CHAPTER 1:
The lights grow dim, the audience grows quiet. A fallen curtain rises. The theater begins. Out from the stage comes a town, prosperous and lively, but not so large as to be overwhelming. Simple, wooden buildings line the stone streets, the people smiling as they go about their business, their day’s work in full swing. Peasants and carpenters tip their hats to the guards, who gesture affirmingly with their spears. They’re experienced, used to the dangers which emerge from the woods when luck gives way to misfortune. Today, however, will not feature such an event. That does not mean the guards will be without excitement.
Now, the scene shifts. The audience is treated with a tavern, on the edge of the town. A well-kept, if not luxurious place, whose visitors come out of convenience, rather than desire. Within are four travelers, all from different walks of life. They have no connection to each other, but they are all here for the same reason, even if they do not know it yet. And their common journey shall attain such heights as to birth the very play itself.
The Herbal Flagon was far from crowded, but each rowdy merrymaker had enough presence to make the place busy nonetheless. Groups of workers on break were enjoying their respective fellowships. Two novice mages made glittering gestures, shifting the flavor of their ale to increasingly ridiculous combinations. A lone tavernkeeper stepped back and forth, serving them all with an adept hand. A mass of background scenery, serving to contrast several more remarkable figures.
The day seems to be going well. How strange, then, that our host should be so anxious. The first of these figures pondered this, as he watched from near the entrance. For though the tavernkeep put on a good show, his brow would occasionally furrow, his mustache droop ever so slightly. Was he, perhaps, also aware that a special guest would be arriving soon?
The onlooker was himself a tanned man, with combed black hair matching his eyes. Handsome, by most standards, perhaps around the age of thirty. At this point he had grown tired of waiting around, and stepped further into the room. His stride clonked against the floor, for his traveler’s attire was accompanied by a set of wooden geta sandals, the only pair for miles around.
As he approached, the tavernkeeper was occupied with yanking at a trap door behind the counter. Following an ale-heavy accident, the porous wood had swollen and wedged shut, refusing to budge. The struggling man’s attention was only caught when the traveler cleared his throat.
“Excuse me,” he said humbly, unslinging the tools of his trade, “may I?”
Pulled away from his task, the bald servitor chuckled, and had his broad shoulders burst into a welcoming gesture. “Of course! What’s your name, musician?”
The traveler’s instrumental prowess was obvious. Moments ago, his back had been the resting place of a worn, but well-tended lute, both decorated and functional. It was the more conspicuous of his two instruments, the other being a bamboo flute at his hip.
“Akiteru Shima. You may call me Aki.” Answered Aki, the bard.
Having gained one last nod of approval, the matter was sealed. Thus, a jaunty tune came to further brighten the atmosphere, and Aki went back to searching the room. This wasn’t just a good way to pass the time while waiting for the special guest’s arrival, it afforded him a position from which to watch for trouble. Whatever caused his host to worry could easily affect him as well.
The next of the room’s remarkable figures, however, had already found a likely candidate for the source of said anxiety. A bit away from the lute-player, over at the tavern’s counter, sat an orange-haired human who delightedly drank in the music’s tunes. He was not particularly fat, and no taller than the average person, yet his sheer muscle made him quite heavy, much to the dismay of the barstool he occupied. Music wasn’t the only thing he drank either, as evidenced by the fact that the tavernkeep had to repeatedly come over to his seat and pour a new one into his barrelous mug.
“My my Derrik, aren’t you quite the quaffer?” The mustached servitor said with archetypical smoothness.
“Hah! Raised in a dwarven household, my friend! I drank while I was still in diapers!” The musculus man exaggerated in a rumbling tone, before emptying half of his refill in one sweep.
“Truly? I suppose you learned to wield that ax with them as well. Say, do you mind putting that with the rest of your weapons? I fear it’ll unnerve my customers.”
The tavernkeep pointed towards a pile of javelins -- short spears, meant for throwing -- which were lying next to the entrance. The gluttonous warrior had dropped them there when he’d first come in, something which seemed to be standard procedure at The Herbal Flagon. However, on his back, he’d kept his greataxe; the kind meant for chopping shields and enemies, rather than wood, as he’d seen one group disobeying the norm.
In the corner opposing the door sat a particularly unruly gang, with mannerisms to intimidatingly discourage visitors. Brigands, rough and pelt clad, the kind one prays not to meet out on the roads. Despite their frightening appearance, they kept their own drinking in greater moderation than one might suspect.
“Aren’t they carrying weapons too?” Derrik backhand-gestured towards the four members, three of which carried unconcealed swords or crossbows. The last one did not, rather, the huge brute had a proportionally hefty club by his side.
