
Nathan P. Cardwell
Copyright © 2007 Nathan P. Cardwell
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN-10: 1-55404-472-3
ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-472-6
First Edition July 26, 2007
Also Available as a Large Type Paperback
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When he entered the game, his eyes became fixed and dilated. That condition was followed shortly by thin lines of drool at both corners of his mouth.
As a Paramedic, Jesse Berrach had led a fast-paced life. It was a demanding profession, fraught with long hours of work and little reward, unless what one values is the preservation of life itself.
Even so, most find themselves left with precious little time for such luxuries as a family, which, incidentally, had been the primary grounds for his divorce, an action of legal proceeding that suddenly seemed to accelerate in direct correspondence with his current dilemma. As such, he not only found himself unable to attend, but was quite literally without means to acquire legal counsel due to mounting financial difficulties relating back to said same dilemma.
To Jesse, this reality had become all too evident when he received his one and only hospital visit by the soon to be "ex," Mrs. Berrach, just as he was waking from a sedative given to him the previous night. As he opened his bleary, uncomprehending eyes, there she was, standing next to his bed, gently patting his hand. Observing him wake, she leaned in close, proceeded to remind him of an upcoming court date, and then politely excused herself, as she was expected at a dinner engagement with her attorney, Biff.
Just after their initial separation, and almost six months prior to her warm imparting of the news in I.C.U., he had begun to spend a great deal more time on the job. He liked his work. Specifically, he liked helping people. One simply has to be careful about getting too close to the victims. There is always the one in a thousand chance of screwing up because you weren't paying proper attention. It isn't always easy to maintain a professional distance, but the alternative is grim. People really don't appreciate how many close calls there really are, and what they should remain mindful of is that if bad things never happened, there would be no ten o'clock news.
Jesse had failed to maintain that distance one night while attempting to reach the sole surviving victim of a gas line explosion in the State Tag Agency building. The woman had been pinned beneath a section of rubble, quite near to where the explosion had taken place. The only reason she had survived the initial blast itself was due to her position within the agency's walk-in and fireproof safe. She had indeed suffered no burns whatsoever. Unfortunately, the safe wasn't quite explosion-proof.
Due to the extensive damage caused by the explosion, and the building's pre-existing state of dilapidation, the remaining structural integrity remained in question. Until the area could be secured, no one could move in.
So, there she lay, pinned beneath rubble, screaming and screaming and screaming and... Well, one can only listen to so much agony before completely losing one's mind.
At some point, Jesse, as well as several other paramedics and firefighters, finally broke the line. The decision to do so had been both unanimous and simultaneous, as if the particular aspect of human decency that had driven them all to the same breaking point had been singular in its timing. At the time, he had actually felt a great relief. It was good to find that the world had not become so professional that a person could literally lie screaming until she finally expired, while the so-called professionals just stood back and watched, or listened as the case may be.
They had made their way about two thirds in when the woman's screams suddenly waned, and then ceased. They all momentarily halted as the implication prompted questioning glances leveled at each other.
"Look," said one of the firefighters. "If she's dead, there's no reason to risk our necks..."
"We don't know if she's dead," returned a paramedic. "She could have just slipped into shock."
"I dunno. I gotta bad feelin 'bout this. Besides, if she's passed out or somethin, then she's outa pain, right? Let's go back and wait for the chopper."
"Hey, Berrach! Not that way! There might be another..."
Another explosion suddenly ripped through the floor beneath them, and as the entire substructure gave way, the small group of wayward heroes was quickly swallowed by surrounding debris in what would later be described by witnesses as a scene likened to the fury of all hell breaking loose.
Jesse would remember nothing past the initial percussion of the blast itself.
As next of kin, Sarah had been duly notified upon Jesse's admittance to I.C.U. She took the next available flight down, and was met upon her arrival at the hospital by the attending surgeon, who proceeded to advise her of her brother's condition as best he could, which was to say very little, as the full extent of damage had yet to be determined.
The remainder of his report to her was mostly an accounting of the accident, and how lucky her brother was to be alive at all. This was further reinforced by the fact that no one else had survived.
Realizing that his attempt to comfort the woman was not only not succeeding, but apparently serving to exacerbate her misgivings-a realization prompted primarily by her sudden pallor and ever widening eyes-he finally recommended several good hotels she could stay in while waiting for the full results on preliminary tests.
She politely thanked him, but did not take his recommendations. After locating Jesse's room, she settled in for the night, and the next day, and the next night and so on.
This turned out to be something of a trial for a number of the staff, who eventually prompted an unspoken contract between themselves and the now infamous Mrs. Hoffman. The agreement was simple. They stayed out of her way, and she refrained from making their lives a complete and utter living hell on earth.
Of course, this is not to imply they were without the means of retaliating against her more flamboyant displays of vehement vigil. They simply replaced the coffee dispenser with an unmarked decaffeinated brand. The results took almost two full days, but she did finally run out of steam. Upon noticing her unconscious exhaustion, one nurse actually performed something of an Irish jig.
Jesse regained consciousness approximately seventy-two hours after admittance. His neck had been immobilized, so he couldn't see that Sarah had slumped down in the chair next to his bed after having fallen asleep while watching television.
It was just after ten P.M., and the news was running a follow-up story on the accident with home footage someone had sent in. The amateur film was unsteady, and the focus kept moving in and out, but it still managed to cover the complete path of everyone who had broken the line.
He watched in rising horror as they ran it again in slow motion. The woman pinned beneath the rubble, then a shaky panning of the camera as it zoomed in on the men, including Jesse, which made for a total of three paramedics and four firemen.
As if on cue, they all stepped over the yellow parameter tape, and then advanced towards the cries of anguish. This was of course, despite the cries of authoritarian objection they left behind.
Then the group momentarily stopped. This prompted even louder objections from the dissenter's superiors, until that is, when it all abruptly ended in a shockwave of rubble and twisted I-beams.
Mercifully, he had been heavily sedated, and lost consciousness before the eye-witnesses were paraded through a number of interviews, all of which proffering their own particular flavor of perspective while the footage ran again and again, like instant replay in a football game.
The next day, he learned of several other developments. First, he discovered that he had been fired due to reckless endangerment. He explained that he had not led the party, that everyone who broke the line had done so on his own. This explanation was quickly noted, and then duly disregarded. The second thing he learned was that due to the specific cause of his injuries, as defined by the Commissioner, his primary insurance carrier would not cover anything. In violating safety regulations, he had nullified the policy.
According to the somewhat overly excited Intern who had first advised him of his condition, he had broken and/or fractured almost every bone in his body. As this was accompanied by multiple lacerations, requiring just over five hundred assorted stitches, staples et cetera, the full body cast he really needed would have to wait until the majority of stitches, staples and so on were removed. This had required some fancy traction devices to immobilize him, and it hadn't taken long before he commenced to long for said body cast.
Even then, the initial cast itself was far from conventional. Due to ongoing tests and surgery, the cast was actually a group of molded and interlocking braces that could be individually removed as needed. By the time the real cast finally came off, he had no recollection of how much he had looked forward to it while immobilized in traction.
In truth, he had been quite lucky. The nerve damage to his spinal cord was minimal. He was actually learning to walk again. That sounds real easy if you say it fast enough, he had thought when his therapist praised him after successfully traversing the entire length of his room with only minimal assistance.
Actually, Sarah was far more impressed than he was, or at least she appeared to be. In fact, she had seemed to project a positive attitude throughout his entire recovery, though Jesse believed this was probably the Doctor's doing. It was simply that he knew her well enough to know that she was usually a pretty straight shooter. Ordinarily, if she had been worried, she would have said so. The only reason she might appear otherwise would be if she had been coached by the M.D., who struck Jesse as someone who also fancied himself as something of a shade-tree head-shrink, and was probably attempting to address the depression that often accompanies Jesse's sort of situation.
On the other hand, I just lost my wife and my job, and I look like a crippled version of Frankenstein's monster. If I were anything but depressed, that's when you should declare me nuts, he thought while returning Sarah's depressingly positive smile.
Of course, there was the occasional bad dream. This usually consisted of the same home video replay, depicting the other firemen and paramedics, whose last act of compassion would ultimately be labeled as reckless endangerment. "Reckless!" shouted the Commissioner. "Nothing but unprofessional, and reckless!"
Then there was the woman, whose last moments were spent pleading for help that would never arrive. And yet, sometimes he would actually make it to her. He would pull her from the debris, and just as he was about to place the oxygen mask over her face, she would change. Her skin would shrivel, and her eyes would grow dull, and sink back into their sockets. Then she would face him and ask the same question. "Why?" Why?
After a while, Sarah began to cut back on her visits. The trips were becoming costly. As soon as she knew he was out of danger, she had reduced her visits to one a month. Jesse understood. "We live in a practical world, Sis. Don't worry. I'll be outa here in no time."
But once on his own again, he was faced with the four walls of his confinement, which is to say, a level of boredom that he had never known existed. As a Paramedic, his life may have been fast-paced, but as a Patient, its pace was rapidly becoming anything but fast.
Then he caught himself watching one of the soaps his sister frequented. That's when a real sense of claustrophobia set in. On her next trip, he sent her to his apartment to retrieve a number of personal items, including his laptop. He needed to find some way to occupy his time that didn't involve daytime television. The ratio of incurable disease/coma/freak accident/amnesia cases to the remaining healthy though back-stabbing/spouse-cheating/double-crossing cases was beginning to appear a bit lopsided.
After her visit, he began to spend a lot of time on the computer. This was mostly at night, as the day shift nurses didn't like his tying up the phone lines. At first he had tried several off-line games to appease the day staff, but he lost interest quickly as the lack of interaction wasn't too different from being stuck in a hospital room.
Surfing the net while the nurses weren't looking was kinda cool, but he decided to curb that particular interest when his creditors raised the maximum of his VISA card limit for the third time in a three-month period: a proposition decidedly detrimental to what remained of his resources. That E-bay's a killer .
Then a package from Sarah and Dieter came in the mail. The content of the package was an online game called Wayward Fates . Beneath the title, the slogan read,
Welcome to a world where Destiny is what you take of it, unless Destiny takes you first.
Attached was your standard get-well-soon card. Sarah wrote a small letter on the inside leaf, explaining that she would be down for another visit the following Friday. She was going to see if she could get permission to take him outside. The weather should be nice.
At the end of the letter, Dieter had added one line. "Get your gimpy ass in the game, Twerp!" He had signed this by the pseudonym Borin Krue, but Jesse recognized his writing, if you can call it writing.
He immediately sent Sarah a voice-message through e-mail. He thanked her for the gift, and then asked her to inform her inbred red-necked reject of a husband that he would indeed get his gimpy ass in the game, and that he looked forward to kicking Mr. Hoffman's bombastically idiotic ass with such proficiency while in said game, that such would surely correct said Mongoloid's most unfortunate writing impediment. P.S. Give Bubba my regards.
Long ago, someone said, "When one door is closed, another is opened." WF was one weird door, all right. Some folks ride dirt bikes, others watch soap operas, and some play Wayward Fates . So maybe it's not quite as cool as dirt bikes, but when all other options are eliminated, it still beats the ever-living crap outa watching Luke and Laura take full advantage of Medicare in order to facilitate their dual hip replacements.
Nurse Donavan was right on time. He could hear the squeak, squeak of her loafers coming down the hall. When she got to his door, she stopped. After a moment she poked her head in.
"Okay, kiddo, the coast is clear," she whispered.
"Thanks, Peg. I owe ya, big time."
"You bet you do. How you gonna pay up?" she teased.
"Hmmm... I suppose there's room up here for two," he replied with a lecherous grin while patting the side of the bed.
"Honey, you wouldn't survive it," she laughed.
"Hey, If I gotta go, I can't imagine a better way," he offered while raising both eyebrows several times in quick succession.
She looked sternly back at him over the top of her bifocals, and then shook an authoritarian index finger in his direction. "I got grandkids your age, so you just best behave yourself, young man."
"Or what?" he inquired defiantly. Do I gets me a spankin?"
"Oh, go on with ya," she laughed. He could still hear her chuckling half way down the hall.
He pushed himself to a sitting position, and adjusted the hospital bed accordingly. Then he unlocked the bedside cabinet and withdrew his laptop. After jacking into the phone line, he booted up, punched in an outside connection, and finally patched into WF.
Unless one of the Interns showed up earlier than ten A.M., which he seriously doubted, he figured to get in a full six, or maybe even seven hours, before she returned to give him the fifteen minute warning as the day shift started.
He selected his main character, and then clicked the enter button.
CLASSIFIED-Log entry #1439-Janis Dolen-Data retrieval-Time code,
Note: The release of Doctor Kwibee was premature. This action was taken previous to my arrival, and is considered by this agent to be a severe breach of National Security. Furthermore, without the missing data, there can be no further developments made to the program, other than the masking adaptations based on Kwibee's notes. This filtration software would appear to be our only possible means to a direct interface at this point.
CLASSIFIED-Log entry #1440-Janis Dolen-Data retrieval-Time code.
Preliminary interviews have revealed no useful information. Civilian personnel have been released for medical treatment upon that confirmation.
CLASSIFIED-Log entry #1441-Janis Dolen-Data retrieval-Time code.
The masking interface has been initiated on schedule. Technical personnel have advised against this implementation, and have requested permission to submit a complaint based on my decision. Permission was denied.
CLASSIFIED-Log entry #1442-Janis Dolen-Data retrieval-Time code.
A specific signature matching codes mentioned in Kwibee's notes was detected from within the program, emanating from a remote connection. Our initial trace was broken, but did yield enough data to confirm that the filter does in fact work.
There were several other anomalous characteristics, such as the split link, that are not mentioned in any of the data Kwibee left behind. This, and the connection drop, followed directly after detection, sufficiently indicates Kwibee to be closer than we originally thought. As such, I have accelerated launch of the interception package. Due to the sensitive and potentially volatile nature of the situation, I have elected to subject only myself to this procedure. If something should go wrong, I'm confident that my associates will locate the Doctor.
However, in the event of mission failure, my recommendation is to scrap the project and archive all data until such time as any possible media breach may be defused. This will be my last entry until extraction.
Subgenus Two: Strophe One. Be watchful my children, whispered The Thief unto his Scapegrace. For Behold, I shall render unto you an affinity of partisan hearts.
Subgenus Two: Strophe Two. Behold The Valiant, whose realm shall become as dust before The children of Iniquity. His are the gifts of Justice and Courage.
Subgenus Two: Strophe Three. Behold The Muse, whose heart and song shall become the Catalyst of salvation to the outcast children of Hominid-Fay.
Subgenus Two: Strophe Four. And Behold The Trickster, for he is The Grinning Wolf who shuffles chaos to Jest with Fate in lengthy sleeves.
Subgenus Two: Strophe Five. And Seventeen shall be their sign when first assailed by Unclean Children of shade, or stone on the eve of seasons' true return. Make Light thy shield, and then crystallize thy escape in good faith of our Covenant. Remember, the only worthy survival is my Covenant.
Here marks the outset, whereupon the borders of madness and reason shall arise unto the Fates, there to deliver salvation, or damnation, as the discord of our worlds sway in the balance of immutable opus.
[Did it work?] [Well?] {What?} [Are they off the scent or not?] {Er...yes.} [Great. Hook me back up.] {I'm afraid it won't be quite that simple after all.}
"Oh, please come in, Master Stelthak," Ambassador Thindell gestured.
"You appear a bit...surprised, mistress," replied the cloaked figure as he entered, and then drew back his hood before taking a seat.
"It is usually your grandfather who comes to see me at this hour," she explained, glancing quickly at the hourglass on her desk while wondering what would stay her friend's usual cribbage night.
"Yes, I'm afraid Grandfather's attentions are required elsewhere at the moment."
"Is something the matter?" she asked. "He hasn't taken ill, has he?"
"No, mistress. He is busy procuring supplies for our journeys."
"Oh, I see," she said, her expression becoming more subdued. "Has the time of our parting come so soon, then?"
"We touch upon the seventeenth winter, and my Master has emerged from meditation with a vision from Lord Surripere."
"I knew it was pending. I...I suppose I had simply hoped for a few more games," she smiled halfheartedly.
"I'm sure he will miss you as well. In fact, I believe that is why I was sent in his stead."
"A wholly practical man," she frowned, conveying both respect and frustration. "Well then, perhaps I could interest you in a game," she offered, forcing a smile.
"I'm afraid there's really no time, mistress."
"Oh dear, you really are leaving, aren't you?"
"Grandfather thought you might be upset."
"Old goat!"
Master Stelthak stood, and took his leave. Agupy followed, and walked him back to the vestibule. Before opening the door, he faced her, kneeling to address the Ambassador more directly. "The Scapegrace stands in the debt of both your people and yourself, mistress," he began formally while bowing to reach for the tiny woman's hand.
Before he could kiss it, Agupy slapped his hand away. "I can't believe you, Goren! Given just a bit more time, and perhaps a good stout pair of shackles, you might be calling me Grandmother, yes?"
"I've no doubt," he smiled.
"Well?" she intoned expectantly while reaching her arms up.
He picked up the tiny woman. She locked her arms about his neck in a tight hug, and then kissed his cheek before being placed on the floor again.
"Safe journey to you, Goren," she called as he walked away. "Safe journeys to you all," she whispered.
Several of the Pack watched as Digger climbed the crag. When he reached the highest point, he began to trot about nervously, sniffing the ground as if searching for sign.
Finally, he faced south. The wind rushed past his flank in erratic gusts, marked by the powdered snow it gathered, and then drifted over the edge to spread across the southern ridge. Along that southern horizon was yet another mountain range, similar to the one where he stood now, but many kilometers away. He could discern nothing by scent. Even were the winds to reverse, a most unlikely prospect, what pulled at him was simply too far. It lay beyond the visible horizon, far to the south.
He cast back in the direction of the den. These scents were clear. His pack was safe. Norwinds was not forbidding to creatures who knew its secrets. They would hold the den with ease. There were pups coming soon, but the land offered plenty. Their numbers were strong, and without illness. Still, it was not an easy thing, and he lay down as indecision gnawed at his conscience. Abruptly, and without thought of looking back, Digger stood and leapt over the edge to descend the mountain face.
As Teristha passed a small contingent of Dis'Errants, they faced her while coming to attention. In unison, they all brought both hands down and at their sides, palms forward, in an official salute of respect. Ordinarily, the customary response was to place one's left palm over one's right fist. In Teristha's case, the adaptation was her left palm over her right stump.
She had lost her right hand during the fall of Arbitos, now known as New Malice. She had even been awarded the Seething Claw for her role in that coup. As for her stump, she had been auspiciously informed by Heartrot that such a magnificent wound would always serve her better than any ribbon or medal ever could. She could even remember his bearing at the time. As strange as it seemed, she believed that the nasty little Wognix earnestly envied her loss.
In all her time among them, she had never come truly to understand Dark-elves. Oh, she had learned quickly enough about their customs. She both knew and practiced the proper steps of customary cultural adherence. To fracture even the smallest of their moral codes would be a most regrettable experience, if she were lucky. Ultimately, comprehension was not a requisite. Knowing the motions, and then knowing when to make those motions, were the only crucial devotions of practical concern.
From behind her, a number of the Dis'Errants extended various other gestures. She could not see them, and certainly had no interest in observing such gestures, though time and experience had given her a good idea of what was no doubt a combination of lewd and perhaps even life-threatening hand symbols.
Regardless of her station, she was still Human. Abhoron's children had a very low threshold of endurance for her kind in the sense of cultural equality. Still, the Empire's word had been given to insure her cooperation in a critical time. Dark-elves could and would endure many things if need be, but a slight upon their good word to a traitor was not on the list. The trick was to always keep that threat between her and them.
She came to the final archway leading to Heartrot's chambers. On either side of the arch, stood the immense figures of two living trophies: two reminders of the fates awaiting those who dared to defy the Empire.
