A curious custom of the Dronvar, in all their inclination towards duty to family, is generational debts – favors, more often than monetary negotiations. As one might expect, the longer unfulfilled, the higher the price on repayment. They attribute this to the “monster of fate” which followed their creational father Ghol-Charox to his downfall after a century of evasion. It is not beyond them to employ underhanded strategies which force the dues of fathers down the family line, maximizing their gains through repayment from unwitting sons and daughters.
-Markkus Thulvus, University of Oakenhaven
“She’s waking up.” The voice of a woman flowed like silk as Velaiah fluttered her eyelids open. A blur shrouded her vision, revealing only a slender shape seated beside her in a dim space smelling of incense. She blinked, and as her vision cleared she took in a familiar face with soft, beautiful features framed by wisps of raven hair. A slight smile adorned her maroon lips. “Good morning, Warden.”
In search of any hint as to where she was, Velaiah’s eyes darted around, but a folding screen painted with indigo lilies shielded their intimate space. Wax dripped from a long-burning candelabra atop a bedside table. A censer hung from the ceiling, spreading fragrant smoke which clung to her parched throat and sinuses with an unpleasant tingle. Dark, lacquered wood furniture and floorboards completed the trappings of a place somewhere still in Drondaris – but how far from home remained a question.
As Velaiah emerged further into consciousness, recollections of her last waking moments flashed through her mind; the conversation with the stranger named Tabathys, and the woman at the bar when the unwelcome encounter concluded. The latter was the very same who sat beside her now. Beyond this, she only recalled leaving the tavern, after which she’d made it to a stretch of woods down the road, and after that – nothing. She’d had a few drinks, but none so potent as to erase her memory.
“Warden — what is this?” Velaiah asked as she tried in vain to sit herself upright. It was as though a massive weight held her down, but nothing was there. It seemed not to be her own weakness, but rather some force of magic. The back of her head swelled with pain, and she closed her eyes as a spell of dizziness washed over her.
“We’ll explain everything, love,” her watcher said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Please don’t strain yourself.”
“Thank you, Nyrra,” said a man from behind the separator, his voice clear and resonant, “I appreciate you looking after her.”
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“Of course, Father,” the woman replied, springing up from her seat as the man appeared. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“No, my dear,” he answered, smoothing his pointed beard as he glanced at Velaiah with sharp, red eyes. “I believe you’ve been diligent enough. You’re dismissed.” The daughter gave him a beaming smile and a kiss on the cheek as she swept by without another word, leaving the two in privacy. Velaiah’s heart raced, but she did not let her breath follow.
“Velaiah,” the man said once they were alone. “That is your real name, Warden?”
“Is this how you always do introductions?” Velaiah asked, a dry cough scratching at her voice. “Kavox, why the fuck can’t I move? What is this?”
“A pleasure to meet you as well,” he said, ignoring her question. “I am Adris. It is genuinely fortuitous that we’ve found you.”
Velaiah watched his most minuscule movements. His hands stayed clasped and hanging in front of him, and he maintained a tranquil expression with no tension in his shoulders nor elsewhere. His eyes, however, burned with menace.
“The Shroud is defunct. You've found no fortune in encountering me. Spare me your pleasantries and tell me what you want from me.”
“I want to make a deal.”
“Well, you’re out of luck. I don’t make ‘deals’ anymore, especially not with rat-faced perverts.”
“Pugnacious. How charming,” he responded as he sat in the vacant chair. A smile spread his lips thin, just barely inhibiting the eerie voracity which oozed from his expression. It bordered on obscene and made Velaiah's skin crawl. “You remind me of my daughter.”
“Is that what gets you off?” Velaiah snapped, diverting a sob of frustration into laughter.
“I think we’ve strayed a bit far from the subject.” An ice-cold hand rested on Velaiah’s forearm. Goosebumps formed, standing tiny hairs on end – until her shock wore off, and she tried to lash out at him. Her efforts were in vain, however, as the weight bore down on her arms and chest, repressing her movement. Adris drew back his hand and set it upon his lap.
“Don’t touch me again,” Velaiah growled. “If you want to speak of deals, release whatever spell you have on me. There is no need for this.”
I would love to trust that you’ll cooperate, but I’m afraid your word isn’t quite enough,” said Adris, brushing off his robe as he stood up. “Forgive me for my haste – it seems you’re still shaken up. I will have Nyrra tend to you until you’ve changed your mind.”
From a pocket on his silk robe, dark blue with thin stripes embroidered in gold, he produced a tag made from the distinct gray clay of the Kurux riverbed. It hung from a plafond-knotted string, emanating the very essence of Dronvari origin. As he turned away, he set it down beside the candelabra.
Velaiah’s ears followed the sound of his footsteps as he disappeared behind the screen. As the door clicked shut, she closed her eyes, releasing a flood of tears and struggling against whatever force held her down. The more she tried to resist it, the more it crushed her, until it squeezed all the air from her lungs. Pain throbbed in her head, overwhelming her with weakness. She fell still and choked on frustration.
As her vision began to fade, she turned her gaze to the tag which Adris had left behind. Its surface read vurim nelevurim. A favor for a favor. Beneath it was her father’s name, and beneath that, two thumb-shaped grooves. One was marked with a fingerprint in dried blood. The other, empty.