“Well, yes,” the tavernkeep scratched the back of his bare head awkwardly, “but they have… special permission of sorts. Don’t worry about it.”
Details remained unsaid, but Derrik saw no use in pressing the matter. “Alright, I’ll put my ax away, no worries. Anyway, you need any help with that?”
He pointed toward the stuck trap door, and, after insisting through some polite rejection, was, in fact, recruited to provide assistance. To do so, he reached for his backpack, which stood on the floor beside him. It was a large thing, though packed to the brim regardless, visibly bulging in myriad places. Unfortunately, post rummaging, Derrik could confirm it contained no crowbar, but it did have an out-sticking hilt, belonging to a dwarf-sized shovel. To their combined cheers, it did in fact fit into the trap door’s gap, and some bending later, the stuckness was gone from this world.
With that matter settled, and the greataxe clunking into the pile, the tavernkeep continued his serving duty, bringing a plate of sauce, vegetables, and meat to the only non-human in the tavern. An elf. Pale-skinned, pointy-eared, and in a multicolored gown, she aristocratically stuck out like oil in water. As the deliverer stopped by, she was absorbed in a small blue book, filled with odd symbols that made no sense to anyone who peeked. Absorbed, but not inattentive.
“Thank you, sir.” She acknowledged, receiving the appetizing meal.
“I’m simply doing my job, miss.” Up close, the tavernkeep noted a small scar above her eye, before he ashamedly avoided this singular imperfection. “Pardon me, what was your name again?”
“Qwindleaf. Caeli Qwindleaf.”
“Listen, miss Qwindleaf, I think it may be wise to take that food outside for a bit.”
“Oh?” Caeli looked up from her book, “Why is that?”
“Well… We are a respectable tavern, do not think otherwise! But sometimes…” The caretaker pondered how to best express himself, “sometimes felonious business has to take place. Don’t worry, it’ll be done right quick.”
That got the elf’s attention. “In that case,” she took her plate and arose from her seat, “I shall be right back.”
Relieved, he watched as Caeli went outside. Yet, as she turned away, a moment of deadly seriousness passed across her face, and were it not closed, one would’ve seen her book’s symbols light up in supernatural yellow.
She wasn’t alone in leaving the tavern. A hushed conversation was spoken at each table the tavernkeep visited, which always culminated in its patrons getting out of their seats to head for the exit. So noted the scene’s final remarkable figure, who sat silently near the entrance of the establishment. The sole occupant of her table, she smelled of dirt and leaves. That was by design, part of a ploy to make passersby mistake her for a simple hunter. Still, a keen onlooker might spot the unusual tools in her many pockets: pliers, a file, a small mirror mounted on a metal rod, among others. They could’ve even noticed her drag her table, just a smidge toward the entrance, so as to put the discarded weapons pile -- among them her longbow and quiver -- within arm’s reach. Someone very good might even spot the faint symbol engraved in her customized attire, only visible when the light fell upon it from certain angles.
Of course, none nearby had reason to observe her quite so closely, though she certainly observed them. She’d watched Aki’s performance request, watched Derrik leave his weapon behind, and, as previously mentioned, watched the tavern emptying, starting with Caeli. Now, her gaze lingered upon the four unscrupulous brigands in the corner, and her mind contemplated why they seemed so familiar. Like strangers in a workplace, never spoken to, only recognizable owing to myriad encounters. When she could come to no satisfying conclusion, she instead considered her options. To approach them meant risking information to potential enemies, but it might also unveil something useful to her. Possibly even knowledge about the one she was waiting for.
Eventually, curiosity defeated caution, and she inconspicuously left her chair, cloak shifting in the window-sent daylight. When she arrived at their table, the massively largest of the ruffians was in the midst of loudly recounting some obscene tale, the kind only close-knit groups understand. Deep in laughter, most of them didn’t even notice her arrival. Only the closest one, whose eyepatch was plastered to a shaved head, paid her any attention.
“Now whadda’ you want?” His accent was so heavy he almost spat as he spoke, which only added to the palpable hostility in his voice. He was older than the rest, and his equipment lacked the nicks and grime that the others had. Clearly, he held enough status to get the best gear.
“Nothing in particular,” she replied, neutrally. “Something about you seemed… familiar.”
“Well, we’re busy. Go be familiar with someone else.”
The piping dismissal would’ve ended things right there, but a moment later, his attention came back, tone converted to a more welcoming one.
“Wait…You’re from the Gray Bandits’ guild, arent’cha?”
