to get drunk, nor was the boisterous kind. Lowe was reminding Seamus of Bjorn, who was always loud and drunk whenever alcohol was nearby. That dwarf could drink several kegs of golden liquid and still rally up an entire city if need be, with his booming laugh and loud speeches. Lowe, however, was a lightweight. Judging from the empty tankards, Lowe was barely on his third mug of mead, which looked to be watered down.
Yet the gnome’s nose was a bright red, his eyes half closed as he hiccupped. “I’m fine,” Lowe waved off Seamus’ concerns. “I didn’t call you here to judge my drinking. I called you here for this.” Lowe shifted in his seat, his hand bringing up a burlap sack that sat next to him. He handed it to Seamus, who felt its weight and shape. The young man’s eyes widened as realization dawned on him.
“Is this…?”
“Don’t take it out!” Lowe hissed, his small palm slapping Seamus’ hand before the young man could take out the object in question. “The thing’s visage is cursed. At least from the stories I’ve heard. Any weak-willed man here who lays an eye on it is bound to take it.”
Seamus tilted his head in confusion. “Back on the island, I didn’t feel any effects,” he pointed out.
“That was because you and your friends were strong-willed enough to resist its urge,” Lowe explained.
‘That makes little sense. Not to talk down to them, but I’m sure at least someone back at Aldren would’ve felt any effect.’
Seamus looked down at the sack, the outline of the golden cat slightly visible. This was the artifact Lowe had risked his life for back at Aldren, before it had burnt down. The same one that had nearly cost the lives of Seamus and his party. It was a small gold and ivory statue of a cat, its paw raised as if to mock the person holding it. The only thing abnormal about it was the strange glyphs it had on its back, something that Seamus still knew little about. Despite the four months of studying it, Lowe had never gotten back to Seamus about the damned thing. At least, until now.
“Did you find out anything about it?” he asked.
“Does it look like it?” Lowe answered back, his eyebrow raised. “The damned thing is protected with very strong magic. So strong that dispelling is nigh impossible. Unless you’re very skilled in magic,” Lowe explained.
“Lowe,” Seamus started with a sigh, his fingers feeling the statue through the burlap cloth. “What if…” he hesitated for a moment, “What if this ‘artifact’ is just a fake? A copy of the real thing?”
The gnome’s fist slammed against the bar, the sound making Seamus jump and the patrons looking over in surprise.
“It is not!” Lowe spat out. His sudden outburst caused most of the tavern to go quiet, the only sound being the crackling fireplace and the hushed whispers of onlookers.
Seamus shrank even more into his seat. “Lowe. Calm yourself.”
The gnome soon realized the effects of his actions, his eyes downcast as he took a long, deep breath. Seamus could see how Lowe’s hands shook as he calmed down.
“I did not risk the lives of you and your friends just for a…for a fucking paperweight,” the gnome muttered, quietly enough for only Seamus to hear. “I almost killed you that day,” he finished softly, the redness in his face slowly fading away. The tavern soon went back to its usual noise, the patrons watching from nearby going back to their own business.
“Lowe, you did what you thought was the right choice. Hel, I’m sure you even saved Aldren. If Blood-Irk’s orcs got to that vault, who knew what kind of threat they would become?” Seamus’ words seemed to ease some tension in the gnome’s shoulders, but Lowe’s soured expression remained the same.
“I just know it’s the thing I was looking for,” Lowe spoke up finally, his hand pushing away the tankard of mead in front of him.
“How can we be sure?” Seamus asked, his gaze falling back to the burlap bag in his lap.
Lowe sighed, his fingers scratching at his trimmed goatee. “Look, there is only one way to tell whether the artifact is the real thing,” he pointed out. “That is to find a skilled Wizard who will scry it.”
Seamus nodded to that. “We can take it to the Wizard at Vindis, Nathan. James and Dahlia have met with him, and from what they have told me, he’s pretty skilled.”
Lowe shook his head. “No, it needs to be someone we can trust. I’m sure Nathan is friendly, but we cannot take the risk.” Lowe leaned in closer to Seamus, his eyes darting around the tavern as if to make sure no one was listening. “I have another idea. A longshot to be sure, but if it’s true, we can finally put this thing to rest.”
“What are you on about?” Seamus asked. He wasn’t sure what the gnome was talking about.
“This might be strange, but I think it to be true…” Lowe scooted his chair closer to Seamus. He took another look before he narrowed his eyes at Seamus. “I believe a Wizard is hiding among the Aldren refugees.”
Seamus blinked. “What?”
“A Wizard. Not just any twiddle fingers, too. I believe that Wizard Falrick is still alive and hiding among the populace of Yorktown’s people,” Lowe revealed.
“Wizard Falrick?” Seamus repeated in surprise. Wizard Falrick was another one of Yorn’s close subordinates, the spellcaster himself being responsible for the storm barrier that had surrounded Aldren. Seamus assumed the Wizard was dead, as the old man had fought the marauders the night the Halvorson Clan fell. The fact that he could be alive, hiding in the populace of Aldren’s refugees, nonetheless, was ludicrous.
‘Then again, I don’t recall any reports of the old man falling during that bloody night.’
The simple thought briefly flashed horrifying images of the clan’s fall into Seamus’ mind. He instantly shuddered, shaking away the memories quickly.
“Why would he be here? Alive? Why would he hide as well?” Seamus bombarded the gnome with questions.
Lowe raised both hands in defense, the simple gesture quieting Seamus down. “I don’t know. All I know is that even before the orcs raided the island, strange things were happening. The storm barrier that surrounded the island was supposed to go out shortly after the fall of Yorn. Yet it didn’t. In fact, it had grown the week after the news of the clan’s fall reached Aldren. Once the orcs did raid, I recall two of those brutes being found burnt to a crisp, despite no evidence of a Fireball rune or torch. I had initially thought it to be the butcher, but I doubt Lilith could’ve done that clean of the job, let alone with fire.
“Furthermore, I hear there is talk of strange magic being witnessed in Yorktown’s alleys and isolated spots. Its presence is nothing like the shaman’s. I don’t know why he would hide from us, but I swear it to be true. He is hiding, using an illusion spell, no doubt,” Lowe explained all of this in a whisper.
Seamus pondered the gnome’s suspicions, weighing the possibility of the Wizard being alive. “We will have to investigate this further. I’ll get James and the town guard on it as soon as—”
A man slamming the tavern’s door open suddenly interrupted Seamus.
“Invaders! At the dock!” The man’s sudden outburst received a solid second of silence from the tavern’s patrons, as they were unsure if this was a prank. Suddenly, a woman guard stepped into the tavern.
“Gather up those who can fight! There’s a clan ship at the dock, armed men on the deck! The Draugr is confronting them!” Her shouts struck Seamus like an ice spell, gooseflesh suddenly appearing on his skin.
‘Clan ship? James? Confronting armed men?!’
This was going to end up badly, especially considering James’ history of first confrontations. Seamus quickly rose from his stool, keeping the burlap sack close to him as he rushed out of the tavern with the rest of the patrons.
‘Please please don’t do something stupid, James,’ Seamus prayed as he ran out into the cold Frost.