As she passed between the Ogre and Barbarian Juggerknights, she glanced briefly at their absent expressions. Their unblinking eyes remained empty of anything save those directives provided by Heartrot's Master Enchantress.
She looked away, facing forward as she passed through. Somewhere behind those empty masks were Heartrot's true trophies. The idea of their never-ending inner entrapment had always served to unnerve her.
The shout-scream came again. This time Cleetis was unable to avoid jerking as Perdil's vehement barking demanded his attention. The tiny mast slipped from his tweezers, which in turn slipped from his grip, dropping to strike the mast, which then fell askew of the freshly glued decking, and finally cracking the fragile container as it slammed against the glass bottom.
He turned the bottle about, examining the undeniable damage, and then unceremoniously pitched the almost completed oceanic vessel into the trash bin where it shattered. Then he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before rising.
"He moved! He moved!"
"Who moved?" asked a young woman's voice from behind him. Perdil wheeled about, and then looked down to address her. "Who have I been wet-nursing since you were but a tot?" he asked with an air of irritation to answer her ridiculous question.
"You said the same thing not a fortnight ago," she returned, matching his tone. "Come to think of it, last Solstice you swore he turned his head when the music started. Of course, if it really happened, it was just the one time, cause nobody but you noticed."
Perdil's brow furrowed. "I just imagined it? Is that what you're trying to say?"
"Oh, you're just too quick for me, aren't you?"
"Show some respect, girl!" Cleetis admonished.
"He scared off half a dozen customers!"
"Tuda!" Cleetis began in a scolding tone, and then paused to regain his composure. "I'm sure we can extend more courtesy than that. After all, the good Squire Shiverley has been most gracious. He donates all of his valuable time to the well-being of our entire family."
At this, Perdil fairly beamed with pride, folding his slender arms over his chest as it expanded to a point where it appeared as if it might actually lose its more predominant concave features.
"Squire? Bah! He's nothing but a blasted mooch! He sits about all day, every day, doing next to nothing!"
Perdil's scowl quickly returned as his hands dropped, along with his almost inflated chest. "That's not true!" he protested.
"Yes, you're right. You do become quite active around supper time."
"What's all the commotion?" Ezlea asked from under a large bear hide as she climbed the steps to her wagon.
"Perdil's hallucinating again," Tuda replied matter-of-factly.
"Oh, dear," she mumbled under her breath while quickly returning to the task of replacing her old throw rug, but bumping into the door twice before finally locating the handle and quickly disappearing within the interior of her wagon.
"I'll take it from here," said Cleetis flatly while proffering a stern glare.
"Is that supposed to mean I'm dismissed?" she retorted.
"I am sure you're needed at your cart." Perdil added.
"Don't see why. It's not as if I've got any customers left." Then, noticing Cleetis's menacing stare, she offered Perdil her own air of disapproval before spinning about and marching off toward the family vending cart.
"By-the-by!" she called, without bothering to slacken her march. "Our poor overworked Squire might consider taking out his dusty razor! Last time I looked, his patient's face was almost as hairy as my feet!"
As they returned to the hospice tent, Cleetis clasped the frail man's shoulder in an affable gesture. "My friend? I'm sure you realize how unlikely the prospect soun..."
"I'm not deluded, Cleetis!"
"Of course not. I would never suggest such a thing. Still, after all this time... Well, I'm sure that the contemplated relief in completing such responsibilities as you have so graciously seen fit to take on could easily warrant the mind to...envision that goal."
"No! I'm not imagining it this time..."
"Your services have been truly invaluable. However, perhaps you should consider a small sabbatical. I'm sure it would do you a world of good," he concluded as they reached their destination.
"It would do us all some good!" Magnatha shouted from inside the tent next door.
"Am I to be discharged then?" Perdil asked with a wounded expression.
"No, not at all," Cleetis inserted quickly, while pulling back the tent flap. "We simply feel that you've earned a vacation. Your skills are far too valuable..." he cut himself short as he turned to enter the hospice, thereby witnessing its occupant sitting bolt upright and rubbing his eyes.
"Darling? Have you seen the honing stone?" That query came couched in an abrupt and thoroughly disrupting shout from below.
"It's right where you left it," Selina shouted with just a hint of exasperation.
"I've looked simply everywhere! I don't believe the accursed thing is anywhere!"
"Top drawer, right hand corner, ochre pouch with the green drawstring!"
"Oh,yes, there it is. Thank you, Love!" He shouted his appreciation.
Shortly, there came several quick footsteps from outside the basement door, followed closely by several rapid raps.
Reluctantly, he got to his feet and opened the door to the makeshift den. "I thought we agreed it was healthier to avoid disturbing one another during meditation," he intoned.
"Yes, Dear. I could not possibly agree more," she returned expectantly.
"Oh, my! It was I who interrupted you, wasn't it?"
"Well, I don't wish to appear overly sensitive, Marc." she replied politely. After his insistence upon implementing the new rule about respecting each other's training time, she was prepared to launch a proper protest. Now however, it seemed pointless, with him already gearing up to apologize.
"I feel just terrible," he offered, proffering a positively dejected expression.
"No, it's all right..."
"Not at all," he interrupted. "After the fuss I made? It's simply inexcusable!"
"I'm sure it's just a matter of adjustment." she soothed.
"No, no. I insist that we exchange places. From now on, I'll use the roof, and you may have the basement. It really is much quieter down here, and there's none of that...Brinehaven air, if you'll pardon my affront to our fair city," he persisted, his mild inflection possibly as near to sarcasm as he was likely to come.
Ordinarily, she would have offered an argument. As it was, she would be late if she didn't leave immediately. "If you simply insist." she agreed hastily.
"Oh, that's jolly wonderful!" he crooned. "I feel better already..."
"I really must be going," she said quickly while turning to ascend the basement steps.
"Oh, that's right," he intoned brightly, thus halting her progress in mid-step. "You're due to lecture this morning."
"It's only a favor to Borin. Reginald is...under the weather again."
"Perhaps, but that's how many a great career begins, you know," he offered in that ever-present positive attitude he seemed to project almost ruthlessly of late.
"Perhaps," she agreed absently while continuing her assent. About half way to the top, she experienced an odd sensation, and paused. It was not so much a thing of malady, as much as an absence of other things.
The lights seemed to dim, as colors about her appeared to momentarily congeal. The sound of her boots on the rock steps lost a quality within its echo from the stairwell walls while her perception altered from looking at the steps and the open doorway beyond, to looking upon some childish rendition of the same scene: one that offered various flat block representations of the same steps and door frame, but with thick blackened outlines, as if to punctuate the boundaries of a child's finger-painting caricature, where one must not, though often does, paint outside of the lines. After a moment, the experience passed, as did its memory. Still, there remained an indefinable...
"My love? Is everything all right?"
"Oh, yes. It's just our fair city's therapeutic scent," she smiled, perhaps with a greater confidence than she felt.
"Get out of my blasted way!" Magnatha shouted as she pushed and kicked and whacked her way through the large crowd that was fairly swarming about the tent. Her vehement shouts went unnoticed by all but those nearest her as the overall effect of the crowd's murmuring was quite loud in itself.
"I told you he moved!" Perdil boasted smugly as Tuda waited in line to greet her old friend for the first time in seventeen summers.
She turned to him, matching his scowl, and then motioned him closer with her little index finger.
Cautiously, Perdil complied, ready to bolt if need be.
When in range, the small woman reached up and hugged him about the neck. "I'm so sorry for doubting you, milord," she whispered softly, and then kissed his cheek.
Presently, a highly pronounced blush engulfed the spindly man's normally pallid complexion, and while he could not flee the tent, due to his medical responsibilities, he did scurry across to the other side, there to duck behind the dressing curtain.
Tuda's smile was a crooked blend of satisfaction at besting her old foe, with perhaps a touch of genuine warmth toward him as well.
At that moment, the tent flap was swung wide as Magnatha entered, then closed behind her. "All right!" she shouted. "What's all this boarwash about Jester wakin' up!" she intoned doubtfully while craning about in all directions, hoping for the slightest glimpse of what the crowd about the bed was concealing.
Presently, the crowd parted, and for the first time since their escape from Arbitos, she could see his eyes. For a time Magnatha didn't move at all. She just stared at him as he stared back at her.
"Nanna?" Jester queried in a cracked voice, both hoarse and weak.
A moment longer and she lowered her head, releasing her held breath in a long exhale.
"Nanna? You all right?" he rasped.
"Leave me be, Scallywag! I just got dust in me eye!"
He looked back toward the center of the metropolis and the great twelve-hour glass, mounted on the elevated base of Brinehaven's central clock tower, aptly named The Twelve-Hour Tower of Brine, or Olden Brine for short. Soon the sands would complete their passage through the narrow center of the glass, thus denoting the arrival of noon. Blast her hide! he thought nervously. She's always late.
Just then, the sands did run their course, whereupon the glass was lifted by several hydraulic pistons connected by two pivot bars on either side of the massive clock. As the glass began to rotate, there was a resounding gong, followed by eleven more that marked the entire one-hundred-eighty-degree revolution. The glass then gently came to rest upon its base to continue the day's second half.
Borin turned upon a light rapping to the back of his helm. "Knock, knock" Selina smiled, casually taking his arm as they headed toward their favorite inn.
"Over my dead body!" Nefari snapped, crossing her arms and hugging herself in adamant denial.
Merfee read the overall effect with ease. To him, his wife appeared as if she were just short of stomping one foot to complete an image of a child far younger than the daughter she was attempting to restrict.
Of this posturing, the only aspects registering on Aqua were her mother's thinly stretched frown and clenched jaw, which was Nefari's universal way of indicating yet another case irrevocably closed. In response, she quickly shot her father with a pleading glance.
Merfee simply winked while proffering a faint smile, thereby conveying their continued alliance against a common foe. "Why don't you see what clothing and supplies you'll need?" he suggested calmly.
Nefari's outraged attention immediately came to bear on Merfee, her set jaw now joined by an expression Aqua had rarely witnessed and preferred not to witness further. As such, she was quick to take her father's advice, swiftly ascending the staircase leading to her room, and thoroughly resisting the urge to look back.
"Are you out of your mind?" Nefari growled through clenched teeth.
Merfee regarded her with patience. "She is in her seventeenth summer."
"I need not be reminded of my own child's age," she scowled, while turning to face the parlor's full-length mirror, confirming the intensity of her disapproving expression.
"We cannot keep her locked up forever, you know," he argued softly.
"And what if something goes wrong? With all the Hubs dismantled, and me bound here, how would we keep an eye on..." She paused upon noticing his reflected smirk. "Are you laughing at me, Squire Rainswalker?" she asked in a voice suggesting that peril loomed.
"Not at all," he replied while sidling up behind her, and reaching about her waist.
"What game is this, then?" she asked warily while pivoting to face him. She had long since learned to mistrust Merfee's confidence. His poor skill in bluffing warranted caution when he appeared this sure of himself.
"You know," he began while tracing the contours of her angry face, "were it not for those lines about the corners of your mouth and eyes, caused by your own worrisome ways, I might add, I imagine that a good many might find it difficult to tell you and our beautiful offspring apart."
"And now comes the flattery," she accused suspiciously.
"Actually, we are both yet in the flower of youth," he continued.
"Oh, do get on with it, Merfee!"
"Don't you think it's about time we thought about having another?" he asked while pulling her closer.
"Another what... A baby?" she asked in a tone that shifted from rising anger to a soft crooning all in one breath.
"How is Reginald?" she asked softly.
His answer was not immediately forthcoming. "Must we discuss such things now? It really isn't the time," he replied, then pulled her closer until they shared the same pillow.
"No really, Krue. The man's not your responsibility alone, you know. I've known him almost my entire life. Don't you think I've a right to know..."
"He's drunk off his arse again! Is that what you wanted to hear?" he shouted, and then threw the comforter back as he sat up on the side of the bed.
A long silence ensued. After a time, he reached for a hard leather oblong pouch from the inside pocket of his tunic that lay on the floor. From the pouch, he withdrew a cigar of a rich dark color, and bit the end off, spitting it across the rented room. He then lit the large stick of tobacco from a candle on the bedside table, drawing the thick aromatic smoke into his lungs and holding it for a long moment before exhaling with audible relief as the cigar's calming effect began to ease his agitation almost immediately.
"I apologize, Selina," he began wearily. "I don't mean to take it out on you. It's just that Father has been going downhill for some time now." He puffed several more times to stoke the stogie's coal before drawing deeply once again, and then exhaling the smoke into a thick cloud. "And the University has already threatened to revoke his Professorship if he doesn't start taking better care of himself. He went to work intoxicated three times last week alone."
He flipped a long ash from the end of the cigar's tip, and then leaned forward, resting his left elbow on his left knee.
"Mind you, it isn't a matter of money, or anything like that. I mean, Security may not be glamorous, but I earn more than enough to take care of him."
He drew again on the cigar's smoldering coal, which was by now almost half the cigar's overall length. "What I'm afraid of is his self-respect. Do you know what I mean?" he asked while shifting half about to directly address her.
What he saw as he faced her was not her usual beaming smile, her expression of anger, or any of the countless other possible facial manifestations of which Selina was remotely capable. It was as if she were daydreaming, though such would require some semblance of concentration in itself. What initially appeared to be Selina's wandering attention soon took on an altogether eerier appearance. In fact, she had taken on a quality more easily descriptive of a statue, or a corpse.
"Gadzooks, woman!" he exclaimed in fear. When she did not readily answer, he shook her shoulder with several rough jerks.
"Huh?" she murmured dreamily.
"Well, damnation, she is alive!" he intoned ironically.
"Huh?"
From the corner of the tent, Perdil had worked up enough nerve to try again. He shouted, or what passed for a shout by his meek standards, but was either unheard, or perhaps simply ignored. With the failure of this third attempt, the ordinarily mild-natured Cleric's face began to redden. The effect was not remotely similar to his earlier blush.
"I SAID EVERYBODY OUT!"
It took several minutes, but with the exception of Magnatha, himself, and of course, his patient, he finally cleared the hospice of all traffic. Perdil considered this a great triumph. He didn't count Magnatha's abstained remainder. She was usually an exception to most other authorities as well.
He did however believe, regardless of the consequences, that he owed it to his patient to insist that she keep the visit to a minimum, as his charge was yet in a weakened state. Oddly enough, she readily agreed to his order. "Only a few moments, please?" she requested, her gentle demeanor so uncharacteristically respectful, he had actually forgotten to flinch. To show his own gratitude, he withdrew to sit on the outside waiting bench until she finished.
"I'm so sore," Jester announced hoarsely as he attempted to stretch, but finally gave up due to a lack of strength. "And weak, too," he noted.
"Well I'd be surprised ta hear otherwise," she smiled.
"Feels like I been asleep for a fortnight," he complained, and then lay back from overexertion.
At this, both of Magnatha's eyebrows momentarily shot up in alarm. "Just take it easy fer now. I've got ta go help with supper, but I'll be back later." She patted his hand, and then stood to take her leave.
"Come to think of it, I could use a bite myself," he yawned. "I'm starved."
"I'll tell Perdil." she smiled, and left.
"He don't know!" she whispered sharply.
"Know?" asked Perdil.
"He don't know how long he's been...gone."
"Oh, no, well I don't suppose he would."
"Well?"
"Well, how should I know? I've never seen anything like this before. I mean, it's not as if they covered Post-Seventeen-Summer-Trance-Recovery in school, you know."
"There be a first time fer everything!" she offered, an old familiar edge returning to he tone. "So ya best be about figurin' it out!"
He considered the situation carefully. "I suppose we will have to tell him," he began.
"Ya think?" she asked in mock disbelief.
"But I strongly advise against it until he's stronger."
"Aye," she agreed in a softer whisper. "That much does make sense. I'll make sure the others know. And... I thank thee, Squire Shiverley," she offered, and then hobbled off to inform the rest of the camp.
Her personal warrant of well-being would not abate his anxiety, and despite her objections, he insisted upon escorting her home.
Still, under the circumstances, she could not abide the risk of such an atypical alteration from normal behavior. No doubt, a suitable canard could easily be contrived. She had no particular problem with that, but doubted his ability to maintain a cool exterior in the face of any suspicions Marc might display when he queried her need for his escort.
She could easily visualize Borin as he stuttered and stammered through the discomfort of the fabrication. Marc was an intelligent man. What would his reaction be? More than likely, he would simply break down. She could no easier bear that, than the prospect of relinquishing what small amount of happiness her affair with Borin afforded.
She had long since abandoned the loftier concepts of truth, justice, or even moral fiber. Marcus, however, yet believed himself within the grip of all those spells. As far as that went, so did Borin, though he didn't seem to realize it. Their little liaison was simply a thing that had somehow slipped through the cracks of their disillusion, perhaps no more than a bandage to cover what had been lost, but was at least something real: something tangible.
Ultimately, both were still the Knights-errant of an obsolete epoch. In both their cases, this was regardless of the ongoing decomposition of values held by practically every refugee who successfully escaped the Wognix invasion. Of course, they were only fooling themselves, in order to cling to certain idealistic aspects of that dead and buried dream called Arbitos.
At its conclusion, their argument produced an agreed-upon, if not enthusiastic, compromise. He would accompany her, but only so far as the eastern quarter. There she left him on a darkened corner to watch after her as she scurried along like some common Rogue whose stealthy purpose belonged to some mysterious underworld Quest.
"Aren't we going to eat with everyone else?"
"Squire Shiverley says you need to get your strength back first," Ezlea responded brightly while setting up a makeshift table for two.
"Bah! Clerics make up a lot of rules just to make themselves feel important."
"Well, Nanna agrees with him," she intoned more seriously.
For a moment, he appeared ready to continue his rebuttal, but he relaxed, and offered no further argument.
"Ezy?" he asked.
"Yes?"
"I'm still a bit...vague...about several things."
"Well, I don't see why," she returned quickly. "It's just like Nanna said. You transported everyone safely through, and then slipped on a loose stone. You bumped your head, is all," she smiled confidently while continuing to tuck a napkin about his neck.
"I suppose," he accepted with a confused expression. "But..."
"What?" she inquired hastily, a hint of impatience slipping momentarily passed her pretense. "Your beard? That's just a side effect of Perdil's rapid regeneration spells. I thought he told you about that."
"Umm, yes, he did."
"What then?" she asked expectantly.
"Well, why would Delphi just up and leave like that? Where would she go?"
"Oh, who knows what goes on in a Wognix's head?" She rolled her eyes as exasperation threatened to do away with what remained of her endurance.
"Please don't call her that," he returned seriously.
Ezlea put the plates down, and turned to face him. "You really do miss her."
He didn't answer.
"Maybe she will come back," she offered hopefully.
"Maybe," he echoed without enthusiasm.
She walked over to the bed. "Scrunch over."
He looked up, and then complied as she climbed in next to him. "I guess it wasn't what I thought."
"What?"
"Nothing." His attention wandered briefly, and then returned. "I...I think she's left me, Ezy."
In response, Ezlea leaned back and tilted her head to the side, resting hers against his. "Poor Puppy."
Selina stopped as a wolf howled mournfully in the distance. Or was it just her imagination?
The apartment was only a few blocks further. She was glad. It had been a long and strange day, and she was tired. In the morning she would make a grand breakfast for Marc. He would no doubt fuss about expenses, but she felt certain he would enjoy it well enough. The pay from her temporary work in Reginald's stead had given a nice boost to their economy of late. Surely it could not hurt to splurge just this once. She supposed the idea was merely some remnant of guilt over her infidelity. Still, it would be nice. We decline fast enough, she thought. It is of no consequence if we tarry to enjoy the old life from time to time.
She started walking in the direction of home again, feeling a little better already. After all, wasn't guilt yet another of those dead and buried concepts?
As she turned the last corner before coming to the street where she and Marcus lived, she spotted a man on the opposite walkway across the street, sitting beneath the corner torchlight in some strange sort of chair.