“Why yes, I am.” Under the hood, the woman’s face brightened up significantly.
“Well, that explains the familiarity. Sorry. I completely missed the symbol on yer cloak. Kinda stopped lookin’ for the guild since we split from it with the boss.”
Split from the guild? Most interesting. The woman pulled out a chair, and sat down.
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“What’s yer name, kindred?” The eyepatched man asked. “Me’s Cyril.”
“Call me Ray. Who is your boss, exactly?”
Her actual name wasn’t Ray, of course, but she didn’t have much of a birthname to speak of. A truer answer would have been Raven, which is how she knew herself. However, that was a name she shared only with a chosen few. Not with random troublemakers.
Their conversation quieted down to a whisper, but Aki made an effort to listen, all the while continuing to play his flute. After 200 years of practice, this particular song didn't exactly require him to focus. Likewise, Derrik also overheard what was said. Between drinks, he’d monitored the brigands for some time now, especially after the tavernkeep’s conversation with that elf, which his attentive self had also snapped up.
“Gascon, that’s our boss.” Cyril spoke with great respect, “we’re here on business for him, actually.”
Gascon. Raven remembered him. Back at the guild, the man once made a name for himself. He’d been quite successful, eventually gathering enough followers to splinter off and strike out on his own. His band became known as the Wardogs, working as mercenaries, spending their free time as marauders, and Gascon became their self-proclaimed houndmaster. Curiously, he had recently been conducting a series of robberies against churches, monasteries, alchemists and healers. The Gray Bandits Guild had tried to figure out his reasons, but all attempts had so far been futile.
Outside of The Herbal Flagon, upon the lightly crowded cobblestones, Caeli awaited the time to move. If something felonious did indeed occur, she’d have to get in, resolve the situation, and escape before the questions came. Thus, she monitored each road to the tavern, though she was slightly worried over the fact she had no idea what her employer looked like. Fortunately, that turned out to be a non-issue. From around a nearby corner stepped an overdressed man in his forties, reeking of wineish perfume. Somehow, he appeared to belong at a royal court even more than Caeli herself did. If she’d understood her contract right, that had to be the one she was waiting for. And his appearance meant it was time to change.
Leaving her half-eaten food on the tavern’s wooden railing, Caeli dashed into the alley right of the building. Once there, she took a meditative pose, concentrating. Her vision turned inward, toward the power that rested in every fiber of her being.
Magic, metaphysical as it was, possessed no color, but Caeli had always instinctually felt that hers was blue. Like cold water, pulsing in rhythm with her heart, spreading and retracting throughout her body, sending chills down her spine. It was a vibrant core which could exert outward, enforce change in the world around her. Right now, however, she was going to do the opposite. The wellspring was maintaining an enchantment, a tiny modification to reality that she’d brought into being earlier that day. Now, she was going to undo that modification. It was a simple matter, really. The enchantment required continuous, near-subconscious effort in order for it to keep existing. To a practiced mage like her, keeping it going was as intuitive as talking, if not even easier. However, just like with talking, one could simply stop at any time, which was exactly what she did.
When it faded, so did its modifications to her appearance. Her hair’s red became ebony black, and her skin grew sunburned. Her glamorous dress changed to a blue jacket matching the road’s practicalities. Most prominently, the small scar above her eye turned bigger. Much bigger. It grew diagonally across her face, until it reached across it entirely, from brow to cheek. The entire process took no more than a few moments.
Caeli Qwindleaf was no more. Now, she was Walda Witherwild. When she came out of the alley, not a soul knew who she was. Walda waited for her pompous patron to turn toward The Herbal Flagon’s swing door, then began following him, no more than a few steps behind.
Back inside, the music continued, but the audience was growing small. Besides Aki himself, the only ones remaining were the now-drunk mage novices, (who the tavernkeep was hard at work shuffling out) the four ruffians, apparently called the Wardogs; their acquaintance, the shrouded Ray; and an impressively robust fellow named Derrik, who insisted on not leaving, despite the tavernkeep concerned pleas. The last one didn’t seem to have any connection, but the roguish group was certainly important. The exact scheme, however, still proved elusive as the bard brought the tune to its end.
However, the mystery was not to last. Mere moments after the mages had been shoved out, the entrance flung open once more, revealing a new guest. Gascon’s brigands snapped to attention. A resigned expression on his face, the establishment’s caretaker shuffled down into the recently opened trap door.
“Ah. Sorry Ray, there’s our target.” The eyepatched Cyril, together with his gang, rose from their chairs, set their sights on the door, and drew their curved blades, worn from use but newly sharpened.
