The first thing he becomes aware of is that his head hurts. No, not just hurts. Aches. A sharp, piercing pain that throbs from the very back of his skull, radiating out in ripples of misery. It’s different from other headaches he’s had, whether from hangovers or the occasional migraine that puts him in the ship’s hold for an entire day, unable to stand the sun’s light for fear of it becoming worse.
The second thing he becomes aware of is the sound of water. A slow, methodical trickling sound.
Where am I? He thinks. The sound of the water reminds him of being back home, relaxing near the suspended gutters that would distribute water drawn from the summit all around the city. Am I back in Quallesh?
“Wake up,” says a voice. It is familiar, but difficult to place.
If only my head would stop hurting so damn much, he thinks.
“Wake up!” Says the voice, more sternly.
He grumbles a response, squeezing his eyes shut tighter.
“Kavi you codpiece, wake up!”
He freezes.
There’s only one person that calls me that, he thinks. He opens his eyes, seeing that he is laying in an expansive garden, near the aforementioned waterways that travel across gutters built into the tops of the palace walls and spread out in all kinds of directions upon ornate trellises and sculptural supports.
Besides him is another Halfling, a native Indirian, like himself. Tanned skin, long dark hair, wearing a custom-tailored dress of only the finest fabrics. Cashew knows this person, knows her to be one of his oldest friends. One of his only friends from back home.
“Go away, Princess. I’m trying to sleep,” he says mockingly, turning his head away from her slowly. His attempt to not show any pain seems to fail, however.
“Just let you go back to sleep after rattling your brains, huh? A nice post-concussion nap,” she says, a smirk on her face. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to let someone with head trauma go to sleep.”
“That’s a myth,” he grumbles, closing his eyes again. “What do you even want?”
“Just reminding you that you promised to come back some day,” she says kind of absently, leaning over to flick Cashew in the forehead. He yelps, feeling a wave of pain ripple through his skull again.
“Augh, you tool!” He cries out and opens his eyes again, glaring up at her. “I don’t need you to remind me, not like that.”
“Well you won’t remember if you keep giving yourself concussions,” she muses.
“Shut up,” he groans, closing his eyes again. It’s so hard to keep them open, between the sun shining above and the pounding pain of his headache. But it’s not as bad, now that he thinks about it. It feels like it’s starting to fade. But in the pain’s place is just exhaustion.
Before he can nod off, he feels her hand on his arm. “You’ll come back, right?” She asks.
“Told you I would,” he mutters sleepily.
“When?” She asks.
“When I’m done,” he argues, feeling consciousness slipping away, just like back in the weird bathroom in Tarn’s manor.
Wait, that’s right. That stupid old house with the weird stupid monsters and my stupid party members! He remembers, right on the verge of sleep.
“You better, asshole,” she says.
“I am–”
~~~~~~~~~~
“–no’n’ass’ole,” Cashew manages to slur sleepily, eyes fluttering open.
He is laying on the stone floor of the indoor bathing area, the trickling of water he has been hearing coming from the nearby fountains. Standing over him are his companions: Demy and Wren look worried, whereas Dahlia and Kaz just look annoyed. Addy is nowhere in sight.
“Oh, sure. I heal you and I get called an ‘asshole,’ huh?” Kaz says, frowning down at him. Her hands are still glowing faintly, but the light gradually fades away.
“Should have let his brain keep leaking,” Dahlia says, grinning.
“Should have,” Kaz echoes in agreement.
“You okay, Cash?” Demy asks, offering a hand. Cashew takes it and lets his tall friend help him up with little effort. He appreciates that Demy takes it slow, as he is still a bit dizzy. The pain is gone but it almost feels like it should still be there.
Body and brain wonder where the trauma went all of a sudden, Cashew thinks to himself. He’s never been a big fan of magical healing, finding it disorienting. He reaches back and feels the back of his skull, which is intact and, phantom pain aside, doesn’t hurt.