She slowed while observing his odd display. In a city as fraught with such nocturnal peril as Brinehaven, even her own passage could be construed as foolhardy. But coming out actually to lounge at such a late hour was irrefutably utter madness.
She slowed further upon noticing his expression, or lack thereof. She stopped altogether at the sight of his slack jaw and the line of drool hanging from his chin. His eyes seemed devoid of any awareness, like the dead eyes of a doll.
"And don't forget to dress warmly once you reach the Flatlands. There's a constant draft from Norwinds, and..."
"I'm sure she will be just fine, Dear," Merfee offered in response to Aqua's pleading eyes.
"Yes... I'm sure she will," Nefari agreed in a tone that might have been as much for her own benefit.
"All aboard!" shouted the Conductor before blowing a high-pitched whistle.
"I really must be going," Aqua prompted while inching toward the train.
"All right," Nefari croaked, her eyes quickly filling, then brimming.
"Oh, now don't start! I'll end up crying, myself," she sniffled, returning to embrace her mother for the third time.
"Just go!" Merfee scolded, taking his wife's arm in hopes of separating them before they farewelled themselves right into missing the train altogether.
"Yes, you're right, Fath... Oh, Father!" she cried, suddenly realizing how long they were to be parted. Reaching over, she wrapped her free arm about Merfee's neck without releasing Nefari.
"Here now! Non e of that business," he intoned, half-serious. "It's not precisely the end of Nirayel. You're just going on a field trip, for Natura's sake!"
"Yes, of course." She smiled as she released them, her face wet and her eyes already puffy.
"Look!" Nefari sobbed miserably as the eight rhino-beetles commenced their long northeastern trek.
"Aqua gave them both one last kiss, and then made a dash for the beetle train. She caught up quickly, and was assisted aboard by the Conductor who caught her as she leapt.
After waving to her parents until she could no longer see them, she climbed the ladder to the open roof above the last beetle's carriage harness, and then gazed out at the expanse that lay before her. My first Quest! she realized, as a shiver of excitement traveled throughout her body. She stood, raising her arms and face to the heavens.
The wind rushed through her hair and across her skin. After a moment, she could stand it no longer and loosed an almost musical howl of feral freedom that came nowhere near expressing the bursting sense of adventure she felt. After running out of breath, she simply fell backwards, to land in the soft rack of secured baggage with a contented smile.
"Do come in, Magistrate," Goulder offered warmly. He was always pleased to receive visits from Teristha. Her never-ending demeanor of nervous twitching provided an equally endless entertainment.
"Good morning, Regent Heartrot," she offered, executing a short, perfunctory curtsy. The Empire tolerated a number of the older Human customs, but not overtly, and certainly not in their more grandiose forms. Her once well-oiled curtsy was considered among the most distasteful of the Round-ear social gestures.
"My dear, your Dark speech has become absolutely impeccable. I dare say my Homidris is a complete embarrassment by comparison."
"The Regent is too kind, I'm sure." She smiled meekly.
"So," he intoned with a smile, while leaning back with his hands folded across his portly stomach. "To what do I owe this most pleasant diversion?"
"I have received notification that all seventeen Houses have been duly advised of the Emperor's arrival, and are currently preparing tribute."
"Well now, that is good news!"
"Yes, milord. Also, I have been informed that the Royal Guard is preparing to gate, though there may be a small delay."
"Delay?"
"Apparently, the Emperor's Wizards are finding themselves hard pressed to accommodate a quantity of thirty-five thousand."
"I'm sure they are," he chortled. "Oh, dear! Where are my manners? Please, Teristha, do sit," he offered while pouring her a goblet of wine.
She did as he bade her, carefully accepting the wine, her hand trembling, as did the goblet it held.
The toothy grin on the Regent's face reflected the delight he took in her fear. "Hors d'oeuvre?" he asked, proffering a silver platter, laced with an artistic garnish of delicately woven Pixy wings.
Teristha placed the goblet carefully on the table to avoid spilling it, and then quickly returned her attention to the dish, as she reached out to sample his offering. In realizing the contents, she froze.
"Oh, dear me!" he exclaimed. "I am just so terribly sorry, Teristha!"
"No... It's...it's quite all right, really," she tried to assure him.
"Nonsense. How could I be so callous?" he admonished himself while placing the platter of pickled round-ears directly in front of her.
"N...Not at all," she stuttered.
He leered at her from across the table, leaning on his elbows with a toothy grin, and sighing. "I have so enjoyed your company over the winters," he remarked in a low and confidential tone.
"As have I yours, milord," she returned pleasantly, but with an undeniable revulsion, her upper lip drawing into an involuntary sneer.
"That is why it pains me so." He momentarily sobered while withdrawing the platter. "To be parted from you now, after coming to think of you as-well, as family."
"Milord?" she inquired absently, still captivated by the morbid platter.
"It's just so terribly dreadful!" he moaned.
After a moment, when her revulsion had sufficiently subsided, the possible implications of his statement struck her. "Milord!" she began in a pitch, nearing hysteria. "I have always tried to serve you well!"
"I know, my dear. That is why it pains me so." he repeated warmly, a hint of his previous smirk returning.
"If I have offended somehow, then I beg forgiv..."
"Not at all. You've been an absolute shining example to every Human in New Malice."
"Then I don't understand! I have complied with every custom, and I am truly faithful! Why..."
"Exactly. Your services have become so renowned as to reach even the ear of the Emperor himself."
"The Emperor?" she repeated dumbly.
"I'm afraid so," he confirmed, allowing the implication to linger.
"The Emperor," she repeated with ominous dread.
"That is why you've been promoted to Baroness, my dear. I just wanted you to know that I did everything in my power to stop it."
"Oh, of course, milord," she answered, still stunned.
"What ever shall I do for proper entertainment without you?" he lamented in a low tone, almost to himself.
"Baroness!" she exclaimed abruptly while bringing her eyes to bear on his.
"Simply dreadful, isn't it?" he replied, his shark like grin returning fully.
"Baroness," she repeated dumbly.
"And that isn't the worst of it," he conveyed through a mouthful of pickled ear.
"Yes?" she asked quickly, her interest now impelled by greed, rather than fear.
"Well, the Emperor surrounds himself with soothsayers and astrologists and such. A truly indigestible mass of foolishness, if you ask me. But the old boy takes stock, so I suppose I do as well, officially speaking."
"I understand," she confirmed with as much patience as possible, while he continued to chew slowly, savoring both the delicacy of ears, and her anticipation.
"Apparently, these so-called Wise men have come across some old prophecy nonsense. Some bit of old superstition about Surripere, and other Demons, and some long extinct guild called Scraped-grass, or some such. Anyway, the stars are all apparently lined up just so, and these Advisors are all defecating in their trousers over their own doomsday garbage. They do this about every fifty or sixty winters, just to keep the old boy hopping."
"And my involvement?" she blurted, unable to restrain herself any longer, and then cringing as always when realizing her departure from propriety.
Oh gads, I'm going to miss her! he thought, pausing briefly simply to savor the old familiar smell of terror she afforded. "You're to be given a choice of subordinates, a full squad. In fact, dearest Teristha, the resources of New Malice are at your disposal."
"A Quest?" she almost whispered.
"Indeed. A Quest of your own."
"A Quest of my own."
He continued to explore the scattered debris, sniffing both air and ground as he progressed, but he discerned nothing other than thick black smoke of an unknown origin. From time to time he would imagine catching the hint of something like fresh blood, but the smoke always seemed to wash it away before he could register a direction.
As he progressed, he came to a very thin banner of sorts, stretched taut and extending off in two directions, further than his eyes could follow. There was something written on its yellow surface, though the bold black script was of some strange language he could not decipher. He leapt over it and continued.
After a time, he came to a depression in the ruins, like the shallow hollow of a dragon's foot. He carefully descended, jumping from a jutting slab of crumbling stone to the lower flat of a metallic protrusion, twisted and bent, as if wrenched by the hands of angry giants.
It was deeper than he had first thought, more of a canyon than a depression, although he finally reached the bottom of what turned out to be a great abyss. He sniffed the air, and was again met by the same strange, aberrant smoke, like a choking mixture of burning tar and unnatural death. A strong sense of foreboding washed over him, causing his hackles to rise as his lips drew back to bear his fangs. He continued, cautiously.
"Ahh, I see our friend is waking," intoned a familiar voice of graveled quality.
He spun about, growling, ready to pounce, but there was nothing there.
"I trust you slept well," echoed the voice, now distant and fading, though laughing all the same.
His attention was torn from the malignant phantom by a low moaning. Both ears immediately came to point. It was a woman, obviously in distress. He bolted in the direction of her voice, leaping the gaps between slabs as that smell of death rose from what he somehow knew were far greater depths than the simple canyon floor on which he now stood.
As he advanced toward the epicenter of whatever catastrophe had befallen this most illfated of topographies, he was confronted by a number of strange vines that were torn and frayed, and smelled of lightning. Again, that foreboding sense of danger. Touching the vines would mean certain death, and as he moved forward, the vines hung lower, and to avoid them, he was forced to hunker down, and then to crawl on his belly in places where the broken slabs of stone and vines of crackling death became almost impenetrable. Finally, the narrow passage opened into a mock room formed of a haphazard latticework of debris.
Inside, the stone floor was relatively clean, with the exception of one small section near the center, where the moaning emanated. He trotted about to another vantage, and at last caught sight of her. "Delphi!" his mind commanded his mouth to scream. Alas, he could but offer a mournful howling as he came to her, whining and licking her about the face. Even so, she would, or could not wake, all but her upper torso being buried by rubble.
"I do hope you can accept my apologies for these most unsavory circumstances," echoed the Baron cordially. "Unfortunately, I fear that the situation is quite unavoidable."
As he turned away from the menacing and faceless echo of the past, his attentions returned to his injured love, now awake, but somehow changed. Her remaining eye, once the light blue shade of heaven itself, had now become dull and milky. Then she opened her withered lips and spoke in a voice no longer her own, but something rotting and foul. "Why?" she asked sadly. "Why?" echoed yet another phantom from another past, not his own.
Regardless of an almost overwhelming apprehension, there remained an odd curiosity, or prompting: an unknown drawing that insisted that she recognize his importance.
With both reluctance and fervor, Selina altered her course, stepping hesitantly into the deserted street and slowly toward the seated apparition. As she neared, the tiny wheels attached to the base of the peculiar chair began to issue a high-pitched, gyrating squeak as the chair and its occupant began to inch away from her, backing toward the edge of the adjacent walkway's steeper incline, and despite her own increased pace, she was yet unable to grab him before his wayward seat reached the ridge of the increased slope.
She leaped to intercede, but missed, ending in a collision with the flat stone walkway that cost her skin from both hands, and though she regained her feet as quickly as possible, the now runaway chair had increased its velocity greatly as its occupant careened wildly while fairly spinning in the clutches of the maniacal, swiveling, fugitive piece of furniture.
Her apprehension quickly gave way to panic, as the catatonic man's flailing arms seemed to seek any purchase to escape his captor. It was not until the edge of the crevasse came into view that her panic became terror. This is when it first dawned on her that she might not be able to save him. A moment later, the crevasse increased in size, becoming more like a canyon of unimaginable depth and circumference, which reached out for the man as his chair raced toward the edge of that soon-to-be abyss.
As the chair passed the point of no return, he stopped spinning, and in that last instant, he swiveled back around to face her with his eyes now focused and locked on her own. His expression conveyed more than words. You never really tried at all, said the eyes, more full of hurt and disappointment than fear.
As he fell into the bottomless canyon's maw, she screamed his name in one last futile effort to reach out. "DIETER!"
Magnatha woke with a start. She had dreamt that some fool wolf had wandered into camp, and was making it his personal responsibility to howl right next to her tent.
Then she heard it again. Blasted cur! she thought, grabbing up one of her boots, and leaning over as quietly as possible, so as not to alert it before she could bean the accursed varmint. But when she pulled the flap back, there was no wolf. There was a light frost on the ground, and in the frost were the prints of a wolf who had apparently meandered about her tent, and then more or less struck off to the east, though the trail it left wound about in an almost drunken line of chaotic wandering.
"Why should I know?" asked Borin defensively.
"Oh, it's Marcus! Do come in, Marcus!" Reginald shouted unexpectedly from over his son's shoulder.
In response to his father's volume and proximity, his eyes momentarily seemed to double in size as his eyebrows took on an almost corrugated emergence.
"I don't mind if I do," Marcus replied brightly, and then shouldered Borin unceremoniously out of his way. "I never said you should," he whispered angrily as he passed.
The ringing yet lingered, though Borin still heard him, and noted his accusatory tone.
"Capital!" Reginald exclaimed, rubbing his hands together at the prospect of company, then whirling back toward the den.
"I don't suppose Selina might have dropped by this morning, did she, Professor?"
"No, no I don't believe so. Top drawer, though, that girl. Absolutely top drawer!" he intoned enthusiastically while rummaging through several cupboards. "She's been so very helpful to me lately. I've been under the weather, you know."
"Perhaps last night, then?" Marcus asked, while turning to deliver a glare at Borin that easily matched his previous tone of whisper.
"Blast it all! Where did you hide my port?" Reginald shouted while delivering a glare of his own that coordinated well with the similar inflection by Marcus.
"Top drawer," Borin replied without inflection, and without making eye contact with either, as he swaggered over, fell into a large high backed chair, sank down, and then swung one leg up and over, dropping it atop of the adjacent Cribbage table.
"Well! I'm just thankful that your poor mother, rest her soul, isn't here to see what's become of your sense of decorum!" Reginald declared with a grandly executed air of pontificate bearing. Then he upturned the bottle, consuming approximately half its contents. He immediately sank to the floor in a semi-conscious stupor.
Borin raised his head to make sure his father was all right, and then reached for a cigar from his inside pocket. "Father gets through the day rather quickly, anymore."
Marcus looked at the now unconscious man on the floor, and then returned his attention to Borin. "Where's my wife?"
In response, both of Borin's brows furrowed as he began to cast about in search of a source to ignite his tobacco. He opted at last for one of the candles on the fireplace mantle.
"You can't even look me in the eye, can you?"
"Damnation, Marc! What makes you think I would know?"
"Well, for starters, she's been reeking of your brand of tobacco since before the last full moon!"
"So do a lot of people. It's a popular brand."
"She doesn't smoke!"
Built within the only remaining Elder Sequox to grow east of the Lobri territory, Pi'xylem was easily the largest of all existing Wood-elf cities. At almost eight hundred meters in height, and a diameter of a hundred meters at the base, the reason for the city's towering success wasn't a great mystery.
That city of epic proportions lay far and away now, not that she missed it. However, standing in the middle of a remote terrain, with naught but scrub brush, sickle kemp, and the occasional tumbling weed, Aqua found herself drawn to the lack of several other related aspects, such as the absence of background voices, or the shuffling, bustling footsteps of day-to-day environmental noises made as thousands of Elves went about their daily routines. Still, for a short time, she was yet too full of her first adventure's blessed independence to realize the entire scope of freedom she had really been granted.
Then she began to note a sense of being mildly ill at ease, though that sensation rapidly rose in direct correspondence to the increasing distance between herself and the train as it returned the way it came. She whirled about, seeking the familiar comfort of said string of beetles, just as it disappeared over the horizon, thereby leaving her completely isolated beside the deserted station's only structure: an ancient-looking shed, once used as tool storage for the workmen who ran the beetle station. Then, as the enormity of her panoramic rendering dawned upon her, in the dusk of day, she suddenly realized just how nice it would be to hear the harping, and somewhat nasal tone, of her mother's reproachful voice. Anything would be preferable to nothing but...
Presently, a wolf howled in the distance, thus eliciting a brief squeal-like-squeak from Aqua, as she abruptly decided by a strict means of academic logic, "P...perhaps it would be prudent if I were to wait inside the station." That conclusion she projected in a loud if not steady voice, taking a certain measure of comfort in the sound of any voice as she fairly scooted toward the station's dilapidated workman shack. "Y...yes, I'm sure it's much more comfortable in there!" she shouted at no one in particular.
In the span of twenty minutes, or several hours if judged by her now elongated sense of the passage of time, every gust of wind whistling through every crack in the station's wooden shutters came to resemble the wolf's eerie song.
After a full half-hour, she opted to await the arrival of her expedition from inside the station's empty broom closet, where she remained for yet another half-hour.
Then a thought struck her. What if they come while I am hidden? Aside from the possible embarrassment of being found crouching in the dark like a frightened hare, there remained the solid possibility of being left behind when they decided that her mother had held to her original decline of consent. Presently, she burst out of the station, not really expecting to see them, but holding to the dwindling shred of hope that she might yet be rescued from this purgatory of endless solitude, where ferocious beasts prepared to pounce from behind every corner.
She was immediately met by a most welcome sight. In the distance, and heading slowly toward the station, was a most familiar caravan of Aphorine riding beetles.
As they neared their destination, Sibastian abruptly let loose in a cappella. "The flats do we away abide-by walking by our beetle's side. Before us stands the station nigh-where starts our lovely Aqua's ride!"
In response, his companions offered none.
He looked about for signs of at least some minimal token of appreciation, though from their lack of attendance, he might have only imagined his own melodic oration. "Right, then!" he exclaimed at last, feeling the victim of their stoic assault.
"I thought it was rather well executed," Braumis offered in cheerful consolation.
"Hmmm... Executed?" Miria pondered aloud. Yes, I'd venture to second that summation," she added in a neutral tone.
"It was garbage!" declared Maestro Spinwyp.
"Garbage?" echoed Sibastian indignantly.
"All right, well executed garbage, if you prefer," he corrected. "You've an excellent voice, but your composition lacks direction, substance, style, and taste. In short, your composition lacks composition. Quite frankly, it puts me in mind of material produced by a number of deficient first circle students, whom, incidentally, I had to fail last Semestris."
"I'm fairly certain that means it reeked," Miria tittered.
"What's the sudden interest in Composition anyway?" Braumis asked. "I mean, I thought this was to be a test of our specialties."
"It is," Miria confirmed.
"In unison!" corrected the Maestro.
"Yes, of course," she quickly agreed. "Though I imagine his High-elf Lordship, here, would prefer to find some way of putting everyone in his place, even Maestro Spinwyp, were he capable...which he's not.
In response, Sibastian replied calmly, without turning to face her, "Can I help it if I have such a massive overflow of raw talent that I have no alternative but to branch out in new areas of interest?"
"I understand," she returned warmly, "though I believe it's safe to say that your little ditty was the wrong branch."
Braumis chuckled in a low tone. He loved Elvin humor. "Wrong branch," he muttered merrily.
"Oh, really? Well now, aren't we fortunate?" he asked flamboyantly. I mean, to be privy to such gracious wisdom. Moreover, from such an esteemed Woodwind Master...or was that simply a windy Wood-elf's privy disaster? I never can recall the difference," he concluded smugly.
Braumis snorted out loud, and then commenced upon an intentional bout of coughing to cover his unexpected reaction.
"The Maestro has already critiqued your stinky little song without my assistance!" she scowled.
Now he did turn to face her, and with an expression of outrage.
"Hold!" commanded Maestro Spinwyp. Pulling the reins back on his beetle, he slid down the back of its shell.
In response, all three student performers also came to a stop, staked out their mounts, and formed a semicircular line about the Gnome.
"My dear Prince," began the little man. "As Mistress Breesylisthez points out so clearly, the subject was concluded the moment I finished assessing it."
Sibastian's bearing of anger shifted to neutral as his attention drifted reluctantly from Miria to Spinwyp. "As always, the Maestro is correct, and I humbly beg his pardon."
"You, humble?" Miria inquired incredulously.
"That's better," intoned the Gnome, momentarily ignoring the Wood-elf's comment."
