“Do you think he really expected to have guests out here?” Wren asks, starting their way up the staircase to the third floor.
“I’m going off the assumption the old guy had sand in his ears,” Cashew remarks, taking one last glance down the dark hallway the two have just come from.
“‘Sand in his ears?’” Wren repeats, looking over the side of the staircase, expression puzzled.
“Y’know. Guy was nuts,” Cashew clarifies, starting up the stairs after them.
“Well, I guess you of all people would be able to recognize if someone is nuts,” Wren jokes.
“That’s racist,” Cashew chides.
“Wha–because your name is Cashew. Nuts. Get it?” Wren tries to clarify, unsure if the Halfling is being serious or not.
Cashew squints back at Wren judgingly, “Uh-huh. Oh, I got it.”
Wren sighs and continues to ascend to the third floor.
The second floor of the manor’s East wing, it turns out, is made up almost entirely of guest bedrooms, many of which seem to have never been touched. The two combed through the rooms carefully: Wren opened their aura to detect anything that might be enchanted or magical, while Cashew tapped and knocked on the walls and checked in dressers and under beds, looking for any kind of hidden compartments or other secrets. The search came up entirely empty, though the two wonder if Tarn ever had any kind of guests over, or if he just expected to at some point. After all, why have guest rooms when you don’t have any neighbors on the entire rest of the continent?
The third floor hallway is similar to the second floor: Just a long, straight hallway with doors on either side. Unlike the second floor, which had several doors leading to the small guest bedrooms, this floor only has two doors facing each other in the very center of the hall.
Wren hums, looking from one identical wooden door to the other. Tepidly, they ask, “Well, uh, left or right?”
“Got a coin?” Cashew asks in response.
Wren smiles and fishes a copper piece out of their bag, musing, “Let the fates decide. I respect that.”
“Whatever, racist,” Cashew mutters, looking off down the hall. Wren still can’t decide if he is joking or not. “Heads is left, tails is right.”
Wren flips the coin, hearing the metallic ringing sound as the metal spins in the air before coming back down. They catch it and slam it onto the backside of their other hand. After a brief pause for effect, they reveal: Tails.
“Sweet,” Cashew says and reaches out, grabbing the doorknob. However, it doesn’t turn. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Cashew remarks, “I blame you.”
“I didn’t lock the stupid door,” Wren argues, huffing.
“Just sayin’: It was your coin,” Cashew counters, reaching into one of the many interior pockets of his baggy clothes. He procures a few small, thin pieces of metal: One flat and curved sharply in an L-shape and the other long and thin, with a slight bend near the tip. The former slides into the bottom of the lock by its short end, carefully providing pressure as the latter moves inside and feels along the top, searching for the tumblers. As one tumbler is pushed up into place and catches, Cashew uses the L-shaped piece of metal to keep the lock turning, holding the depressed tumblers in place as he searches for the next one in line.
Wren peeks around Cashew’s back, a look of genuine surprise on their face. They let out a low whistle and say, “That’s handy. Do you think you could teach me how to use those things? I’ve always wanted to learn. For, uh, reasons.”
“You think your cop buddy would like that?” Cashew asks, attention set on his work.
“Kaz isn’t police of me,” Wren huffs slightly, crossing their arms. “So, could you? Teach me, that is?”
“I don’t deal with racists,” Cashew says, smirking a little as the second to last tumbler falls into place.
Wren sighs and says, “What if I apologize for offending you? I didn’t mean to, but if I did, I’m sorry.”
The lock clicks and the door cracks open ever so slightly. Cashew glances back at Wren and says, “You’re way too easy. Tell you what, you teach me how you do that and maybe we’ll swap tricks. Business transaction, yeah?” He motions toward the floating orb of light by Wren’s head.
“I don’t know if it’ll help you learn how to do it, but I can tell you how it works for me,” Wren says, making the tiny moon-orb bounce up and down playfully.
“Deal,” Cashew mutters, turning back to the door. He carefully pushes it open.
Inside, as the two expected, is a bedroom. This one is expansive, unlike the smaller guest rooms downstairs, with lots of personal details that the others lack. The personal details in this room are of surprising interest, however: Military-style maps of different areas are on the walls, as well as various paintings, most showing battles or soldiers. A couple different suits of armor and a multitude of weapons are presented proudly, as are several different scrolls and medals indicating accolades from the King of Kattelox himself.
The remainder of the room consists of ornate furniture, including a large bed that doesn’t look as if it has ever been used. The dressers contain clothing and personal effects that look to have been untouched since finding themselves in this room.