Raven looked on with interest as they approached the hopelessly grandiose dolt that had just entered the tavern. That was her target as well, in a manner of speaking, but could she really betray a fellow gray bandit, even one that had left the guild? Honor among thieves was important, for without cooperation, much of what they did was impossible. However, if it came at her own expense, she had to ask herself if their goodwill was worth it. Being gullible only led to being manipulated. As the situation progressed, she was deep in deliberation.
The fiery-haired Derrik, meanwhile, put down his latest mug and paid careful attention to the so-called “Wardogs'' that were just now speaking to the colorful man by the door. Without a doubt, that was Edric, who he was supposed to meet here in the tavern. Only, the merchant master seemed to be in trouble. Were the Wardogs going to attack? If so, Derrik would need to help out, but his weapon pile was still on the other side of the room. Four enemies could prove quite a challenge. Of course, he wasn’t entirely unarmed…
At the entrance, the aging Cyril creased his face, which, together with his tone, clearly indicated there was no bargaining to be done.
“Edric. You’re coming with us.”
“What?” Edric answered airily, genuinely surprised, “I don’t have time for this, my caravan will be leaving soon, I have to...”
“What you have to do is shove yer mouth up yer arse! Come on lads, let’s seize…”
Cyril’s interruption was interrupted, as a hillock of muscle slammed a shovel straight in his shoulder.
Chaos erupted. The four turned towards Derrik, who, despite the element of surprise, was quite outnumbered by the Wardogs. Until, out of nowhere, the just-turned gang was hit in the back again. This time, the perpetrator was a hitherto unseen elf, polished shortsword in hand. Targeting a wardog next to Cyril, she cut a clean gash, but failed to pierce deeply enough. As such, the result was only violent cussing and a flurry of counterattack. Yet, in a shining display, the elf sidestepped, moving further into the tavern. Her movements were a twirling, acrobatic dance as she swung her blade, somehow perfectly evading the assault by a hair’s breadth. Merchant master Edric took the opportunity to dash off into a corner, not too far away from Raven, who still hesitated, even with the battle in motion, spreading out across the room.
Having no luck with the elf, the hulk-framed wardog leaped upon a table with a howl, priming her wood club for an overhead swing toward Derrik instead. Simultaneously, her opposite, the smallest of the brigands, slipped out of the melee and ran back to the table they’d previously been sitting at, where he loaded a crude, but no-less-lethal crossbow. Steadying his grip, he aimed for the shoveler as well. However, a sudden exclamation from Aki put a kink in the plan.
“Dogs, huh? You certainly smell like one!”
As the bandit heard the words, he was suddenly afflicted by an agonizing headache accompanied by severe emotional pain, much more than what a simple insult should do. As you can imagine it was quite distracting, and the shot flew way off its mark. Unharried by bolts, Derrik responded to the still-incoming swing by crouching, tensing himself, and shoving the already wobbling furniture. The attacker’s attack was, as such, left unfulfilled as she tumbled off with a bang into the boards below.
Meanwhile, Walda parried Cyril, used the momentum to sidestep a scimitar slash from the wardog she’d previously wounded, exploited the opening to thrust her blade into his unarmored neck, and in gush of blood, slew him instantly. The rapid display left Edric equal parts relieved and horrified, hiding as he was behind a table in the corner of the bar. While he peeked, he happened to spot a certain person in a cloak, who’d woven through the mess to reach the weapons stockpile, where she now stood with her longbow ready. Apparently, however, she was uncertain of who to shoot.
“You’re Ray, right? You must help! These outlaws are trying to murder me!”
Though his outcry didn’t really change the situation, it did remind Raven that, if she wanted to have an impact on the brawl’s outcome, she needed to make her move. She knocked an arrow to her bowstring, took a fleeting moment to breathe in as she aimed, then exhaled as she fired. It hit just where she’d intended: the crossbow wardog’s heart. Her target didn’t even have time to feel the pain as he released his weapon and fell backwards into the wall.
Neither Cyril nor the club-wielding hog took kindly to the death of their friends, but even after the latter got back on her feet from the table incident, the two were unable to retaliate, locked in melee with an impossible-to-hit-elf and a shovel-swinging-maniac. Aki wasn’t going to let them have all the glory though. He, too, peered within himself, to his own reservoir of magic. Unlike Caeli before, however, he wasn’t going to simply end an enchantment. He was going to cast a spell.