Then, as his attention did come to bear on her, Miria's aplomb dropped, along with her gaze, as she seemed to develop an abruptly interest in her boots.
"You have become increasingly derogatory of late, my dear," observed the Maestro.
"Beg pardon," she mumbled in a small voice, eyes still cast downward as she seemed to be attempting to wipe a light layer of dust from the top of her left boot with the heavily crusted sole of her right.
"That is also better," he said, and then paused for effect. "But not good enough!" he intoned angrily while returning to his beetle. "You are all quite talented," he told them as he sought a purchase in which to remount. "All quite proficient, quite competent in your respective fields," he continued, still struggling to climb its shell from the back, only to slide back to the ground in absence of the rope ladder he had failed to drop in his haste to address their bickering.
At this, the serious expressions slowly faded from their collective assembly, including those of Sibastian and Miria.
"However, this expedition is not just to assess your individual abilities," he intoned seriously, and then jumped to catch the beetle's dangling reins in mid air. "In fact, it's a desperate attempt to determine if any of you will ever learn to perform, other than solo," he grunted with exertion as he pulled the slow-minded insect a few meters to the north and toward a small outcrop of rocks.
"It's a...blasted exercise in harmonious collaboration!" he shouted at the beetle, whose bewilderment owing to the little man's mixed directives had finally driven it to opt for non-conformity. It suddenly halted in its tracks, refusing to be moved further until it received proper commands.
The maestro ceased his tug of war, on hearing the sound of his student's unified laughter, further amplified by his reddened countenance as he peeked around his willful mount to witness their lighthearted harmony. At least they're being disrespectful in unison, he thought in rueful consolation.
"Hail, Miria Breesylisthez!" shouted Aqua, yet fifty meters out, but closing fast.
"Hail, Aqua Rainswalker!" shouted Miria as she centered on her old school chum.
"Is it really her?" asked Braumis brightly.
"Surely," laughed Miria. "Know anyone else who runs like that?"
Her elation at their arrival was simply more than her patience could bear. She could almost hear her mother's chastising voice, "Proper ladies never display their hearts upon their sleeves." No matter. They are here! They have come, and I am safely delivered unto my goodly, goodly friends! she resonated inwardly as she ran and leapt and fairly skipped the entire way. When she reached them, she came just short of colliding with Miria. Instead, they locked arms in a tandem pivot, to end by embracing one another in girlish giggles.
"Ditsy Wood-elves," Sibastian muttered with muddled disdain.
"Oh, Siby!" Aqua cried, rushing to Sibastian, and hugging and kissing his entire face without mercy.
Accordingly, he could but close his eyes tightly while scrunching his face in defense. Where Rainswalker was concerned, one might as well abandon all hope of complete avoidance.
"Greetings, Mistress Rainswalker!" called Braumis expectantly, hoping for a similar cordiality as was afforded Sibastian.
Not to disappoint, Aqua attacked her dwarven friend with great affectionate zeal, and then danced him about in circles until he was too dizzy to stand. He didn't seem to mind in the least.
"Where's my Maestro!" she called abruptly, releasing Braumis, who accordingly staggered about for several moments with a sloppy grin.
"Oh, dear," mumbled Maestro Spinwyp, involuntarily casting about for any means of escape, and then whirling about to seek the ladder that he had forgotten was yet resting atop his beetle. Finally, he released a heavy sigh of resignation as Aqua bore down upon him.
At midmorning, Marcus had at the University to bestow yet another visit upon his old friend. Under other circumstances, this might have been better received. However, the growing tension between them, centering primarily around certain alleged improprieties on the parts of Borin and the good Marshal's missing spouse, was sufficient cause for the unfortunate encounter that ensued.
Another element might have been the vehement entrance Marcus made during Borin's lecture, which had centered on the development of the pole-axe in ancient warfare, and its impact on modern society.
Initial reactions from attending students were to simply give the outraged Paladin as wide a birth as possible while he advanced on the substitute Professor's pulpit.
After spewing an incredible string of foul accusations upon said guest speaker, said Marshal then grabbed up one of the artifacts from the main display table, and brought the ancient weapon to bear on the object of his outrage, who accordingly decided to follow his temporary students' example, as he too gave way. In fact, he gave way for some time, and in timely fashion as they both continued to circle about the interior of the then student-free amphitheater.
"I swear I don't know!" Perdil cried hysterically at the Halfling woman sitting on his chest.
"Get off him!" Magnatha commanded as she entered the hospice.
"Not until he tells me!" Tuda shouted directly into the terrified man's ear.
"He doesn't know, anymore than you do!" Cleetis insisted while grasping her about the waist, wrenched her from atop the thoroughly pummeled Cleric, and then holding her up as a means to neutralize her aggression.
"It was his responsibility!" Tuda countered, ineffectively attempting to kick Perdil's prone figure from mid-air.
"Perdil's not to blame," Magnatha insisted. "Leastways, no more than any of us."
"I never even got to welcome him back, and now he's gone!" Tuda cried, no longer struggling, but initiating a series of jerky, shallow breaths, and thereby indicating that the dam was about to burst. Her entire family seemed to be disappearing, one by one.
"Well, blubberin' won't help none, neither," Magnatha mumbled unhappily while sniffling and blinking several times in quick succession.
"We're just wasting time with all this bickering," Cleetis asserted.
Hobson abruptly sounded the alarm.
"Wolf!" cried the lookout, as the camp came alive with Tarots filing out of every tent and wagon.
Magnatha's first thought was that Jester had finally come to his senses.
While he was distracted, Tuda broke free of her father's grip, and hit the ground running.
"A wolf is hardly call for an alarm!" someone shouted from the crowd.
"This one isn't stopping!" returned the lookout. "It's coming straight into camp!"
There could only be two reasons a wolf might exhibit such behavior. It was either starving, or rabid. Both reasons were good call for alarm, and everyone prepared for its arrival. If they were quick and lucky, it would die before anyone was hurt.
"Nobody moves against the wolf!" Tuda shouted, still running toward the crowd without slowing. "It's Jester!"
The Tarots made way for her as she ran on to greet him, but as the distance between them closed, she could see it wasn't Jester after all. Jester's wolf form had an auburn hue. This was a gray wolf.
Her own inner alarm went off as she halted in her tracks, immediately reversed direction, and bolted back toward the safety of camp, while knowing full and well that she couldn't possibly make it in time. As the sound of its footfalls came closer, she prepared to scream, but stopped when the beast passed her by as if overtaking an inferior opponent in a foot race.
Caught off guard, the crowd watched as the wild beast ran right up the center of the path they had provided Tuda. Apparently, he found them as unappetizing as the Halfling. They turned to witness it make a beeline for Magnatha and Cleetis as he assisted her toward the crowd.
Upon this realization, Cleetis jumped in front of Magnatha, prepared to defend her with his life, but was quickly whacked across the back of the head, thus falling unconscious as Magnatha stepped over his prone figure in order to protect him from the marauding wolf, who, rather than attack, ran round them both, specifically outside the range of Magnatha's canes, and then ran on until coming to the hospice, where he entered without hesitation. Said entrance was immediately followed by an almost feminine shriek of a most piercing quality.
Magnatha entered the tent, fully prepared to beat the creature off of what must by then be Squire Shiverley's corpse. Once inside however, she found the Cleric desperately attempting to exit the tent's opposite end by crawling under the canvas wall while the wolf, now atop Jester's bed, had lain down, and was currently panting heavily, as if near exhaustion.
Inching forward to venture a closer examination of the apparently passive creature, she noted that the fur was coarse and patchy, with several lengthy scars about the flanks and forelegs. This animal was near about seventy-five summers: fairly old as far as wolves went. After a moment, she achieved recognition. "Digger?"
At her voice, the wolf's tail wagged wearily.
"Ya... Ya old bag of misbegotten fleas!" she stammered, clutching her chest, and leaning heavily on her remaining cane. "Ya damn near busted me pump!"
At this unappreciative change in tone, the wolf's tail dropped to the bed as he emitted a small growl, perhaps more closely resembling a tired whine.
In the end, Borin and his would-be assailant simply grew too exhausted to flee and/or chase, and though their altercation hadn't actually come to blows, they each sported mutual indications to their mobile disagreement.
Propped against the now upturned speaker's podium Borin had hurled at him while they were yet in transit, Marcus gingerly explored the resulting bump on his head.
On the other side of the stage, Borin leaned on the ancient pole-axe Marcus had thrown like a spear after finally coming to the conclusion that his brave friend had absolutely no intention of ever slowing. Fortunately, the makeshift projectile missed Borin altogether, and instead had deeply embedded itself within the wall, just ahead of his ongoing circular retreat, approximately at shin level. Accordingly, this resulted in a relatively large amount of overall property damage, for when Borin tripped, approximately at shin level, his forward momentum continued to convey him, horizontally, and directly into a rather expansive display case, which up until that point had housed the last half-century of the University's lead-crystal trophies, all of which had been accumulated by the almost exclusive success of its Academic Debate Association. Miraculously, the nearly quarter-ton of crystal had completely missed Borin, who had just managed to scramble beneath the display's lowest shelf as the shattered avalanche descended.
"If you hadn't missed!" Borin began, implying what might have happened had the projectile hit him.
"When did you ever know me to miss?"
Borin considered this, but found little comfort in it, all things considered.
"Why can't you just admit it?" Marcus asked while getting to his feet, and sitting down on top the overturned podium.
"Admit what?"
"The betrayal is not only hers, you know. It feels as though there are two daggers in my back."
Borin's attention dropped from his bruised shin. He leaned the ancient weapon against the wall, and righted an overturned chair. As he reclined against the chair's back, he drew a deep breath, and then issued a heavy sigh. "It wasn't an assault on you, Marc."
"Oh, nothing personal? Is that it? I hope you will excuse me if I yet take it personally, old chum."
"It...took place of its own accord. I don't believe either of us actually intended for it to happen."
"Oh, now I understand. It was just a simple mishap," Marcus asserted as if having an abrupt epiphany. "Oopsy, I slipped!" he crooned, holding his head and shoulders back in an exaggerated impersonation of Borin's characteristic posture. "Oh, think nothing of it, ole boy," he continued in a higher-pitched impression of Selina's voice.
"It wasn't like that!" Borin insisted sharply.
"Go on," Marcus prompted in an easier tone.
"It...it's everything," he motioned expansively. "It's this degrading life we live. It's the yearning for what we will never have again. It's this cesspool of a city, and what my Father is becoming, and what I fear I'm becoming." He paused, and then continued. "It's having to deal with a kind of pain they never taught us about in the Arena!" he shouted at no one, though looking Marcus squarely in the eyes for the first time in a long time.
"I'm sure I've no idea what you're talking about," Marcus insisted, but glanced away anxiously as what Borin said began to sink in.
"You meditate it away, everyday. Every single day you withdraw just that much more inside your shell. Father hides too, but Warriors aren't taught meditation, so he hides in bottles," he paused again. "S...Selina and I hid within each other's arms. We might have taken solace in the company of friends and family. Unfortunately, there wasn't anyone of that description available, other than ourselves."
"Constable Goodfellow!" shouted a man from the doorway. Marcus looked up as his superior started to attempt entrance to the amphitheater, and then stopped in view of the massive amount of debris. Behind him were a number of other officers. "If you and your friend here have quite finished, I would appreciate a word or two, with both of you."
"There's really no sense in my going along," Perdil insisted anxiously while steadily unpacking the rucksack Cleetis continued to fill with items he felt Perdil would need.
Upon noticing that the sack was no closer to being full than when he had started, Cleetis carefully placed himself between the Cleric and the sack, and then continued.
"But..."
"We've been over this," Cleetis sighed.
"Do I look like some sort of Ranger?"
"No more than I do."
"Wonderful! I take it you just want company while losing your way in the wilderness. That way, you won't be lonely when we perish by the elements together!"
"We aren't going to get lost," Cleetis informed him while hanging the packed sack on the slender man's shoulder by the strap, then guiding him out of the hospice by his other shoulder.
"Perhaps we'll get lucky and end up as some vile creature's dinner!"
"We'll have Digger with us."
"You think that decrepit old beast can keep us safe?" Perdil asked incredulously.
"He won't have to," Cleetis assured him. "I'm more than capable of handling just about anything we might come across."
"Well, maybe, but how do you know the wolf is up to the challenge? He... What do you mean, just about anything?"
"I'm ready!" Tuda shouted as she busted out of the wagon wearing her own fully packed rucksack.
"You're not going anywhere!" Cleetis declared.
"She can take my place," Perdil offered.
"If this timid bag of bones is going, then why can't I?"
"Because it's too danger..." He cut his answer short at the sight of Perdil's ever-widening eyes.
"Nice day for a hike," Ezlea called cheerily. Hobson advanced close behind her, toting several bags, a pup tent, wardrobe, toiletries, three full crates of food, and one well stocked makeup case.
"We're burnin' daylight!" Magnatha grumbled, lashing down her tent own flap, and then hobbling toward them as quickly as anyone with bad hips and knees might be expected to move.
Cleetis's placid demeanor began to crumble, and after a long moment, wherein he both attempted and failed to regain composure, "Are you people crazy?"
Brinehaven prided itself on a simple but direct legal system. They maintained three separate categories of judicial action, with limited options for punishment under each category.
Misdemeanors, for example, were merely a matter of exile. This was a sentence of forty-eight fortnights, or two full summers, whichever came first. At the end of said sentence, exiles were then permitted access to the city again, but only if they agreed to be branded on their upper arm with a large letter E.
Minor Felonies, on the other hand, brought a prison sentence of ninety-six fortnights, or four summers, and with no possibility of early parole for first time offenders. Second time offenders were simply beheaded without trial. An ex-convict accused of a Minor Felony was quite rare, as most had by this point concluded that Brinehaven was not quite their cup of tea.
Major Felonies, however, which could range from manslaughter to mass murder, carried only one of two possible sentences. Families of the victims retained all rights to punishment. In the absence of a victim's family, those convicted of Major Felonies were simply burned slowly at the stake, often taking as long as three full days to expire. Most preferred the stake.
Marcus pushed his wheelbarrow of personal possessions up the incline until reaching the crest of the hill where Borin and Reginald rested by their own barrows. As he reached them, he lowered the handles until the barrow rested firmly.
After catching his breath, he turned back to the south. There, somewhere in the distant lights of Brinehaven, was his wife of almost seventeen summers. Or perhaps not. She may have fled both Borin and himself, unable to face either. He had no way of knowing. Perhaps he would never know. Perhaps he would never see her sweet face again.
Presently, Borin got to his feet, grabbed the handles of his barrow, and started toward the point where the hill descended to the north, and where the next hill would then begin. As he approached, the ex-Marshal wheeled about with a right hook to Borin's jaw. Accordingly, Borin dropped the barrow as he fell backward, landing flat on his back, and blinking several times while attempting to determine exactly what had just occurred.
Reginald quickly dashed to his son's aid. "Here now! That was hardly called for, you Ruffian!" he shouted at Marcus's back.
"Are you all right, Son?" he asked gently.
"Think so," Borin slurred while coming to a sitting position, and then shaking his head and working his jaw back and forth.
"Oh, good, good. Er, you haven't seen my port, have you?" Reginald inquired in an almost casual tone while licking his lips.
Borin stared at his father for a long moment before finally pointing in the direction of Marcus. "Got packed in his barrow," he replied groggily.
"Oh, Marcus, dear boy," crooned Reginald while releasing Borin, who, not having quite regained his balance, fell backward yet again. "Could I speak with you for a moment?" Reginald called, quickly catching up to his good friend the Ruffian.
They've cranked up the A.C. again, he noted with a mild irritation at whoever among the nightshift staff had felt justified in accommodating his own fully-clothed comfort level, while disregarding the needs of patients whose only insulations consisted of a flimsy nightshirt, seemingly designed for the admission of awkward draft, and a loosely defined blanket, more closely resembling a too-short, too-narrow comforter of dubious workmanship.
This prompted an unconscious groping for the dubious blanket, which his fingers not only reported missing, but went on to include further tactile abnormality as might strongly suggest a radical alteration to the surface contours of his bedding in general, and with eyes yet closed, he lifted himself up on one elbow while swatting mechanically at the dirt, grass, and twigs clinging to his face and beard.
Beard? He briefly attempted to process, opening one eye to an unexpected scene, and understandably other than his yet semi-plodding awareness, was quite prepared to process, but one of sufficient justification as to warrant the attendance of both eyes.
The next topic to register was the frost, which reopened the subject of his rapidly increasing sensitivity to the chilled air, now punctuated by his visible breath. To his further surprise, considering his physical condition when he last checked, he gained, or rather, scrambled to his feet with relative ease, despite a considerable stiffness brought on by what must have been an above-freezing ambient temperature, or else he would no doubt have already succumbed to hypothermia.
Upon reaching a particular point of rising awareness, only roughly equivalent to true cognizance, he found himself in a field of what appeared to be winter wheat, were wheat capable of producing purple iridescent grain. In glancing about, he found that the small area he currently occupied had been matted in a radius of perhaps just over a yard, much as when a dog circles about in order to clear a proper place to bed down.
Of the wheat itself, he found his vision restricted to the confines of that matted area. He could look straight up. This afforded a small circular view of the stars and dark blue sky, which faded slightly as the morning light crept over the top of the tall grass above him.
While still in the grip of a befuddled state of half-sleep, some remote part of his emerging consciousness finally managed to convey an alarmed posture, enabling him to tear his attention from both moons, and successfully prompting his search for a way out of whatever mystery the tall, colorful, sparkling pasture might represent.
Accordingly, he made his way in the only direction affording an actual landmark. This was the top of a tree that he presumed was east of his position, considering the rising angle of morning sunlight as it struck the branches. In reaching what he could now see was an oak tree, he had also managed finally to exit the purple field. The resulting panoramic turned out to be all that was required for him to become more than adequately alert.
After the initial hysteria wore off, it was quickly replaced by the same cool, professional exterior he had always maintained while on the job. He was acquainted with the possible side effects of a great many prescription drugs. It came with the territory of his profession.
It didn't take long to deduce that despite his efforts to conceal his depression, it had still somehow been detected. This could have been solely a matter of the Doctor's keen eye, or more than likely, his big sister's even bigger mouth. Either way, he didn't believe the Doctor was so incompetent as to accidentally prescribe an actual hallucinogenic. It was probably a simple matter of just a tad too much Prozac, or one of several other anti-depressants capable of inducing some rather odd side effects in the small percentage of patients within which he obviously fell.
In this case, the adverse effect had apparently manifested within the subject's R.E.M. sequence. It was a definite comfort to refer to himself as a subject. It allowed him the same detached analytic calculations as he had been trained for when dealing with other such vict...subjects.
Overdose need not necessarily be a life-threatening situation, he reminded himself while casually observing a very white, and perhaps upwards of forty-pound, floppy-eared rabbit hop past him, dragging a two-foot carrot down an almost perfectly round rabbit hole. Of course, he had quickly arrested the rising sense of uneasiness that one might naturally associate with such sights as giant rabbits, or even the further disturbing images of various beetle-herds, with members ranging in sizes from that of a German Shepherd to that of small, German-made cars. He casually observed this with a clinical detachment as their numbers continued to graze contently on and about the sparkling purple wheat field he had just exited.
After properly regimenting his understanding that any absurdities he might witness were simply the symbolic representations of various unresolved issues in his own psyche, he was even able to dismiss the thirty-foot crow-chicken. That would be the pitch-black crow-chicken: the one with the red, serrated beak and hooked claws, which first lifted one of the automobile-sized beetles above the western grass-line, and then flew off with it while screeching like a mad daemon from the deepest pits of Hell itself!
Of course, there were a few drawbacks to this regimentation. It forced him to accept that there may be certain other problems he would eventually need to deal with. After all, who among us is without at least some degree of mental disorder?