Near one of the suits of armor, preserved in a glass case, is a plaque. Wren makes their way over to it and begins reading out loud, as Cashew moves along the edges of the room, tapping to try and find any trace of false walls or other secrets:
“By decree of King Frederik Thorburn, this plaque commemorates Andrew Southgate, proud soldier of Kattelox and son of General Tarn Southgate. Andrew fought valiantly for his country and fell during the Battle of Vorominsk, upon the continent of Phyleris, on the date of Rahn 17th, 1993 3E. As his remains could not be reclaimed, this plaque exists in their place.”
Cashew stops tapping at the walls and floors long enough to walk over and stare at the plaque next to Wren. “So this all belongs to Tarn’s dead kid?” He asks.
“It’s a shrine,” Wren says sadly.
Cashew frowns and looks around at everything, including the never-used furniture. In a soft tone, unlike him, he asks rhetorically, “The old man never got over it, did he?”
“Some people really love their children,” Wren mutters, looking at the displayed pieces of armor with a stony expression.
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“Yeah,” Cashew agrees softly, looking away. The somber, awkward moment stretches on for several seconds before Cashew finally says something else, “Is any of this stuff magical?”
“Let’s see,” Wren says. Their eyes begin to glow with the same light as the mote that circles their head. Cashew can track their gaze, which illuminates everything they look upon, like a pair of small hooded lanterns.
“Well?” Cashew asks.
“A couple of the weapons and the armor are enchanted. Not sure what kinds of magic, but the auras seem strong,” Wren says. “Probably worth quite a bit.”
Cashew considers this. “I’m not opposed to graverobbing, but taking this stuff feels… not great,” he finally admits. “Besides, we probably wouldn’t be able to find any buyers in town. Doesn’t look like anything we could use, either.”
“Yeah, good point. We’d totally take it otherwise!” Wren exclaims, crossing their arms.
“Oh bet,” Cashew says, unable to help from cracking a smile. “So, anything else glow in here?”
After a sweep of the room, Wren shakes their head and says, “Not that I can tell. Did you find anything?”
“Nope. No secrets in here that I can find,” Cashew says, glancing back at the items on display. He adds somberly, “Probably didn’t want to sully the shrine to his son.”
“That just leaves the door across the hall to check out. You think it’s Tarn’s bedroom?” Wren asks, making their way back to the open doorway of Andrew’s bedroom.
“Unless it’s in the basement, I think it has to be,” Cashew muses. He starts to walk out of the bedroom but Wren holds their arm out, stopping him.
“Wait. The door,” Wren says, staring out at the closed door just across the hall. Their eyes continue to shimmer with the ability to see magical auras.
“What about it?” Cashew asks, squinting at it as if he can discern what Wren is seeing.
“Let’s just say it’s a good thing we didn’t flip heads before,” Wren says and steps forward through the doorway. The door in front of them glows brightly, enchanted with some kind of magical effect. While Wren isn’t sure what exactly the effect is, they can hazard a guess that it isn’t something that they want to be on the receiving end of.
“Some kind of magical trap, huh? The old guy took his privacy seriously,” Cashew jokes, standing back into the room a few feet just in case something goes awry. “Can you do anything about it?”
“I think I can dismiss whatever is on it. You, uh, might want to stand back in case it doesn’t work, though,” Wren warns.
Cashew, already several steps back into Andrew’s bedroom, takes yet another step back behind one of the armor displays. He holds up his hand out from behind it, giving an affirmative thumbs up.
Wren focuses on the door, silently willing whatever enchantment affecting it to dissipate. Unlike the scholars who study magic to recreate it through practiced rituals, the arcane comes to Wren unconsciously, allowing them to impose their will on the world around them. They aren’t certain how they know to do these things: It just comes naturally, reflexively. Each magical effect is like flexing some kind of intangible muscle. Conjuring one of the floating orbs or seeing magical effects requires only minimal effort, while something like disrupting an enchantment requires considerably more.
Like wind sweeping away the ashes of the former evening’s fire, Wren’s will wipes away the magic on the door, causing it to scatter and dissipate entirely. They take a deep breath, having held it in as they concentrated, out of habit. The last time they attempted to cleanse a magical trap was back on Kattelox and it resulted in having their eyebrows and beard singed off. Took months to grow back in and even now, their left eyebrow grows in kind of crooked.
“Door’s clean,” they say, wiping a bit of sweat off their brow.