Better than the alternative, though.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just knocked myself silly, had some weird dreams,” he says. After a moment of realization, he squints up at Demy, “Thanks to you, that is! Peek at me through the fucking door!”
“Hey, that wasn’t me,” Demy says defensively. “That was Wren.”
“Wow, throw me under the cart,” Wren chides. “Er, sorry Cashew.”
“Happens,” he says, shrugging. He’d give Demy a hard time about it, but he doesn’t know Wren well enough to give them a thorough shitting-on. “Since we’re all not dead, I assume those things are gone.”
“Failures,” Dahlia says.
“Hey, fuck you. We killed like a dozen of them,” Cashew argues, frowning.
“No, not you. Those things. They’re called ‘Failures,’” she clarifies.
“You’re sure that’s what he called them?” Addy asks, walking over from scrubbing the icky, sticky gore off of herself.
“Wait, who called them that?” Cashew asks, perplexed.
“We ran into this dude in the library in the other part of the house,” Demy begins explaining. “Tall, really tall, said his name was Kem. Called them ‘Failures’ and said a bunch of other weird stuff.”
“Like what?” Cashew asks.
“Notably, he said that the reason Tarn built this place is in the basement,” Wren answers.
“Strange, I haven’t seen any kind of entry to a basement. Did you three see anything on that side of the manor?” Kaz asks.
“Nope. Dining room, some servant’s quarters, a kitchen, then the library upstairs,” Demy explains. After a certain look from Cashew, he continues, “We even kicked around in the kitchen and pantry, to see if there was a wine cellar or something.”
“Cellar door could be outside,” Dahlia offers.
“You said that guy spoke like the Failures did, right? That he said something like it was an actual language? I knew it–what did it sound like?!” Addy rambles, badgering Wren excitedly.
“I couldn’t make that sound if I wanted to,” Wren says, feeling a shudder go down their spine as they think about Kem speaking in that way.
“I can try. He said I was close,” Dahlia says. She opens her mouth wide and lets out an incomprehensible, guttural sound that causes everyone besides Addy to wince. Addy, by contrast, is absolutely fascinated.
“Can you do that about seventeen more times?” She asks Dahlia.
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“Probably,” Dahlia answers. “Giant Friend Kem said that I was missing some ‘internal mandibles’ to really nail it, though.”
“Hm. We can get some sticks and shove them in there,” Addy muses while Dahlia nods excitedly.
Wren clears their throat before addressing the others, “We still have business to attend to here. Now that those things are gone we should be able to search the rest of this place.”
“Wren’s right. We need to look for this supposed basement, for one thing,” Kaz says.
“We also need to check the second and third floor on this side of the house. Since it wasn’t on the other side, the old guy’s bedroom is probably up there. Might find something important in there,” Cashew adds.
“I still want to search more through the library,” Dahlia says, going back to opening her mouth widely so that Addy can triangulate the optimal placement of a few wooden “Mandible Replacers.”
“Should be pretty safe to split up now. Not like it being dangerous stopped us before,” Demy says with a snort, taking a swig from his flask.
“I’ll go upstairs and try to find the bedroom. Tarn might have had a lockbox or something in there,” Cashew says.
“I’ll go with Cashew!” Wren says quickly. This earns a sideways glare from said Halfling and a perplexed look from Demy.
“You know that anything of real value has probably been picked clean already–” Kaz begins, but Wren cuts her off.
“To check for magical auras! Anything valuable or important could have some kind of magical protection, you know,” they say, nodding at their own reasoning.
“Like I said, there probably isn’t–” Kaz starts, once again getting interrupted.
“You’re right! There probably isn’t anything valuable at all. I’m sure we won’t find anything for the group,” Cashew agrees as he walks toward the door, smiling.
“Mmhm. We’re just looking for, like, some old stinky journal or something, that’s all,” Wren says, trotting after Cashew.
“We ain’t gonna see a copper from that bedroom,” Demy says.