This first became evident upon realizing that he was nude. In itself, this represented a certain ambivalent mixture of relief and apprehension. On the one hand, it supported his theory of a deluded state, since the lack of any clothing would surely have confirmed the initialization of the aforementioned hypothermia. On the other hand, he couldn't quite recall the specific symbolic representation, although he felt certain it was of a repressed sexual content. Some odd business about either getting too much, or not enough.
True, he had been in the hospital for quite a while. This triggered the memory of his friendly banter with the aged nurse Donavan, thus causing him to both wince and shudder. Still, under other circumstances, he might have endeavored to deny that he was anything but perfectly healthy in this respect. As it was, he preferred to accept this small concession, rather than consider such possibilities as giant crow-chickens from Hell.
It wasn't until catching his own reflection in a small puddle of water that he was temporarily jolted from his newly adopted veneer of clinical reassurance. Oddly enough, this was not due to the fact that his reflection was not his own. While dreaming, people often visualize themselves differently than they really are. Older people often picture younger versions of themselves, as it was in his case. The rippling image was perhaps that of someone at or around his late teens to early twenties, as opposed to Jesse's thirty-four years. It didn't even perturb him that the image wasn't representative of his own features at that age. What did upset him were the ears.
After several minutes of examining the anomaly, during which time he felt, poked, and thumped the pointy aberrations, he finally decided that while he may be in possession of some modest training, he was, in fact, quite far from qualified to diagnose anything of this magnitude. The best thing he could do was to try to keep a mental record of as much as possible, and then relay it to the Doctor. He would also respectfully request a lower dosage of whatever it was the quack had put in his I.V. bag in the first place. Finally, after failing to spread his fingers for the appropriate sci-fi farewell sign, he left his dream/hallucination to its own reflected accord.
Over time, Jesse's clinical detachment slowly lost its original resolve. Between the strange creatures, and in some cases, their bizarre behavior toward him, he found his grip on reality as he knew it to commence a certain loss of cohesion.
Of the more fearsome aberrations, such as the crow-chicken, and other, almost unthinkable and certainly unspeakable things that mostly came out at night, he had simply decided to ignore their inferred existence altogether. This is not to imply that he didn't take desperate measures to avoid them. He simply ignored them while doing so.
Still, these horrors only represented one aspect of the overall problem in this respect. Some aspects were relatively passive, such as Doberman-sized rabbits that hop casually past you as if you were of no greater import than a tree, or perhaps another rabbit. Others, perhaps less than perfectly passive, like the pack of approximately one dozen Timber wolves who treated him no differently than said rabbit, were yet far from defined as nightmarish. Of course, the rabbit hadn't insisted on sniffing him in places he would have preferred left un-sniffed. Mercifully, the wolves left his company directly after he lost control over his bladder, which, he realized in retrospect, might have been taken to impart some sort of marking of one's territory.
Ultimately, it was not until the next morning, when he awoke considerably warmer, that he actually lost all semblance of his originally constructed self-subterfuge. This was due in part to the rabbit, who had at some point during the night decided to curl up along side him for shared body heat, and was joined by the very same number of wolves, who had apparently returned during the night, perhaps accepting the rabbit's presence by reasoning that Jesse must be some personal acquaintance.
The final straw was the enormous tree-like creature that had casually waddled up to the unlikely slumber party, and then bent down to pat Jesse's head, almost as if he were a favored pet.
The image of the screaming Druid prompted a unified attention from the Treant, wolves, and hare as they all watched him flee their company, though the majority of their interests were fairly short-lived, as it was now time for breakfast.
The hare had already commenced foraging when it came to his attention that in the Pastor of Nature's absence, he was now in the presence of a number of carnivorous individuals who enjoyed a much loftier position along the food chain than himself, and as he scrambled down the hole to safety, he could hear the voracious pack as they continued to snap, snarl, and dig for some time before deciding he wasn't really worth all the effort. After he was certain they had gone, the hare carefully poked his pink nose about the now wider opening to his home, just to be certain.
Unfortunately, one can never really tell the difference between a regular tree and a Treant, until the Treant decides to announce itself. First off, they all smell alike. Such subtleties as flora-mobility were somewhat beyond a simple hare. Thus was he abruptly faced with one of Nature's official authorities, and thereby resigned to abide by its jurisdiction over him. With a sigh of acquiescence, the hare realized that it might have been better to have just thrown itself at the wolves. After all, they only wanted to eat him. Treants, on the other hand, propose an entirely different and usually elevated form of frustration.
Follow him , commanded the Treant from within the unfortunate hare's mind.
His ears, which had come to a fully elevated attention during his attempts to determine the wolves' whereabouts, quickly dropped as the Quest registered. Hoping that the Treant might not press the point if it considered him too thick-headed to participate, the hare decided his best possible course of action was simply to feign ignorance. As if to punctuate what would surely be interpreted as a lack of mental capacity, he casually hopped out to resume his morning forage.
FOLLOW HIM! The command of the Treant resounded from inside the now rattled hare's head as he scrambled without further delay, and in the specific direction of the deluded Druid.
After forcibly compelling the new volunteer and then making certain that it really was on the vassal's trail, the Treant ambled back toward the forked path in which they would all be crossing in due course.
Upon reaching the road sign pointing south, the Treant settled in, roots well buried. It then extended several forked branches, lifting the sign, and turning it ninety degrees. After re-planting the sign, it passed a branch over the wooden post. In the wake of that passing, paint commenced to peel away from the wood in selective portions, until it formed a word in the widely used common tongue of Homidris.
Sibastian had managed to feign a disinterest in the hushed conversation transpiring between Miria and Aqua for some time, but as their muffled chatter became punctuated by an increasingly frequent girlish giggling, he felt his cavalier disregard commence a steady deficit of conviction. Finally, he reached a point where he could no longer stand it. "What are you two idiots babbling about?" he shouted while drawing his beetle up to block their paths.
In response, both of their attentions came to bear on him briefly, almost as if they had been caught in the act of forming some sinister master plan. Then their guilty expressions switched instantly to that of perfectly innocent neutrality. Miria shifted forward, returning her attention to her mount while Aqua leapt lightly from Miria's mount to her own, and then adopted a similar pose as that of her friend.
"Just as I suspected!" he exclaimed triumphantly, returning his attention to the path of his own mount. "Naught but ditsy-do," he muttered, lightly slapping the reins.
Presently, he found himself riding alongside Aqua, as she had prompted her mount to catch up to his. He briefly cut his eyes at her, and then quickly forward again, resolved to display an impervious strength of will. He would not let her get to him. He simply would not sink to her level. She might be a full two summers his elder, but, after all, he was a High-elf. His superiority simply wasn't susceptible to their petty goading.
"So," she began in a jovial tone while laying back on her mount in a highly provocative display.
He glanced over, and then quickly looked away.
"I understand that you think I'm lovely," she crooned in a voice to match her overly exaggerated pose of sensuality.
"MIRIA!" he screeched in a cracked voice, instantly wheeling his beetle about, only to realize the archenemy in question had already turned her beetle around, and was currently in possession of at least a twenty-five meter lead. He quickly kicked his mount into forward motion, and specifically into the direction of his fleeing Wood-elf nemesis.
"Aqua!" shouted Maestro Spinwyp.
Oops!
"Are you teasing Prince Refrainison again?"
"Umm... No?"
The Maestro was about to commence upon yet another in a long line of lectures on the proper conduct of proper Bards, and the proper respect one is expected to extend through proper professional courtesy, when Miria's high-pitched shriek of terror properly broke his concentration.
Sibastian was just about to give up the chase when Miria suddenly emitted her nerve-shattering squeal, and then leapt from her beetle to bolt back in his direction at full speed. Rather than continue on toward the others, she leapt as she reached him, landing in his lap. She loosed yet another scream directly into his ear, prompting his vigorous ejection of the hysterical Wood-elf. He threw her to the grass with both arms.
Upon regaining her feet, rather than address Sibastian's unprecedented breach of etiquette, Miria simply bolted forward yet again, this time to head toward the sanctuary of the group.
He simply did not know how to react to such an unmitigated breach of etiquette. All he could do, other than bear the utter shock of such cheeky behavior on the part of that common Wood-elf, was to hold the now injured ear into which she had screeched. Her vociferous attack was obviously a crude ploy to destroy his impeccably perfect sense of tone. She no doubt hoped that this would make herself appear more talented in the Maestro's eyes, or ears as the case may be. That was about the time he caught sight of what she had seen.
Miria was almost halfway back when Sibastian and his beetle passed her by, thereby leaving her to her fate. This of course prompted the issuance of yet another squeal of terror as she did the impossible by picking up her own pace, almost matching the speed of Sibastian's fleeing beetle.
"Slow dow..."
"And he had these beady little eyes!" Miria continued, squinting in illustration.
"Y...yes, and a whiskered face as well!" stammered Sibastian, his own eyes growing wider.
"Just calm..."
"He's still out there!" trilled Miria breathlessly.
"We really should get moving," Sibastian added quietly, attempting to look over his shoulder without appearing conspicuous.
"Did this person assault you?" Master Spinwyp inquired.
"Well...no," Miria supplied hesitantly.
"No," Sibastian confirmed.
"Then precisely why are you two so upset?"
"He's naked!" shouted Miria.
"Really?" Aqua inquired curiously.
"Not a stitch," Sibastian confirmed nervously, jerking back when he discovered Aqua to be mere inches from his face, in an attempt to follow his line of sight.
His ability to muster any real semblance of rational thought had long since gone the way of his now thoroughly subverted nerves. This had factored heavily into the reason why he had only caught a glimpse of the girl riding one of the larger types of beetles.
When the screeching reached his ears, instantly producing the haunting image of a crow-chicken-Demon, Jesse immediately forgot all about the beetle-riding girl and dove for cover, quickly crawling on hands and knees toward a shallow trench. Once he got there, he heard the creature's gut-wrenching cry once again as he dropped, flattening out to hug the ground in hopes that the beast might misjudge the depth of its dive, just in case it was in fact swooping down on him.
When the terrifying caterwauling trailed off far enough, he rose, so as to chance taking a look in that general direction, before deciding his best course of exit. Rather than a brunette girl of perhaps fifteen years, he was now faced by a blond-haired boy of a similar age, who, like the girl, also sat upon a beetle. But with no idea as to whether the great bird was in pursuit of the children, or perhaps in league with them, he quickly ducked back down.
They had obviously trained the beetles as beasts of burden. The idea of a crow-chicken playing the role of hunting-falcon to evil child-like monsters was not that much of a stretch at this point.
Had they seen him? Perhaps, though it did not really matter. If they controlled crow-chickens, then he was as good as dead anyway. Of course, if they had not seen him, his best chance was to lay low for a while, and then follow the trench for as far as it went before making a run for it.
From further away, the trumpeting screech sounded again, sending yet another nerve-ripping chill through him as he hunkered down to gather as much grass around himself as possible.
Maestro Spinwyp cautiously inched Miria's beetle forward, and then stopped. Again, he stood, but was as yet unable to discern the presence any purported persons, clad or otherwise. He squatted, and then jumped as high as he could, in hopes of a better glimpse without needing to move his mount further. As he landed, thereby delivering a pronounced clacking sound from his boots on the beetle's shell, something moved in the ditch just ahead. He could not see it directly, but the taller wheat, extending just above the ditch, suddenly shuddered, although there was no evidence of any breeze.
"Hail, friend!" he called in as cordial a tone as possible.
At this, the patch of wheat ceased its rustling.
"I say there! We are but a simple band of Bards, over here!"
"Speak for yourself, if you please," intoned Sibastian indignantly from behind the beetle.
"Shhhh!" Maestro Spinwyp admonished.
"Oh...sorry."
"No call to hide from the likes of us, friend!" he assured the foliage. "Sibastian? Come and try High speech. He doesn't seem to respond to Homidris, or Gnomish."
"I assure you, Maestro," Sibastian replied adamantly, "anyone articulating in my language is thoroughly acquainted with both clothing and straight razors."
Just then, the wheat rippled in a long, sliding wave along the edge of the ditch. Whoever was down there had obviously decided against any fraternization with the likes of Goppi Spinwyp, or his band of bellowing Bards. Regrettably, the traveling wave of grain sped along with no other apparent intent than escape, until, that is, when it came to a sudden cessation after meeting with a rather large igneous obstruction.
To all present, which included the Maestro, the Prince, and the beetle, it appeared as though the wheat may not have expected the boulder's company. This opinion was formed primarily through a resounding whack, which in turn, produced an almost melodic echo.
From the path, the others couldn't see well enough to tell what was transpiring, though the echo managed to reach them well enough. "Here, then! Are you fellows rendering aid, or striking up a cricket match?" Braumis shouted.
"Is he really naked?" Aqua shouted, thereby earning a concerned glance from Braumis.
"I think he'll be all right," Braumis announced as he exited the supply tent, mounted on the pack beetle's back. Then he climbed down the tent's rope ladder to join the others.
"How would you know?" Sibastian asked.
"Well, I'm no expert," Braumis began.
"That's right, you're not," Sibastian agreed.
"Young Harnom here is the closest we have at the moment," Maestro Spinwyp inserted.
"His Daddy is a Cleric, but that doesn't make him one," argued Sibastian.
"His father is a Master Cleric," corrected Aqua.
"And whatever he might have picked up would be infinitely more knowledge than you possess, Highness," added Miria.
"No, the Prince is right," Braumis countered. "We should stop at the earliest opportunity. I believe the worst of his condition to be no more than simply malnourishment, and perhaps a bit of overexposure, but he should be examined by a real healer, just to be sure."
"I didn't mean to imply we should involve ourselves to that extent," Sibastian returned. "All I did was question your medical competence. As far as I'm concerned, we can just leave the breed where we found him. Mark my words, you'll regret taking on his ilk."
"Maybe someone should ride along with him," Aqua suggested, failing to mark the Prince's word.
"You mean, like someone who might not have gotten a better look after the Maestro dragged him back wrapped in a blanket?" Braumis asked thoughtfully.
"Not at all!" Aqua refuted indignantly. "I simply...thought to do my part."
"Surely," agreed Miria and Braumis in amused unison.
"Braumis will ride with our guest," Maestro Spinwyp declared.
[All right. What now?] {I'm not quite sure. I think we were severed by the program. The last thing I registered was a massive surge in chronomic progression. Then...nothing.}
Orval disengaged the program altogether, returning Sarah and himself to the normal progression of real time as the Hoffman residence congealed about them.
"You said we could reconnect!" Sarah shouted while removing her headset.
"Please try to remain calm, Mrs. Hoffman," Orval pleaded, not wishing to incur the unstable woman's wrath. Gingerly, he passed his hand over the bruised tissue about his right eye.
What followed happened too quickly for Orval to register fully. Something moved just into his peripheral vision as he was suddenly struck along the left side of his head. The only thing he knew for certain was that this particular act of violence had not been perpetrated by Mrs. Hoffman. Her expression of surprise was no doubt a fair facsimile of his own. Her expression of fear to follow was not. To Orval, it seemed as if the lights dimmed as the room tilted, and then nothing but a vaguely pleasant dream of what his day might have been like if Hereford had never been a part of it.
"Yes, Mrs. Hoffman. Do remain calm," ordered a threateningly calm voice from directly behind, as the man before her, wearing a brown suit and sporting a blackjack, seemed to have no particular interest in addressing her. Currently, he was hastily grasping Kwibee under the arms, and dragging him toward the front door.
Then the owner of the voice from behind became more of an immediate threat as something hard and blunt was jabbed into the small of her back, followed by a pronounced double click.
Sarah raised both hands above her head.
She had finally given up any hope that the Doctor might intervene. Whatever had gone wrong had obviously placed him in as precarious a position as her own current dilemma. Otherwise, he would surely have pulled the plug by now. Even with the game's time ratio crap, it could not have possibly taken this long. No. Whatever had her so glitched up, probably had him behind the eight ball as well. Strangely enough, she hadn't freaked out yet. There was a certain amount of trepidation accompanying her realization of the filter's absent interface. This feeling came briefly to border upon true alarm when she noted that this would necessarily preclude her severance of communication with the Doctor.
Without stopping, she examined her scuffed palms again. She had no memory of how this had happened. Nor could she recall the origin of her bloody shin. She recalled their preparations to semi-sever the link. She could even remember informing Kwibee that she was prepared for that action. This is where everything became distorted, because the next thing she could discern from the jumbled chaos yet whirling about her head, and for the most part still outside her ability to coalesce, was an odd, dreamlike image of her husband careening backwards, and then falling into an endless chasm. This alone was disturbing enough without the added bonus of his accusative expression while continuing to plummet.
Regardless of all this, she was not exactly without direction. This is not to imply that she understood the almost irresistible howling. Nevertheless, it did afford a certain amount of comfort somehow. She realized that it shouldn't. She knew full and well that she should find such to be a good indication for hair-raising alarm. Instead, she drew strength from it. All is well, the howling seemed to tell her via the inner warmth generated by the knowledge that she was following the correct path.
Crumly was deep in meditation when disrupted by a chilling breeze, and something else: a truly unpleasant odor, steadily intensifying, and therefore progressively diminishing his ability to maintain the particular level of inner reflection he had only briefly achieved. It was bad enough having to refer to Goren as Master, not that he disliked the young Rogue. It just didn't seem fitting somehow. After all, he had forty summers on the overbearing upstart. But at this rate, he would be as old as that old Tarot woman before completing his apprenticeship.
While returning to normal awareness as slowly as possible in order to avoid several common problems associated with rapid transcendental ascent, he inadvertently opened his eyes out of sequence. Ordinarily, his particular cardiovascular system is required to accomplish a minimum thirty-four beats per minute before permitting any of the five senses to become active. The purpose behind this ritual was to avoid exactly what followed.
In realizing why he had broken the proper sequence of ascent, first verified by the setting sun, then by the Troll, now no more than ten meters distant as it rushed to close the gap, Crumly fell backwards, intending to roll out of the creature's path so that he could come up better prepared. Unfortunately, his rapid ascent from deep meditation had not afforded proper circulation. This facilitated the continued meditation of his legs as they both failed to respond to his urgent commands, thus causing him to flail in said failed execution of the maneuver as both uncooperative appendages were quite content to remain in lotus position, and thereby causing him to over shoot the rolling procedure altogether. The resulting excess in momentum, along with his rounded knees, short stature, and steep downward incline of the path behind him, promoted his continued rolling for quite some time. When at last he came to a stop, he attempted to rise, only to discover the contrast between near nil circulation and rapid rolling had combined to initiate a form of drunken oscillation in his perception and balance.
This did afford him a brief, albeit world-yet-spinning glimpse of the Troll as it lunged. He prepared for that anticipated impact as best he could, which under the circumstances was simply to close his eyes as tightly as possible. Strangely enough, no actual impact followed. After a moment, he tentatively opened his eyes to a landscape, yet half-tilting and half-spinning, though minus the Troll.
"You all right?" drifted a voice through his half-echoing ears.
"Yeah...think so," he replied in half-slurred speech.
After about half an hour, he began to feel a little better. He came to a sitting position with no apparent ill effect, and then removed the damp cloth from his forehead.
His benefactor was yet busying herself about the campfire she had built. She seemed to be preparing supper, if the aromatic tendrils now reaching his flaring nostrils were of any indication.
"I am in your debt, mistress..."
"Selina," she answered after a brief hesitation.
"Selina...?"
"Selina's good enough for now," she offered firmly.
"Of course, mistress. After all, who am I to put questions to my benefactor?"
"Good question. Who are you?"
"Crumly Knodwadle, at your service," he beamed brightly, standing to bow deeply, but catching himself after almost falling forward from an unexpected dizzy spell, and then promptly sitting and returning the cloth to his forehead.
"You really can't hold your liquor, can you?"
"Me, mistress? I don't drink at all," he returned politely, but with a tone of finality suggesting he might be as interested in convincing himself as her.
"Well if you're not drunk, then what? Flu bug?"