Channeling the power outwards, he chanted quietly to himself. The words were less a language and more a mantra; meaningless, but impactful. Simultaneously, he snapped his fingers, waved back and forth, clenched his fist, and finally, opened his palm, directed straight at his target. Out of that palm, his inner pool emerged, shaped into its desired form by the rapid ritual. What he released was a bolt of white force, which glowed as it shot off toward Cyril, hitting him square in the chest and temporarily knocking him to his knees.
A satisfying result. This spell was one of Aki’s favorites, but it was hardly his only one. Each had different words or gestures, and produced an incredible range of effects, such as making insults so sharp they applied physical injury. Normally they taxed the wellspring within, like draining water from a container. Such expended power was restored through rest, but if it ran out, one could cast no more spells until it replenished, with problematic results in battle. The blast he’d cast just now, however, was so simple that it made no noticeable difference to his reserves. More potent magic was hardly needed to defeat two bandits.
After the forceful flash, Cyril wasn’t doing so well, and with half of the original wardogs dead, it was suddenly they who were outnumbered. So, he and his fellow brute did what was expected of any pair with survival instincts; got on their feet, powered through their injuries, and ran for the door. Derrik had other plans. Rushing like a bull, he caught up with the fleeing bandits just outside the entrance, on the stone road beyond. There, he mustered his strength, and with a single, wide swing, delivered them both into the cobblestones, unto unconsciousness, with the flat side of a digging implement.
The whole battle had been swift, lasting no more than a minute or two. Equally quick was Walda, who didn’t even sheath her sword before she dashed out the same way she came, handily disappearing before people had time to catch their breath and process events. This didn’t sit terribly well with Aki, who wanted to ask the sudden arrival about a thousand questions.
“Wait!” Who are you?” The bard wasted no time in running after, but the black-haired elf was vanished by the time he reached the doorway. Having left no trace down the road, he thought she must’ve turned into a bird and escaped to the skies, but luckily, he caught footsteps running down an alley next to the tavern. Determined to get some answers, he followed, but ended up faced with a rather different elf than the one he expected.
“Is it over?” Caeli asked, genuine worry in her floaty mannerisms.
“Huh? When… where did…?” Aki looked around the cramped passageway, but saw nothing. He’d caught the name of the airheaded stranger in front of him while he was playing earlier, but obviously she wasn’t the one.
Not getting an unfragmented response, Caeli reformulated her question. “Can I go back in and continue my meal now? I heard such dreadful noises coming from inside. Has the storm blown over, so to speak?”
Aki cast a suspicious glance at his novel acquaintance, ignoring her question. “Did you see another elf run in here? Pitch-black hair, gray eyes?”
Caeli seemed thoughtful for a second, then replied, “no, I haven't seen anyone like that. Must be me being inobservant again!” She shrugged convincingly.
Aki took a step further into the alley. It led in between several buildings, before connecting to another road on the tavern’s backside. His mysterious aid could’ve used any in the throng of paths.
Caeli crossed her arms, a hint of irritation breaching her attitude. Aki shrugged, finally giving a proper reply.
“Well, you missed a slightly brutal tavern brawl, but that’s about it. Although you might wanna avoid coming back in if you’re feeling squeamish.” He added, thinking about the several perished brigands now littering the place.
“Oh. I am glad you took care of it.”
“Right. Edric is there as well, you should probably greet him. You’re one of the people he hired, yes?” His assumption was a pure guess, but what other reason would an elven noblewoman have to find herself in a place such as this?
“Indeed I am! Thank you, musician!” Caeli quickly strode off towards the tavern entrance.
Aki noted that the slight scar on her face was very similar to the one he’d seen covering the ebony-haired swordfighter. For a moment, he pondered the obvious string of thoughts. Then he disregarded his suspicions. Sure, it was a strange coincidence that the black-haired elf had entered the same alley that Caeli exited from seconds later, but simultaneously, the implication was simply too ridiculous to be true.
Well, that was close. Out of sight, Caeli relaxed her strut and reclaimed her food. Seven years ago, she never would’ve suspected her talent for acting would serve her so well. Now, she used it every day.
Newly disguised in her enchantment, she tried to steady herself. Though her exterior was flawless, her heart thumped inside, shuddering at the idea of being discovered. Now that she was thinking about it, if the place they were going inside was as dangerous as the rumors said, there was a good chance she would have to use up all her reserves of magic, which meant she would be unable to recast the spell concealing her true form. If that faded away, there would be nothing to blank her face, and then she would… No. Don’t panic, it’ll be alright. Your magic won’t fail. If it does, you have your makeup kit to cover for you.
It had become so easy to think such comforting thoughts. Confidence restored, Caeli held her head high and appeared as your average witless noble.