“No chance,” Kaz sighs.
“I’m going to the library,” Dahlia says simply and begins to leave.
“I’ll come with!” Addy says and grabs her bag, running to catch up with Dahlia.
Demy and Kaz watch the two leave before sizing one another up, the ambient trickling of water loud in the otherwise quiet stone room.
“Guess that means we’re checking for the basement,” Kaz says.
Demy frowns and quietly asks, “Does this mean we have to go outside?”
Kaz furrows her brow, eyes scrutinizing Demy as she asks, “Yes, it does. If we do happen to run into one of those Failures, are you going to be any help?”
“If we run into trouble, I’ll be fine,” Demy sneers, turning away to leave without another word.
Silently, Kaz follows after.
~~~~~~~~~~
The peaceful quiet of his bedroom is like music to Felix’s ears. There is a faint murmur of life coming from the tavern regulars and the entertainment downstairs, but it is far away and muffled, just the faintest hint of life happening elsewhere. It is a strange kind of limbo that he is used to, having grown up in the bustling royal keep of Halcyon, where there always seems to be some kind of business going on in any given part of the castle. Being the youngest of three brothers certainly did not help in trying to find somewhere solitary and quiet.
Felix rubs his temples, feeling the onset of a headache brewing. He wants nothing more than to close the blinds and fall face down into his bed, to rest after a long day spent dealing with Bernadette and trying to recruit crew for the coming expedition. A lot of talking, a lot of strained smiles and pretending to care about the woes of a bunch of self-absorbed peasants. A lot of bartering and pleading, begging–he hates that part especially.
I should not be begging a bunch of beggars for help, he thinks bitterly. He turns away from the bed and sits down at the nearby desk. Reluctantly, he begins searching through one of his travel bags as he continues to complain internally.
This cloak and dagger buffoonery is a remnant of the last era.
He carefully pulls a case from the bag and opens it, producing a rolled-up piece of parchment; he spreads it over the desktop, making sure it is perfectly flat, before procuring a dropper full of black ink. As the light catches the bottle just right, the dark liquid inside shimmers with a rainbow of color.
“Frederik Thorburn,” Felix says in a monotone, holding the dropper full of ink high above the blank parchment. A drop squeezes out of the end and falls to the page, splattering and spreading out far beyond what it should. The page gains color and features as the dot of ink fills up the entire surface, showing a large stone room full of various maps and sculptures of the world of Vale. Seated at a large table in the center is a man in regal clothing who bears a passing semblance to Felix himself, save for a well-groomed beard and reddish-colored hair in contrast to Felix’s clean-shaven face and lighter brown hair.
The king looks up, eyes catching Felix’s, and he smiles.
“Good to hear from you! I’ve been worried, after what happened with the expedition,” Frederik says, the worried smile he so often wears these days fading ever so slightly at the mention of the incident.
“Sorry to worry you, brother,” Felix says, trying to keep his exhaustion from showing through. Frederik worries about much–too much for one man, certainly–and Felix hates to add to his brother’s long list of worries. “I’ve just been busy, trying to set up another group to attempt the expedition with. I just the other day found a group that might be able to protect the caravan from those humanoid creatures: They’re presently, um, proving their abilities by helping the local constable with an issue.”
Frederik’s expression brightens a little as he says, “I’m glad to see that the setback hasn’t affected you too badly. I’m sorry about your colleagues.”
“Well, I managed to save Professor Rhys. She’s the one that would be most difficult to replace and, if we’re correct, the one that will be most useful,” Felix responds, glancing down into the bag he pulled the scroll box from just before. Within is a strange lump of metal, found when the town of Tarn’s Rest was first being built. Unknown purpose, a piece of something larger, but certainly of the same material as the ancient Monteith relics. It is the reason that Aderyn is here in the first place.
“Are you sure you’re alright–” Frederik begins, but Felix cuts him off.