"Flew...bug, mistress?" he asked uncertainly, the image of some sort of flying beetle coming to mind.
"Never mind."
"As you wish, mistress."
"And stop calling me that, would ya? Sounds like I should be dressed up in leather underwear," she added with mild irritation, and then recalled that a good portion of her undergarments did in fact utilize thin layers of that very component.
"Yes, mis...umm, Selina."
"That's better," she smiled while passing him a stick-skewered hunk of roasted meat.
"Thank you kindly," he offered gratefully, quickly blowing on the meat to cool it, and then fairly wolfing it down before it actually could cool. The burning sensation was a discomfort, but no great hardship. Dwarves are of a hardy constitution, especially when it comes to food.
"Oh, my!" he muffled. "This is wonderful!"
"Glad to hear it," she muffled, biting a chunk out of her own serving.
"Mmmm. What...is...it?"
"Huh?"
"What is it?" he repeated, after swallowing.
She smiled again, and then paused before answering. "It's whatever that shaggy critter was that jumped you."
"Stop looking at me like that!" she exclaimed for the third time.
"Well, I just don't see how anyone wouldn't know a Troll when they saw it!"
"Drop it already!"
"Well, excuse me!"
"You got any blankets?" she asked, hoping to change the subject, but still bearing a certain remnant anger in her tone.
"Afraid not. Rogues need no comfort against the weather unless the temperature drops below freezing, or rises to that of desert heat, as when the air itself ripples."
"How nice for you," she intoned sarcastically. After a moment, she recalled one of Selina's Paladin spells. She wasn't sure it would work, but she stood and tried it anyway. Nothing to lose but the chill.
She held her arms in front of her and toward the dying campfire, and then drew a triangle in mid-air before closing her hands about it. After a time, it became clear that nothing was going to happen. She looked to the Dwarf, who was making an honest effort not to appear as if he thought she was unstable, which of course he did.
She tried again, but this time drew a circle about the triangle. When she brought her hands together, a flame from one of the remaining embers leapt out at her, wrapping itself about her entire body like a cloak, and then solidified to a shimmering fabric that radiated warmth.
"Ahh, now that's a handy little spell," he offered.
"Thank you," she replied graciously, retaking her seat on the fallen log.
"Aren't you going to make one for me?" he asked.
"I thought Rogues had no use for such frivolities," she replied with an expectant grin.
He didn't press it, since he had in fact boasted a lack of necessity. Still, it just seemed rude on her part to let him freeze while she remained toasty. Without rebuttal, he turned over, facing away from the chilled breeze, and hugged himself tightly.
After a few minutes, she came over and draped the magic blanket over the small man. "You shiver pretty good for such a tough little Rogue," she smiled.
"Bah," he mumbled absently while tucking the blanket about himself.
"You're welcome," she laughed.
"Hold on!" Crumly exclaimed as he sat bolt upright. "Was that a Paladin spell?"
"Yep," she answered shortly, still trying to recreate the spell to replace her blanket.
"Well, Gwaurdenbog!" he shouted.
"Hey! Watch your language there, buster!" she admonished, recognizing his Dwarven reference to a specific form of extremely fresh excrement, produced by a particularly offensive specie of unwashed Ogre.
"Beg pardon," he offered hastily while throwing off the blanket.
"Hey! I speak Dwarf!" She smiled in surprise.
"How nice for you," he returned sardonically while gathering his possessions together, and kicking dirt into the fire.
"Excuse me! I was using that!" she intoned as the almost completed spell fizzed from a lack of fuel.
"Let's go," he told her shortly, already hiking back toward the northern path.
"Why should I go anywhere with you? Besides, just in case you hadn't noticed, it's dark out there. I'm not gonna go traipsing about like some loon in the dead of night!"
Crumly stopped, took a deep breath, released it, and then turned about. "You're a Paladin, right?"
"So what?"
"You come from Brinehaven, right?"
"Duh, it's the only city in this quadrant of the hemisphere."
He paused, took another deep breath, and silently counted to ten before continuing. "You heard the howling of a wolf, and felt compelled to follow."
At this she wheeled about.
"The feeling that drew you didn't cease until you reached me. That about right?"
"How...?" she began, but her voice trailed off.
"Milady," he began wearily, "I've been waiting here since before the last full moon. I was given no preference of choice in this ridiculous quest. Nor was I given any more answers than what I just gave you. So can we just go, while I'm yet young enough to remember the way?"
"But...I just don't understand what's happening!" she blurted. She paused, and then abruptly commenced to weep openly as Crumly's eyes grew wider. She had given her best effort to keep it all together, but during the last few hours, ever since the howling had ceased, she had been without defense against her own mind's mounting bombardment of woe. Both her husband and brother were yet counting on her, only now she didn't even have the small comfort afforded by the Doctor's presence. They were all going to become lost in this ill-twisted farce forever, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
"Sel..."
"I did what Kwibee said!" she pleaded. "But I just don't know what's happening now!" Her lower lip commenced to tremble.
"I've really no idea what you're..."
"Oh, what would you know, anyway!" she accused, gesturing with both arms in an expansive sweep, meant to include the entire pseudo-world.
"Umm..."
"I know, I know! The Barmaid and Tailor meant nothing! The only things important are the ratios, the correlations, and the damnable DIT!" she shouted at no one in particular.
"Perhaps I should give you a moment of privacy."
"Not that I'm claiming to be blameless, apparently." She abruptly downshifted to an incredulous but calmer tone. "If I read the pea soup this little slut calls memories correctly, then I married her best friend, and am currently in the middle of an illicit affair with my own husband!" She up-shifted to a shout that ended in several whining sniffles.
"What's a slut?" Crumly managed to inquire as the mad woman filled her lungs to continue.
"You know what?" she asked in a calm tone that somehow served to intensify Crumly's apprehension. "This entire mess is like some half-ass, grade-B story script. This stupid program should write for soap operas!"
Crumly took one slow step back. He had no idea what role soap might play in any Bardic tales, but if this mad woman was in possession of such an insidious bar, then he felt it quite prudent to remain outside her precarious reach.
"Hell, all that's missing is the poor dupe they always put through some horrendous accident, and then stick in a hospital with either amnesia, or a coma that lasts for six months, until he finally dies as their contract runs out..." She paused as she recalled her brother's situation. "Never mind."
"Love to," he mumbled.
"They're still out there somewhere," she whispered mournfully.
"Are you all right, Seli..."
"And if they move my little brother, he could end up as a vegetable!" she suddenly burst as the dam of emotional pressure exploded.
"I've never heard of a spell that could transform..."
"And Dieter just sits there drooling like Pavlov's dog, for God's sake!" she exclaimed in a voice that becoming higher in pitch, the more upset she became.
"I'm sure if you could just calm... Who's Pavlov?"
"And then...he was...brain dead...in...two plaaaaaaces!" she lamented incoherently between sobs, ending in a long and woeful whine.
While Crumly re-stoked the fire, Sarah lay beneath the blanket with only an occasional twitch to indicate that she continued to calm.
"Everything will be just fine," he assured her in a positive but gentle tone. "Just you wait and see. Everything will look better in the morning. Then we can begin our journey to meet with my Rogue friend."
"Okay," she sniffled from beneath the blanket.
"You see, he sent me ahead to find you, while he travels to greet the legendary Trickster, himself," he offered soothingly.
"All right," she mumbled sleepily.
"And once were all together, I'm sure he'll know how to help you. Won't that be nice, Selina?"
"MY NAME IS SARAH!" she screeched from beneath the blanket as it billowed with her expelled breath. "You got that, you little turd? That's SARAH!"
At first, the music only wafted on the occasional breeze, a simple melody, soft and inconspicuous. It was not unlike what one might expect from a classical lullaby, or perhaps a softer version of some of the more upbeat medieval works, most often performed at social functions within circles of the upper crust, or perhaps even royalty, when discussions of politic natures require something tasteful, but unassuming.
It was, in fact, so devoid of any sudden audible motion that the tune continued without direct register for several minutes. As he listened without consciously hearing, he drifted further along that state of dreamlike non-sleep, which under other circumstances would surely have given way to consciousness much sooner.
At a certain point, the tune's perfect semblance of balance stumbled slightly, almost imperceptibly. The melody lingered for a moment longer, and then a single note from some form of woodwind instrument blared briefly, as if in protest to that sibling string instrument which had first stumbled, thereby desecrating the collective efforts of all instruments involved.
Again the melody continued, but only for a tiny march of notes, quickly followed by the now offended and offending string as it produced several highly pronounced and undeniably sour plunks, thus announcing its own protest of the Woodwind's rude reaction to what had only been an innocent mistake. Again the piece continued, though this time for an even shorter interval.
Then the drum, which up to this point had been content to simply remain the unobtrusive tempo required within the once perfect melody, abruptly voiced its own percussive objection by contributing the only punctuation for which drums are notable, i.e. "BOOM, BOOM, BOOM."
After that, the once beautifully relaxing melody commenced rapidly to unravel in an ever-escalating avalanche of unruly booms, raucous toots, and sour plunks, before finally coming to a screeching halt in a sudden and blessed silence.
For a moment, Jesse woke, but saw very little. At some point during the night he had pulled the covers over his head, perhaps to hold some form of unpleasant intrusion at bay. He rolled over, already slipping back toward the blissfully silent void of sleep.
"There's no call for alarm, Prince," Maestro Spinwyp offered in a low voice.
"That's two full days in a row, Maestro. Don't you find it odd?"
"Odd? Yes. Reason to instill panic? No."
"Aren't you going to do anything, then?"
Maestro Spinwyp pulled his beetle to a stop. "What would you suggest, Sibastian? Shall I walk up and ask it what business it has with us?" he asked expectantly. "Excuse me, Squire Hare. My friends and I were wondering as to what business you were about. You see, your presence has disturbed the Heir to the Lavish'nix Dynasty."
"You needn't continue to throw that in my face, Maestro," Sibastian admonished in a low voice.
"Perhaps, but I'm sure you see my point. Besides, after last night's performance, I should think your attentions would be better spent on study."
"That was not my fault!"
"Really? That was you on the lute, was it not?"
"Hail!" shouted Braumis as he and Miria returned.
"Did you find a Cleric?" the Maestro returned.
"Not really," Miria replied as she and the young Dwarf pulled their beetles up alongside of his.
"What's that suppose to mean?" Sibastian asked with his usual caustic flare.
"It means we located an apothecary," Braumis returned while tossing the pack of medical supplies to Sibastian, who tossed it back just as quickly as he caught it.
"Do no entrust it with me, dear Cleric. Personally, I don't care if the half-breed lives or dies. No. That's not quite true," he amended while slapping the reins. "If it were to die, then we could stop wasting valuable time. You should have taken my advice and left him," he sneered as he left them to return to his assigned position in the caravan.
"Siby loves a grand exit," Braumis bristled without his usual good humor.
"Oh!" exclaimed Miria. "We also found a small market."
"Yes," agreed Braumis with a subdued grin, his humor returning in light of Miria's acquisition.
"The sign over the door read Majestic Antiquities , but it was mostly a collection of used things..."
"Trash," Braumis corrected.
"Yes... I suppose that's true, but if you were to believe the curator, it was all part of the lost treasures of Arbitos."
"I think that before our journey is over, you will find there are a great many business people in the world, much like the one you just met, my dear," the Maestro told her matter-of-factly.
"Well, anyway, we did manage to find some clothes that looked likely to fit the Half-elf." She brightened while untying the satchel of garments.
"Yes, well, the question left to answer is whether or not he can be convinced to don such threads," Braumis snickered while maneuvering his mount about.
"It's better than just a blanket," Miria returned defensively.
"That's debatable!" Braumis shouted over his shoulder while returning to his place in the caravan.
Maestro Spinwyp hopped over to Miria's mount, and opened the satchel for a better look. As he withdrew Miria's procurements, his brow knitted deeper until producing a proper scowl.
"It's all they had!" she intoned defensively.
"Hail, Maestro Goppi Spinwyp!" came a familiar voice from the south.
He quickly shoved the questionable clothing back into the satchel, and then hopped back to his own mount for a better vantage. Two figures were approaching from just outside the station's outer boundary.
"It's about time," Sibastian muttered.
"Hail, Master Morgyn Nowtright! Hail, Lady Minuet Pransis!" Goppi returned, sliding to the ground as the incoming Human and Gnome companions pulled their beetles to a stop.
"Well, just look at you!" Minuet exclaimed as she slid down to land at Maestro Spinwyp's feet, and quickly kissed his cheek. "Your hair has turned white as snow, old man."
"Who are you calling old, you ancient..."
"What's left of it," she noted without paying his partial rebuttal any notice. Quickly, she reached up to twist the wispy tufts of white above his ears into mustache tips.
"You're every bit my age," he insisted while raking the braid-like points out, and patting the wispy tufts back down.
"Perhaps," she returned casually. "But I think it's quite obvious that I've aged infinitely better than you," she crooned, turning about in display, and turning her nose up as she led her mount into line.
"Agreed," he whispered appreciatively, watching the way her pantaloons still offered that same enticing motion as when she was but a girl of eighty.
"Ah, Goppi. How grand to see you again," offered Morgyn with an official bow of respect.
"And you as well, old friend," returned the Maestro warmly.
"Tell me, have we a complete Complement, then?"
"If you wish to call it that," he returned with no enthusiasm.
"Not another misfit group, Goppi," he scowled. "This was to be a holiday."
"I really wasn't offered an option, Morgyn."
"Can they play at all?" he asked hopefully.
"Oh, indeed. As a matter of fact, they're all considered prodigies."
"Well, that's quite different. I thought there might be something wrong with them. You know, like that time you accepted an entire band of Barbarian children. Dear me, that was just disastrous..."
"They can't coordinate," The Maestro said quickly.
"What?"
"They...they're all strictly solo artists," he repeated. "None of them passed the Orchestra finals."
"Oh, Goppi. How do you keep getting into... You know that Minuet isn't going to put up with this."
"Actually, old friend," Goppi smiled genially, "I was rather hoping you and Mini might lend a hand. I'm sure they just need to witness a couple of real masters at work..."
"Well, Maestro," Morgyn laughed. "I cannot speak for her Ladyship, though I imagine she will tell you the same as I."
"Which is?"
"That I signed on to your little tour as a matter of relaxation, specifically because you assured me a full complement. If you wish to discuss business, you'll have to catch me in the office, after my vacation."
Miria climbed the ladder, followed closely by Braumis.
As they entered the makeshift hospice, the first thing they noticed was Aqua's absence. Ordinarily, this would not have seemed so out of place. Mistress Rainswalker was often a difficult target for the majority of chores. In this instance however, Aqua had failed miserably at concealing her unabashed curiosity concerning the stranger's anatomy. This brought their attentions to the large wiggling lump beneath the Half-elf's covers.
"She wouldn't!" her eyes shouted to his, which were quickly darting back and forth, as if to say, "Are you quite absolutely certain?"
"Will you two get your big behinds out of my way?" Aqua asked expectantly from behind them. As she entered, she noticed their pale expressions in what was turning out to be a most interesting, if not moral state of affairs. As she herself caught sight of the source of their pallor, her own face no doubt took on a similar hue of scandalous curiosity.
The blanket was briskly whipped away to reveal the Half-elf lying next to the same hare that had been following the caravan for the last two days. This seemed to offer an explanation to the animal's behavior, as the restless hare's back was cuddled against the Half-elf's back as if seeking refuge from a restless dream, denoted by the kicking motions from its hind feet. Unfortunately, the Pet theory quickly fell apart when the Half-elf opened his eyes from the abrupt rush of cold air now engulfing an otherwise unclad disclosure. The hairy-faced Elf first looked to the three detectives, and though his expression was surely an excellent model of alarm, he did manage to maintain a minimal composure.
Sadly, this nonverbal breakthrough in communications was to be short-lived, as his attention was suddenly drawn by his own raw condition, and further exacerbated by the strawberry blonde girl's expression of wide-eyed shock at the conclusion of her own personal quest in visual studies.
He quickly covered himself as best he could, readily accepting the brunette girl's offer to return the blanket she had wrenched from her strawberry associate's absentminded vice-grip. He then casually noticed the rabbit as he stood to wrap the blanket about his waist. His subsequent double-take on the rabbit was the primary requisite for tripping over one of the supply boxes as he scrambled away from said same fluffy follower.
As he fell along the canvas wall to land first on the beetle's shell, and then plunge downward through the open base of the tent, Jesse caught a glimpse of the rabbit/bloodhound as it peeked over the edge of the cot to witness the Druid tumble completely out of the tent, though without benefit of the blanket which had snagged on the very supply box he had tripped over. The expression on his scruffy face bore more than sufficient motive to warrant the hare's ears to a full alert status.
"I say! Is that from our storage?" Braumis asked expectantly as he noted the cabbage crumbs, which had become visible when the hare rose up to peek over the cot's edge.
"Sibastian! Braumis! Come help us put him back into the tent!"
"Not bloody likely!" Sibastian shouted.
"Be right with you!" shouted Braumis.
"Poor devil," Maestro Spinwyp remarked with a sigh.
"Who is he?" inquired Morgyn while removing his cloak to cover the unconscious figure.
"Not a clue, I'm afraid," replied the Maestro.
"I said, out!" grunted Braumis as he shoved the hare out of the tent, and then pushed it down the shell, so that it landed safely at the beetle's feet.
Momentarily disoriented, the hare blinked several times as it surveyed the gathering crowd, and bolting for a stand of nearby foliage.
"Good riddance, varmint!"
"What's all this, then?" Morgyn queried.
"That...that hare broke into our supplies!" Braumis reported indignantly, and then climbed down the shell to assist with the once again unconscious Half-elf.
"Is he all right?" Aqua asked as she and Miria descended behind Braumis.
"Well, I doubt that he'll starve, if that's what you mean," Braumis surmised while maintaining a keen eye on the surrounding foliage.
"I believe he's bumped his head again," the Maestro answered without apparent regard to young Harnom's single-minded supplement.
"We'll help him back to bed," Aqua offered.
"Oh, I think we can probably take it from here, my dear," the Maestro assured her. "Why don't you two young ladies see about fetching those nice new clothes?"
"Clothes?" intoned Aqua, quickly turning to Miria with a furrowed expression.
After re-securing the Half-elf, Minuet, Morgyn, and the Maestro conferred over the map before continuing.
"It's probably just road construction," began Minuet.
"All I know is Brinehaven is to the south, and that marker is pointing east," countered the maestro adamantly while pointing an accusing finger at the dubious road sign in question.
"It's just a detour," she insisted. Why are you making such a fuss?"
He considered the possibility for a moment, and said, "No, I've made this journey many times. Brinehaven is yet three days travel south of here. East will only dead-end at the coastline of a lengthy peninsula."
"I understand, but that doesn't indicate we'll be traveling anymore than a short jaunt before turning south again," Morgyn argued. "The roads in this province have a long standing history of washouts."
"It's been a score of summers, Goppi!" Minuet inserted tensely as she began to lose patience.
"Are you two insinuating I don't know the way?" the Maestro asked reproachfully. "Because washout or no wash..."
"Of course not," Morgyn injected, in hopes of defusing the Maestro before his temper got the better of him.
"Oh, stop coddling him, Morgyn!" Minuet blurted angrily, and then suddenly recalled why she and Goppi could never be around one another long enough to get past the flirting stage. "Look here, you old fool!" she stomped over to the sign, and pointed conspicuously. "It says so right on the post! D-E-T-O-U-R!"
"Now just calm down, Goppi," Morgyn began while frowning disapprovingly at Minuet.
"I am calm!" he assured Morgyn angrily.
"If you wish to continue south, then we will simply trust..."
"Absolutely not!" countered the Maestro. "We will take this little detour, and when we reach the coast, we can simply follow that until we reach the city. It will add an extra week to our journey, but since I have two such fine sponsors as yourselves, the scenic route will be fine by me. After all, it's your platinum," he concluded, and then stomped off toward his beetle.