“Good shit,” Cashew says, coming out from behind the display and making their way over to the closed door. “I’m going to believe that you actually did something and didn’t just stand here and clench your cheeks for a full minute for no reason.”
“I appreciate the confidence,” Wren mutters as Cashew tries the door, finding it unlocked.
“Don’t need a lock if the door just kills you when you touch it, huh?” Cashew muses, pushing it open.
Inside the room is a bedroom, similar to Andrew’s, down to the displays of armor and weapons, the maps and art on the wall, and accolades in their cases. Many of the weapons and armor show clear signs of past use and, as Wren can clearly see, are enchanted much like the gear in Andrew’s room–and the door.
“So, robbing the son’s grave felt bad. How do we feel about Tarn’s stuff?” Wren asks, looking around in awe.
“I mean, we still probably wouldn’t find someone who could afford any of it in town,” Cashew answers, already inspecting the furniture and walls.
“Dammit,” Wren grumbles, checking the maps on the wall. Their stomach sinks slightly, seeing the region where they lived drawn in detail upon one of them.
I wonder how things would have been different if the Loxian army found our village instead of Kaz’s platoon? They wonder, uncertain of how to feel about seeing a reminder of home upon the wall.
“Jackpot! Wren, come check it,’ Cashew calls from the other side of the room, behind the bed.
Wren snaps out of their pondering and walks over, seeing him kneeling down besides the head of the bed. He reaches out and raps on the floor with his knuckles: The sound that reverberates from the wood is dampened and hollow-sounding.
“Found the old bastard’s little hidey-hole. Any magic on it?” Cashew asks.
Wren shakes their head, seeing only the plain wood of the floor. “Not that I can tell,” they clarify.
“Sweet as,” Cashew says, grinning. He takes one of his daggers and carefully uses it to pry up the wooden board, revealing a small compartment, within which sits a small chest. He glances back at Wren, who confirms that it isn’t magical, before he gently lifts it out of the cubby.
“Looks locked. Oh, what do we have here?” Cashew mutters as he inspects the lock. He sits the chest down on the nearby desk and pulls out his lockpicks once more. Making sure his hands are clear from the front of the lock, he sticks one of the thin metal pieces inside. An audible clicking sound is heard, like a gear turning, and Wren watches in amazement as a thin, sharp needle shoots out the front of the lock, imbedding itself into one of the wooden bed posts a few feet away.
“That looks like it would have hurt,” Wren muses, getting a closer look at the needle. It is slick with some kind of oily film which they have no interest in touching.
“Y’know, I’m starting to dislike the old guy a little,” Cashew admits. It takes a few minutes of work, and a few failed attempts, to pick the lock, which is of a surprisingly high quality. Or perhaps not too surprising, considering the lengths Tarn took to hide whatever is inside. Eventually, however, the lock clicks and Cashew leisurely opens the chest, taking his time to savor the excitement.
“What’s in it?” Wren asks excitedly, peeking around Cashew’s shoulder.
“Looks like some papers. Letters, actually,” he answers, holding up a stack of papers. The only other thing inside the little lockbox is a nondescript metal key, which he also holds up. “Any of it shine?”
“The key is magical. Can I see it?” Wren asks and Cashew hands it to them, turning his attention to the letters. Wren turns the key over and over in their hand, eyes glowing as they scrutinize the magical aura: Different types of magic glow with different colors; this one glows a soft white.
“Some kind of protection magic. I bet it’s just to keep the key from rusting or getting damaged,” Wren finally concludes. “Think it just goes to Andrew’s room?”
Cashew looks up from the letters, squinting at the key. “Nah, the bitting is different. This looks like it’s to a really heavy lock,” he says.
“Maybe the basement?” Wren muses out loud before pocketing the key. “What about those letters?”
“No luck, they’re written all stupid,” Cashew complains, holding them out to Wren. They look through the letters, which admittedly mean little more to them than they do to Cashew.
“I think this is written in Loxian; Addy should be able to read it,” Wren says.
“Isn’t there supposed to be some old journal with a cryptic message and a half-finished last entry for us to find?” Cashew asks, looking over the room with a frown.
“Maybe Addy and Dahlia found it in the library,” Wren ponders out loud. “Oh, or it might be behind whatever this key goes to?”
Cashew pouts a bit, muttering, “It better be. With lots of gold that is morally unobjectionable to take.”
“We deserve it,” Wren says reassuringly, patting Cashew on the back.
“Don’t touch me, racist,” Cashew says as the two leave the bedroom.