“I’m fine,” he says, harsher than he intended. He takes a deep breath and sighs, apologizing once he sees his brother’s worried expression, “I’m sorry, I just grow weary from talking about them. They were friends and colleagues, but it cannot be helped now. I would rather focus my grief on making their deaths worthwhile.”
“I understand, Felix,” Frederik says, his tone heartfelt. He decides to change the subject and asks, “So, that group you say you found, what are they like?”
“Ah, well,” Felix stammers, glancing away like a child who has been caught playing with something dangerous, something they are not supposed to be playing with. “They’re an odd bunch. Very, erm, diverse.”
“They’re all Loxian citizens, yes? From the mainland?” Frederik asks, voice exasperated. “Felix, don’t tell me–”
“It’s not my fault, everyone here is some kind of pick-swinger or box-mover,” Felix responds back, agitated. “These people are rough sailors and ex-military officials, they will actually be able to fight back against those things.”
“‘Rough sailors?’ Felix, you aren’t telling me that they’re not just foreigners, but vagabonds and criminals as well,” Frederik laments. “You know how Flint feels about this.”
Felix sneers, knowing full damn well how Flint feels about it, alright. Bitterly, he says, “They are the best that I can find in this backwater village. And Flint’s whole crusade to keep the other lands out of this is foolish–”
“Heard my name. Oh, hey little bro!” Says a deep voice. A third man steps into frame, much taller and broader than either Felix or Frederik: He is handsome, with features that line up with the other two. His smile is broad and confident, devoid of the worry and the exhaustion of his brothers.
“Flint,” Felix says curtly in greeting.
“We were just discussing the expedition,” Frederik explains.
“Any luck finding something other than laborers out there?” Flint asks, smirking up at Felix.
“Maybe. They’re being stress-tested right now,” Felix says, tone short, expression flat.
“Told you, I could just send a regiment out there,” Flint says dismissively.
Felix can feel his eye twitch but he holds it together. Through grit teeth he says, “You’re the one who doesn’t want to cause a scene and get the other regions of Vale involved, brother. I told you before that sending in a visible military presence would cause people to start talking more than they already are.”
“You also said that you could find some people and disguise it as just some nerd expedition,” Flint reminds him, tapping a large finger against his bicep in a slow, rhythmic beat. A habit that has irritated Felix since the three were children.
“I can but it would be a lot easier if I could recruit anyone here instead of just native Loxians,” Felix argues.
“No!” Flint says, voice rising for emphasis. “Anyone we don’t have documentation on could be a spy from one of the other regions. Whatever is on that stupid rock is ours to find, we can’t trust any of the other countries getting to it first or finding out what it is.”
“We don’t even know what it is yet!” Felix spits back angrily. “The third era is over Flint, the war is finished. We should be building bridges, not walls!”
“Easy for someone who spent the whole time reading books and discussing philosophy to say,” Flint growls, face reddening. “It’s only a matter of time before the next stupid reason to kill one another shows up and we will not be caught out this time.”
“Your paranoia will be the next stupid reason–” Felix begins, but Frederik finally speaks up.
“Silence!” He says sternly. Both Felix and Flint immediately stop, looking away in shame. There is a reason that Frederik is the ruler and not them; a reason that is easy to forget because of his caring, worrisome demeanor.
After a moment, Frederik continues speaking, this time softer and more appeasing, “Felix has assured me that he has found a capable group of individuals. You said that you are going to set out again once the snow thaws: Is that correct, Felix?”
“That’s right,” Felix answers, head down.
“Then this discussion is closed. Keep us updated and, please, be careful,” Frederik says.
“Yeah,” Flint adds, simply.
“I will. Goodbye,” Felix mutters, flicking his hand across the surface of the scroll and causing the image to scatter into dust, leaving the page blank once more.
His head throbs and he glances at the bed, knowing that his anger will not let him find peace in sleep. Leaving his magical materials out on the desk, he stands up with an agitated groan and starts toward the door.
After dealing with his brothers, a drink sounds fantastic.