"Goppi," Morgyn called, in a waning hope of calming him down.
"As far as that goes, why don't we just follow the coast all the way to New Malice?" the Maestro continued contemptuously while climbing his beetle. "I'm sure that would make a lovely addition to our schedule!"
During the night, Jesse stirred in the chilled air. He seemed to be wearing clothes now, but had kicked the blanket off. He rose up on one elbow while casting about for a bearing, yet he no longer made an effort to question his surroundings, whatever they turned out to be. If he were insane, so be it. In the meantime he had more immediate concerns, for illusionary or not, the things in this particular delirium were quite capable of inflicting a variety of adverse effects, including exposure to the elements, hunger, thirst, and outright pain, such as might occur when one strikes a ten-ton rock with one's head.
"You'll catch a chill," warned a soft voice in the dark.
Jesse tensed, but relaxed again as the blanket was first draped, and then tucked about him to avoid any drafts. "What... Who are you people?" he whispered.
"We are but a simple company of student bards, milord."
He seemed to consider this for a moment. "Name's Jesse," he offered while extending his hand.
There followed a long pause as Aqua attempted to fathom the man's odd introduction. Perhaps he is from someplace with differing customs, she pondered. Presently, she leaned forward, cautiously taking his hand in her own, then kissed it quickly before rushing out of the supply/hospice to sprint all the way back to her own beetle, and her own tent.
Early on the following morning, Jesse stepped outside just before light to relieve himself in the nearby foliage. He failed to take any special notice of his mysteriously acquired attire. As he reentered the tent, however, he was beset by a most upsetting image.
"Ow!" shouted Sibastian as he struck his forehead on the overhead tent pole in reaction to the scream/shout that abruptly issued from the rear of the caravan.
"I hate rabbits," Jesse lamented to no one as he picked himself up.
"What's wrong?" asked Braumis, poking his head out of his tent.
In response, Jesse merely pointed at the supply tent with one hand while feeling the third bump to be raised on his head this week.
"The hare?"
"Yeah. Rabbit, hare...whatever."
"Everlasting Gwaurdenbog!" Braumis shouted, fairly jumping to the ground while making to intercede on behalf of his beloved supplies.
"You watch your language, young man!" Lady Pransis reprimanded him as she rounded the corner in time to see Braumis drop-kick the hare from the tent to the nearby foliage, where it landed with a pronounced, "Ooof."
"Here now! What did that poor creature do to earn such treatment?"
"He was eating our supplies!"
"Are you all right, dear boy?" she inquired of the Half-elf.
"Uh, yeah."
"Oh good, because from your resounding bellow, I rather thought that ferocious bunny might well have ripped you to pieces before assistance could arrive," she intoned sweetly, and then turned to make her way back to her own tent.
"Th... They do that?" he asked, not knowing what to believe concerning the laws of nature anymore.
"She turned briefly to deliver a somewhat unbelieving expression that was answer enough, and then continued.
While once again climbing the ladder, Jesse froze as the sun's first rays struck his apparel broadside in an apparent struggle to determine which was louder. He gazed at the short, bright, baggy green pants, belled at knee-length cuffs, and profusely covered in tiny red hearts. Beneath the pants, he wore lemon yellow leotards, covered in red diamonds, while on his feet were an odd pair of red furry slippers, resembling two small wolf-heads with long red leather tongues that stuck out of their mouths and extended in an upward curling sweep above their bulbous black noses. In contrast, his overly long-sleeved shirt was a rich royal blue, covered in black clubs and spades, while upon his head, just above the last bump issued, rested an odd type of cap. He took it off, noticing that it was covered in long, floppy, multicolored swathes that had been tied together and capped with a small leather bag. When Jesse removed the bag, a cascade of tiny silver bells fell about the strange hat in a floppy haphazard fringe while jingling at the end of each swathe.
"Hey! I spent half the morning fixing that," Miria scowled as she rounded the corner, quickly snatching the hat out of his hands.
"Sorry," he offered, leaving both her and the unwanted hat behind as he climbed the ladder.
"Braumis!"
"Yes?"
"Lady Pransis said you were mistreating the bunny," she accused.
"That's right," he confessed proudly.
"All right. Before I come up there and give you the thrashing of your life, would you care to explain yourself?"
"He keeps breaking into the supplies!"
"Oh, that dastardly villain!" Miria intoned sardonically.
"Fine," Braumis scowled. "If you're so unconcerned, then let's just say the supplies missing are from your share."
"How much could one little bunny eat?" she asked.
"Not certain," he replied with a grin. "But judging solely from the bruise his arse left on my foot, I'd place his appetite between that of a stone beetle and a mountain boar."
"You...you kicked him?" she asked, her countenance abruptly shifting from cross to wounded.
"Well," he began uncertainly.
"Oh, Braumy, I had thought better of you than that," she sniffled in a cracked voice as tears welled.
"Aww, now, don't start that," he moaned.
"Where is he?" she asked, wiping her eyes.
"All right, all right," he groaned while exiting his tent, his drooping shoulders matching his resigned expression.
As Braumis and Miria went off in search of the poor downtrodden bunny, the hare quietly hopped behind and past them to ascend the ladder. He then successfully reentered the tent, yet again.
"Hey! This what ya looking for?" Jesse called to the small search party as they rummaged through the bushes.
Both Miria and Braumis glanced back to witness the hare holding a carrot, as though it were a baby bottle, supporting the heavy end with its hind feet while using both front feet in order to hold it still. Amazingly, this was all accomplished while being dangled about as Jesse held it up by its ears.
Upon witnessing this injustice, both Dwarf and Wood-elf shrieked as they immediately bolted to the rescue. Miria rescued the bunny, and Braumis liberated the remains of the carrot.
"Do I look like a Ranger?" Marcus snapped.
"I simply thought to ask your opinion," Borin muttered through clenched teeth.
"Well, I suppose it might be her," he ventured, tapping at the warm ashes. "Or it could be almost anyone. For that matter, she could well still be in Brinehaven!"
"I don't think so."
"And why may I ask would you believe otherwise?" Marcus inquired suspiciously, turning to face Borin with an accusatory expression.
"I'm really not certain," Borin answered honestly, his brow furrowing deeper. "It's just an odd feeling..."
"What say we all take a small nap?" Reginald suggested from a nearby tree while resting his head on an exposed root and pulling some type of odd shimmering blanket over his face to block out the early morning light.
"The ashes are cold, but the culprits could yet be within a day's travel, milady."
"No. It's of no concern to our quest."
"Oh, I agree completely, my Baroness."
"Good."
"It's only..."
"Do spit it out, Effigee!"
"Well, to be perfectly candid, I feel there could be trouble from the bearers if we don't at least make some token effort..."
"For the Emperor's sake!" Teristha exclaimed. "They're nothing but blasted Trolls!"
At this, the majority of the allies assigned as laborers to Teristha's quest turned to scowl at their new sovereign commander.
"Milady, please!" Effigee pleaded softly. "Perhaps the Baroness should consider their volatile natures."
"Yes," agreed Teristha slowly, now acutely aware of several dozen Trolls as they gazed intently in her direction from within range of torches mounted on her Troll-born litter, and an even greater number of silhouettes, vague in shape, but easily identified by the red reflection of their eyes as they all seemed to track her every move. "Along with their numbers, I should think."
"Yes, milady, that too," Effigee whispered.
The sun will be up soon," began Teristha in a more cordial tone. "Our good friends will be burrowing down for a well-earned day's sleep," she continued, now speaking loudly enough to be overheard.
"Yes, well earned," echoed Effigee.
"I think we should extend our assistance, don't you?"
"Oh, yes. Absolutely," Effigee smiled.
"Good, good. Then as soon as you've finished with the camp's concealment illusion, you won't mind scouting ahead for those nasty killers of innocent Trolls."
Braumis jumped with a start as Jesse suddenly leapt out of bed with an alarmed expression.
"Giant beetles!" he exclaimed.
"What?" asked Braumis.
"And that was no crow-chicken. That was a Roc!"
"Where? cried Braumis, quickly poking his head out of the tent.
"You!" Jesse shouted.
"Me?" queried Braumis, his apprehension rising as he faced the unstable Half-elf.
"You're a Dwarf!" Jesse declared accusingly.
"All right...I admit it."
"I mean...well, yes, he's obviously witless," Minuet replied, factoring the Half-elf's reaction to her ferocious bunny comment, "though he seems harmless enough."
"I've no doubt he's witless, milady," interjected Sibastian. "Witless is a description easily attributed to that entire diluted bloodline. Even so, how many people, breed or otherwise, have you heard of as traipsing through open wilderness in the buff, unless they were completely deranged?"
"We can't just abandon the poor fellow, Sibastian. He would never survive," Morgyn insisted, his expression suggesting a concern for the Prince's lack thereof.
"Here, here, Morgy!" Minuet voiced in approval.
"After all, Prince," Morgyn continued, "are we not civilized? Surely we can extend enough good will to at least convey the unfortunate to a more populated area."
"He was alive when we found him, Master Nowtright. And as I detected no evidence of anyone else to credit with his good health prior to his unfortunate residence among us, then it would seem to me that he can fend for himself well enough."
"And you're a High-elf!" Jesse exclaimed, suddenly rushing up to Sibastian, who accordingly toppled backwards off the small boulder he had been using as a stool, to land flat on his back while staring up, somewhat dumbfounded, directly into the face of his accuser.
"And you're a Gnome!" Jesse continued, thrusting an accusatory finger in Minuet's face, before rushing off to accuse other people, creatures, and occasionally, inanimate objects of being what they were.
"Still think he's not deranged?" whispered Sibastian, as he peeked over the top of the boulder until certain the maniac was out of earshot.
"I never said he wasn't," replied Morgyn. "On the other hand, are you yet of the opinion that he's sufficiently competent to fend for himself?"
" Wayward Fates! " raved the hairy-faced, comically clad lunatic as he rushed erratically about the camp. "It's all Wayward Fates !"
Normally immune to the distraction of bipedal interactions, the Rhino beetle did casually raise a lone antenna, just in case the approaching boisterous Priest of Nature looked as if it might actually tip completely over the edge of the lunacy he seemed to be nearing.
"You're a Rhino beetle!" he accused the Rhino beetle, who accordingly took several evasive sidesteps, and then continued munching its grassy breakfast while hoping for peace.
"What's going on?" Aqua mumbled in lethargic response to the combination of her mount's sudden motion and the Half-elf's ardent insinuations.
Noticing the bleary-eyed Wood-elf, Jesse commenced to loose yet another obvious observation. "You're a..." he began, and then trailed off as some unidentified memory of a newborn infant with a slobbery grin and unregulated bladder suddenly attempted to gain access to the forefront of his attention.
Aqua's eyes shot open, as she realized that the cause of the handsome Half-elf's discord must surely be her hideously disheveled condition. Accordingly, her hasty retreat beneath the beetle's saddle blanket was not entirely dissimilar to a North Aphorine Hermit Turtle's withdrawal from, well, just about anything.
"You must be Mr. Berrach," an oddly muffled voice from behind stated.
Jesse spun about, so as to identify which type of creature his drug-induced rendition of the game caused to address him directly. What he found was nothing he could associate as having a role in his latest epiphany.
The Rabbit, same rabbit, was now standing erect, and leaning against a tree. This in itself was profound enough behavior, but he also appeared to be wearing an exact, albeit a diminutive duplicate, of Jesse's own clownish apparel. "I don't suppose you would have any salt?" inquired the muffled Rabbit as he bit the carrot, thereby packing his already overly packed cheeks as he blew a stray jingle-bell out of his face.
"Don't think so," Jesse replied dumbly while absently searching for pockets that the costume did not possess.
"Pity," sprayed the Rabbit. "Oh, dear! Do excuse me, won't you? Haven't quite got the hang of this creature yet."
"No problem," Jesse assured the Rabbit, while absently brushing bits of orange flake from his face and shoulders without taking his eyes from the odd little apparition.
"You know," offered the Rabbit cordially while sitting, leaning back against the tree, and biting another hunk out of the carrot. "Hares really are quite fond of fresh vegetables. I mean honestly, I had no idea."
"Uh-huh,"
"It's not unlike a drunkard to alcohol, really."
"Uh-huh."
"This little fellow rather puts one in mind of Crumly, don't you think?" the Rabbit tittered while numerous bits of carrot escaped the corners of his mouth.
"Umm..."
"Oh, that's right, you don't remember him, do you?"
"Uh-huh."
"You do?" the Rabbit asked in surprise.
"Huh? Umm... Huh-uh."
"Yes, well that's rather what I thought. Do try to pay attention, won't you?"
Jesse glanced about to see if he could determine if anyone other than himself found talking rabbits as odd as he did. This was difficult in reference to the Wood-elf girl, who was still beneath the beetle blanket. She should have heard the Rabbit, but if she hadn't seen him, then she might not know it was a Rabbit speaking. The others, still sitting by the campfire, seemed oblivious of the Rabbit. In fact, they appeared to be just plain oblivious.
This drew his attention to a number of other disturbing details. There was no breeze, no birds chirping, and no other sound or movements. The smoke from the campfire wasn't rising. It just hung there. The fire itself wasn't crackling, or even dancing about as a fire should. It was still there. It just wasn't moving.
"I wish there was more time for proper introductions," continued the Rabbit as he swallowed the entire mouthful. "Regrettably, you and I will simply have to make do with what few moments there are."
"Who...what are you..."
"Do try not to interrupt, dear boy. I don't wish to appear rude, but we really are pressed."
"Umm..."
"My name is Surripere," said the Rabbit in introduction. "A very long time ago, I was in the employ of a rather unpleasant fellow known as Abhoron. As a matter of fact, you might say I was part of the family. You see, I am one of his creations."
"Uh-huh."
"Now, one might imagine that since I am the creation of such an unpleasant individual, I should be just as unpleasant. Well, yes, in the beginning maybe I was, but I was originally crafted for the purpose of certain diplomacies between the Gods...a messenger of sorts. Quite boring stuff, really. Mostly matters of disputed jurisdictions and the like. Anyhow, the characteristics I was given in diplomacy turned out to be something of a snafu. You see, skills in negotiation necessitate the ability to think in a certain sort of dynamic projection. You know, understanding the other fellow's viewpoint and so on."
"I think I should go and lie down now," Jesse muttered absently, and then turned about, vaguely seeking the comfort of his makeshift hospice as the dishearteningly familiar feeling of having missed yet another diagnostic mark rapidly drained what remained of his previous enthusiasm.
"SIT DOWN!" roared the Rabbit with a resonance that continued to echo in Jesse's mind for several moments subsequent to his almost urgent compliance: said obedience punctuated by a small puff of dust as he immediately plopped down.
"Now, where was I?" asked the Rabbit rhetorically as he hopped about once again to face his reluctant audience, the tiny bells of his hat jingling loudly as he did so.
"Other fellow's viewpoint," replied Jesse absently."
"Ah, yes. Well, diplomacy gives way to freethinking, which in turn leads to free will. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I found myself on the other side of the fence, as it were. Do you follow?"
"Oh, sure," Jesse nodded, having no clue, but wishing not to aggravate the fluffy delirium further.
"Of course, this particular state of mind ended my employment, and very nearly my life. I won't go into all the unsavory details, but suffice it to say, I escaped by a hare's breadth," he tittered, in reference to the funny of his own making. He pressed on after noting Jesse's lack of notation.
"After that, I wandered about for a few millennia," he continued, momentarily hopping over, casually to compare his own wolf-head slippers to the larger, yet otherwise identical pair worn by his reluctant companion, who with the exception of his ever-widening eyes had frozen during said inspection. "No real direction, or purpose, you understand. Just a free spirit, meandering through the seventeen known universes."
"Uh-huh."
"Of course, there's not precisely a great many Deities looking to hire on disavowed Demons," he admitted, looking up to note that Jesse was in fact paying extremely close attention. On seeing that, he offered a somewhat disconcerting bucktoothed beam of approval.
"Demon?" Jesse asked cautiously, offering the first sign of a response other than shock.
"Now, don't let that upset you," the Rabbit advised comfortingly, as two small hornlike protrusions slowly appeared on either side of his forehead, and then disappeared like the smile of a Cheshire cat. "Demon is just a title used by some of the more aggressive Gods. I suppose they think it sounds foreboding, or ominous. They like to throw a good scare into folks, is all."
"It works," Jesse confirmed appreciatively.
"Anyway, back to my story," continued the Rabbit irritably. "Abhoron decided not to repeat the mistake I represented. But without a mediator, namely me, certain key lines of communication between certain key Deities began to degrade over time. This evolved into manifestations of war, pestilence, famine, and generally a good deal of bad luck for anyone caught between the opposing Factions. And that's when Abhoron went just a Hare too far," he intoned expectantly, waiting patiently, almost defiantly, for any sort of an amused reaction.
Jesse glanced about, wondering briefly why the Rabbit kept pausing.
"Yes, well, Abhoron finally decided to take it upon himself literally to pilfer the original Elvin bloodline right out from under the Deities of Nature."
"Bloodline? As in blood sample?"
"What? No, don't be ridiculous! What in the blue blazes would he want with such samples?"
"I don't know. You said..."
"Original bloodline, dear boy. As in the patriarch and matriarch."
"Oh, okay. Like the Adam and Eve of Elves. Got it."
"Surripere briefly considered a pursuance of the alien's Adam and Eve comment, and then decided that he had allowed Mr. Berrach to waste too much time as it was. "Needless to say," he continued adamantly, "Wildern and Natura were quite put out over that little faux pas. As a matter of fact, I wasn't very happy about it either. I suppose you could say that I felt somewhat responsible. After all, if I hadn't reformed, the entire mess would never have come about. So, while Abhoron was about the business of twisting the natures of his procurements, I struck a bargain with the Natures themselves, who were only too happy to join forces. As a matter of fact, it was their authorization that allowed me to gain a more...physical interaction in this world through the corporal use of their own lower minions. Of course I had to swear that no harm would ever befall any such procurement during my tenure."
Jesse's vacant expression suggested a lack of comprehension.
"I can possess animals," Surripere simplified.
"So, you're not an actual rabbit?"
Surripere paused again. "No, not an actual rabbit," he confirmed through gritted bucked teeth.
"Umm, please continue," Jesse insisted nervously, as Surripere's silent count-to-ten lingered.
"By the time Abhoron had finished the first settlement of Dark-elves, we were already moving to intercede on their behalf, not to imply that this was easy, or quickly accomplished. It took a great deal of time and patience, even by Deity standards. Unfortunately, it takes longer to enlighten than it does to corrupt, though it did allow me time to establish a small following of my own, not that I'm actual god, you understand."
"I never thought you were."
"Well...this brings us to you," he intoned irritably as Jesse's attention perked at the implication. "I thought that might get your attention," he continued. "You, or rather Jester, was to have been one of the primary focal points for the entire structure of my original Prophecy. Then your sister, and I presume the good Demon, Kwibee, inadvertently interfered. In fact, they came very close to foiling a great deal of hard work."
"Sister?" Jesse muttered. "Wha...what about my sister?"
{Location unknown}
"Our people have already got the filter working. All I'm asking for is the complete code. Whoever you're working for will just think we figured it out on our own."
"I'm not working for anyone, and I've already told you everything I know."
"You honestly expect us to believe you're just some civilian Kwibee picked at random?"
"I don't really care what you believe."
"Lady, I don't think you get it. I'm offering you a chance to walk out of here. Your name doesn't even have to show up on the report."
"For the last time, I don't know anything! I woke up this morning and found my husband sitting just the way you saw him! That's when Doctor Kwibee showed up! And that's the first time I ever laid eyes on him!"
"Fine. You wanna play it that way? That's just fine. Like I said, we've got the filter working well enough to access the program safely. All we're missing are a few of the bells and whistles. That might slow us down, but it won't stop us."
"You sent someone in, didn't you?"
"I'm afraid that's a classified...
"You people are nuts! I've been in there, and I don't care what codes you have. You're little program's gone fully psycho! Without Kwibee, whoever you sent in is toast!"
"Let me see if I got this right," she continued as they walked. "You've no idea what the howling was, and you don't know what and or who might have caused it."
"That is the sum of it, Mis...Sarah," he replied carefully, not wishing to set her off again.
"And this Master of yours said nothing, except that a Paladin from Brinehaven, while following the call of a wolf's ethereal howling, would come to you at the very spot we met."
"Exactly so," agreed Crumly with an affirmative nod.
"You sure you didn't hear it?"
"Well, I was in meditation, but I don't believe I'm that good...yet."
"So, all this somehow ties into some Prophecy for which you were never given any specific details."
"Right again," he offered in praise of her solid grasp.
"Okay. What about this Trickster?"
"Nothing specific, I'm afraid. Except that he is part of an ancient legend involving the liberation of all the Dark races."
"All right. Where are we supposed to meet up with your friend?"
"Not a clue. I only know the route to follow."
"What if it's like a really long ways? You're not exactly well stocked."
"Ahh, but the faithless abound, and where there are faithless, the Scapegrace shall not want," he stated confidently, as if quoting from scripture.
"In other words, you're a Thief," she intoned with a raised eyebrow.
"Well... I suppose that's one way of looking at it."
"You mean there's another way?"
"Hail!" shouted someone to their left.
Crumly and Sarah stopped, and then turned to face yet another Dwarf who was standing a good forty-five to fifty meters off the path and holding the reins of some large type of transport beetle. Its tilted stature revealed that said barge of burden was obviously bogged in the mud.
"Afraid I'm in something of a pinch!" she called again while making for the road.
"Bogged down, eh?" Crumly called cordially.
"What was your first clue?" Sarah muttered, thus earning a sharp look from her companion.
"Unfortunately so. I don't suppose I could call upon your kind assistance, could I?" she asked sweetly, her curvaceous hips proffering a slight sway as she reached them.
"We would be honored to aid such a beautiful damsel," Crumly informed her with a deep bow."
"We would?" Selina asked while noting her companion's bulging eyes.
"If it was Selina, then why would she all of a sudden reverse directions?" Borin asked speculatively.
"Why should I know?" Marcus returned in the same tone as that employed by Borin when he was first questioned about Selina's disappearance.
In response, Borin took a deep breath, and then released it in a long, silent sigh.
"All I know is that the barge we passed came from down there." He pointed to the large mud-hole with tracks leading to the road, and then turning south.
"What makes you think it was a barge beetle?"
"Well, for starters, it was about ten times the size of a rhino beetle. That means it was bred domestically. Also, there was that humongous tarp-covered lump on its back!"
"Marcus? I understand that you are upset," began Borin, "but exactly how long must you continue to..."
"And since the tracks we were following go no further," continued Marcus without regard to Borin's protest, "then it's safe to assume that Selina, if in fact it was Selina, is now aboard the barge we just passed," he concluded, returning to his barrow and lifting it, preparatory to commencing back in the direction from which they had just come.
"Hey! It's your turn to carry Father!" Borin shouted.
"Carry your own baggage!"
"I would like nothing more than to sit here and explain all the little details," offered the Rabbit, "but as I mentioned, time is quite short. Now, I do hate to be impolite, but I really must be on my way."
"You said something about Sarah!" Jesse insisted while coming to his feet.
"Oh, yes, I almost forgot," said the Rabbit as its clothing first faded, and then disappeared altogether. "These are standard mooring cleats." He illustrated, as a small white cloud appeared just above his head, housing the image of a bolted plate secured by a two-piece latch that was in turn connected with a spring pin through overlapping hinges.
"Huh?" Jesse asked, momentarily distracted by the disappearance of the one, then the appearance of the other.
"It's really rather simple. First, one lifts this," he pointed to the latch, which accordingly issued a pronounced click as it released its hold. "Then you pull this." He pointed to the pin's loop, which accordingly slid free of the two-piece assembly, thus allowing each to separate.
"Uh-huh."
"Well, I really should be going, so best of luck to you and yours, Squire Berrach," concluded the now naked Rabbit as its posture dropped from bipedal to the more natural quadruped.
"Wait! What about my sister?"
"Soon, Jesse," returned the Rabbit's voice from within the dissipating thought-balloon while the hare's previous air of intellect returned to its more naturally uncomplicated bearing.
Abruptly, everything about him rushed back into motion, like a movie jumping into action after the pause was removed.
"All right, what's all the commotion?" demanded Maestro Spinwyp, thrusting his upper body through the tent flap, his face half-covered in shaving lather while one hand held a small mirror and the remainder of lather dripped from the straight razor he held in the other hand.
"It's your pet half-breed!" Sibastian shouted, still brushing himself off. "He's run amuck!"
"Oh, do stop over-dramatizing, Prince. It's really becoming quite tiresome," replied the Maestro while observing the lumpy form atop the beetle directly behind his own as it finally managed to squirm about and face him, thereby revealing Aqua's own panic-stricken face.
"Jesse, is it?" he asked the Half-elf.
"Yeah... I think so," Jesse replied, uncertain.
"Could you possibly hold it down, dear boy? We're all still a bit groggy from having just gotten up, being early morning and all. You understand, don't you?"
"Sorry," replied Jesse apologetically, while eyeing the rabbit suspiciously.
"Now then, see there, Sibastian? Our new friend is more than reasonable."
"Hail the camp!" The shout came from a distance off the path to the northwest.
"Oh, dear," muttered the Maestro while wiping his half-shaven face.
"Squire Rainswalker?" Morgyn inquired.
Father? thought Aqua with growing alarm.
"Master Nowtright! What are you doing here, you old tavern-fly?"
"I'm on the charter. What's your excuse?"
Morgyn laughed as he started in Merfee's direction.
"I assure you, milord. It wasn't my idea," Merfee intoned while pointing over his shoulder.
"What's this business?" Morgyn asked while imitating Merfee's apparent gesturing toward nothing in particular.
Merfee glanced back over his shoulder, and then wheeled about as he discovered his wife's absence.
"Here I am!" Nefari called from behind and above them.
Oh, no! Aqua lamented inwardly.
"Looks like Mummy and Daddy were worried about Baby girl," Sibastian commented cheerily while passing her beetle to join the others.
Following the sound of her voice, Jesse was invariably forced to look upward to witness a figure literally flying, or perhaps simply floating at a downward angle as if on landing approach. Twins? he wondered as the floating woman neared, her figure producing an image almost identical to that of the girl that he had previously been on the verge of accusing as belonging to the Wood-elf ethnicity.
"What now?" Merfee asked while attempting to conceal his frustration.
"I found a red-winged squab on the path. I couldn't just leave it there," she replied while attempting to conceal her frustration.
"Will you get down here before that spell falls, along with you?"
"Oh, my!" tittered Morgyn. "I had almost forgotten how much I love watching you two avoid strangling each other."
"We would have been much further along by now if we hadn't been busy saving every varmint along the way," Merfee confided.
"I doubt that three small birds constitute every varmint ," Nefari countered as she caught up.
"Why aren't you on the path?" Morgyn inquired. "No, wait, I remember," he crooned in recollection of Merfee's motto. "Roads are for dandies and greenhorns," they recited in unison, grinning broadly as they clasped each other on the back.
"Well met!" Merfee exclaimed.
"Indeed!" Morgyn agreed.
"Mother? What are you doing here?" Aqua asked with an accusing glare aimed at Merfee while rushing to intercept them both.
"Your father and I have decided to take a vacation."
"Leave me out of this," Merfee added. "I didn't decide anything."
"Vacation? You don't take vacations. You won't even eat in a bistro!"
"Just you watch your tone, young lady!" Nefari countered, but with an expression that pleaded more than demanded.
"Father?" she inquired expectantly while facing him with an expression suggesting betrayal on his part.
"Honestly, Pumpkin, we really didn't expect to run into you."
"Pumpkin?" inquired Braumis as he joined them, thus causing Aqua to wince.
"Oh, surely! You just happened to run into the very charter I'm on while going out of your way to avoid me. That sort of thing happens every day, I'm sure," she intoned.
"You have a sister?" Jesse asked Aqua from behind while still gawking at Nefari, who promptly blushed bright red at the hairy-faced stranger's implied complement.
"Now see here, girl!" Merfee rebutted his daughter's insinuation while glaring at the comically clad stranger. "We're taking a second Honeymoon."
"What!"
"That's right!" added Nefari. "And we had no idea we would be running into you. We were heading for Brinehaven, but we thought for sure you'd have already passed through there by now."
"Yes, well, we've come upon something of a small delay in our schedule," offered Sibastian with a decidedly cheerful expression.
"Stay out of this, Siby!" Aqua growled through clenched teeth.
"What sort of delay?" Merfee inquired.
"Apparently, we've become something of a home for wayward maniacs," Sibastian replied warmly.
"Maniac? Where?" Jesse asked, while whirling about.
"Hail the camp!" That shout came from down the path to the west.
All eyes came to bear as the Halfling, now no more than thirty meters away, finally brought his barge to a full stop.
"Hail, Stranger!" called Morgyn while sidling through the small group to stand between the interloper and his friends. "State your business, if you please!"
"I am but a merchant en route to Brinehaven, milord! I would pass by with no intentions toward or from your goodly caravan!"
"Ahh, I see!" Morgyn returned as he and the others relaxed a bit.
"Please forgive our wary ways, milord! One cannot be too careful these days!"
"Not at all!" the Halfling assured him while urging the barge forward. "I would have been more suspicious if you hadn't been," he laughed as he pulled his beetle up to their group, and then staked it down. "I'm Dobin," he offered in introduction while bowing deeply. "Dobin Eldaberry."
"Well met, Dobin," bowed Morgyn, following with his own introduction, and quickly emulated by the others, except for the Ladies of the group, who offered curtsies.
"Could we persuade you to join us for breakfast, Squire Eldaberry?" offered Morgyn cordially.
"Get away from her!" shouted Maestro Spinwyp, leaping from his beetle's back with his straight razor brandished like a Gnomish scimitar.
"Now!" shouted the Halfling, backing away quickly and pulling the rope that tied the canvas as it fell like a curtain, dropping about the outer circumference of the barge's shell to reveal a mixed group of armed individuals who immediately burst outward.
Merfee, Nefari, and Morgyn rushed forward as Maestro Spinwyp joined them to stand between their charges and the mixed group of perhaps two-dozen Ogres and Dark-elves.
"Attack!" came a battle cry from a clearing of trees to the southwest, where Magnatha raised one cane high from atop her charging shear beetle, followed closely by Cleetis, Tuda, and Hobson. Perdil and Ezlea also followed, but maintained a careful distance to insure casting safety.
The only member of the Tarot group not following Magnatha was Digger. Her beetle couldn't keep up with him.
Sarah couldn't move, see, or speak. The ropes that bound her, as well as the gag and blindfold, had been secured tightly. She could, however, hear, and since waking shortly after the ambush, which basically began and ended with a single blow to the back of her head, she had in fact heard quite a lot.
She had heard the female Dwarf's voice shift in tone while barking orders at unseen yet easily detected Ogres in their own speech as the She-Dwarf became the He-Halfling. She had received an even more intense exposure to the Ogre's aroma while being picked up like so much laundry, and then tossed into the cage on the beetle's back.
She had gone through the entire spectrum of struggling in protest against the unforgiving bite of the rope. She had strained so vehemently during this exertion that she had in fact felt a certain impending signal, prompting a certain potential loss of internal management, which also served as an indication of her lack of ability to succeed in escaping in this fashion. As such, she relaxed while considering what other options might avail.
After a short time, the barge lurched forward until regaining the road. It then continued its journey in earnest. Shortly thereafter, she heard several new, yet very familiar voices as the barge passed a small group of travelers. This was when she reasserted her previous efforts against the ropes, ending in the previously forewarned conclusion of her obligatory bladder, whose version of I-told-you-so took on a decidedly disconcerted dampening of any such further efforts.
Her rising hope upon hearing what represented salvation inevitably dropped as their voices dwindled in the growing distance, and then faded altogether. When she could no longer hear them, she relaxed yet again, now minus her previous optimism. All that remained were her fears and frustration, made manifest in the form of her tear-soaked blindfold.
You're leaking like a sieve, you little coward, her inner voice told her. Or was it her inner voice? It might well have been the Slut's inner voice. It was becoming difficult to know for sure anymore. And I'm not a Slut!
After what felt like an eternity, the voices of hope and salvation returned yet again. Her heart raced in anticipation as she heard Marcus hail the barge.
She prepared for liberation as she listened to the ensuing short conversation. This began with cordial greetings passing among Marcus, Borin, and the driver, and ended with Reginald's intoxicated observation concerning the male Halfling's unscheduled replacement of the female Dwarf he had noticed when they first passed the barge.
There followed a short skirmish, after which the driver loosed the canvas that concealed the now reloaded ambush party. She knew this procedure without actually seeing it, as the sounds were almost identical to her experience during Crumly's insistence on assisting the shapely Dwarven damsel. First came the whoosh of falling canvas walls, followed immediately by the driver's "Now!" command to those huddled around the outside of the cage, yet still under the canopy that overspread the canvas walls until the trap was sprung.
The protesting voices of Reginald and Marcus became muffled, and then silent, as their gags were drawn tight.
Borin himself made no protest that she could hear, and at first she thought that he might have been killed during the fray. This particular fear was quelled as she felt the impact of three separate bodies being tossed into the cage with her.
A moment later, one of the Ogres demanded the life of his comrade's killer. When the driver ordered the Ogre back into rank, his protest continued. "Me claim Blood Rite! Me claim Bl..." The protest ceased as the Ogre's body thudded loudly against the beetle's shell, and slid limply to the ground.
"Moron!" spat the driver at the corpse. "If you had but waited until after Clawtorn's interrogation, you would have been granted your insipid little Blood Rite!"
Then the canvas was reset and the barge began its trek south again. There followed several hours of steadily increasing discomfort as the barge plodded along until coming to a stop while the Halfling-Dwarf mumbled something under his-her breath about "Accursed detours!"
After yet another eternity, the barge slowed to a stop as the Halfling first slid to the ground, then continued to lead the barge for a short distance before calling out, "Hail the camp!"
Nefari was quickly nearing the end of her mana. She might have enough for three more bolts of lightning, or one meteor, but then there would be nothing left for healing.
This became academic when the main body of Ogres began another hard push forward, while the Dark-elves behind them prepared to skewer, hack, and or crush anyone to fall within range of their weapons.
One meteor it is, she thought, drawing upon the last of her resources in preparation to loose a molten ball into their midst before they could reach the makeshift barrier of the beetle's corpse, behind which lay the children and injured.
A dagger thrown by someone from the blue crowd trailing the Ogre's forward offence struck her in the forearm as the forming ball of fire launched just over the Ogres' heads. It exploded harmlessly several hundred meters away, impacting on the inclined path to the west.
Borin, Marcus, and Sarah suddenly burst out of the cage, rushing the Dark-elves before the Ogres could respond. Behind them, Braumis and Crumly assisted Reginald away from the cage, and out of harm's way, in spite of his inebriated protests.
Of their trio, Sarah was the only one to carry arms. This was her own dagger, drawn from a scabbard that had been hidden in a place her captors had failed to consider.
As she and Marcus cast a combination of Holy Obfuscation and Distraction's Aura, Borin leapt, delivering a full body slam to the closest four Dark-elves, thus propelling them into their larger comrades. The resulting force was sufficient to draw the attention of the entire forward offensive as they all wheeled about just as both Paladin spells struck.
Distraction's Aura enveloped the entire crowd, thereby rendering mild confusion among the majority of Ogres and Dark-elves alike. Of course, this effect was more easily detected on the faces of the Elves, as the Ogres' expressions were already of a similar demeanor, until the latter combatants got struck by Holy Obfuscation, which caused their entire witless collective momentarily to meander about as if lost in fog.
The effects of both spells proved almost as short-lived as Borin's own diversion, though their combined efforts had served its purpose. The enemy had been successfully dispersed. Now they must somehow be dispatched. Were they to regroup, then the element of surprise would be lost, as would the battle.
Borin motioned the others to spread out. Rather than draw the invaders back into a single collective, this would force those not stunned to push through those who were. It also purchased a bit more time for any remaining allies to regroup.
Having seen Reginald safely out of the way, Crumly quickly returned to join them in time to engage the small number of enemy who had avoided both body-slam and spells.
Their primary crisis was the numbers. Nefari's last attempt had been the end of the original Allied defense. Everyone else had either been forced to retreat, or take refuge among the injured.
With the element of surprise now utilized, the Ogres were left with six active Warriors, while the Dark-elves had three Warriors, two Dis'Errants, and one Magician.
As for the Allies not meditating or yet tending to the wounded, there remained one Warrior, one Rogue, two Paladins, and one unemployed Paramedic from Houston Texas in a second-hand Jester costume.
"HY'AHH!" That sharp, raucous shout issued from atop the barge beetle's back. In response to the command, and to the unforgiving sting of loose, slapping reins on its tender mandibles, the beetle jerked forward with surprising speed for a domestically bred barge of just over three metric tons.
As the barge bore down on the entire crowd below, Jesse rushed to tie the reins off to the outermost corner of the cage. Then he commenced to unfasten the four latched mooring cleats that had been affixed to the creature's shell with bolts.
The first three were simply a matter of lifting the latch, and removing the spring pin. The last of the four was more difficult, as the heavy iron cage had swung about to hang and then bounce wildly with the rhythm of the beetle's six-legged stride.
The latch itself had came up easily enough, though the pin continued to jam on each downward thrust of the now bouncing cage. It could be slid freely when the cage came up, but its rhythm was fast and erratic, with the iron cleat slamming against the pin whilst backed by the reoccurring iron weight of the cage itself.
If he missed, then it could easily take his hand off in the process. With no way to judge the strike, Jesse closed his eyes and slapped at the pin's outer ring as fast as he could.
In missing the ring completely, he continued to pivot, coming about one hundred and eighty degrees before catching himself in time to see the quasi-Halfling wield an Ogre club into his solar plexus as though it were a baseball bat, thus expelling the majority of air in Jesse's lungs.
An audible "Ooof" escaped as he was propelled backwards to trip on the pin and fall through the open cage door as the now sprung spring-pin abruptly popped out, allowing the cage to fall, though still attached to the reins that were in turn attached to the beetle's massive head.
As it struck the ground, the cage dug in at one corner, forcing its own inertia to vault the structure into a wild bouncing spin along the radius of the rein's tethered pivot.
At this, the Barge immediately balked due to an unexpected force of a centrifugal nature, thus generating a greatly increased strain on the beetle, whose normally bovine eyes were suddenly bulging at the limit of their sockets.
In turn, this action added a slingshot effect to the rapidly disintegrating mass of twisted iron bars, thereby increasing its velocity, and eliminating its radial path as it broke further apart with each impact.
Sarah, Marcus, Borin, and Crumly all managed to dive out of harm's way, but the greater majority of Ogres and Dark-elves, only now emerging from the puzzling Paladin spells, were yet unaware of the spinning blur of iron protrusions yet plowing through their midst.
After mowing through the bulk of invaders, the now rattling ball of scrap metal bounced one last time. Then its overall cohesive structure collapsed upon final impact, casting debris for some distance along the trajectory it would have traveled. Near the end of that stretch of scattered wreckage tumbled the occupant of the now thoroughly dismantled cage/wrecking ball/death trap.
Other than the all-hell-just-broke-loose consensus among all remaining Factions concerned, this peculiar tactic had served to even the odds, leaving the Dark-elves with only one Dis'Errant, one Warrior, and one Magician while the Ogres were left with four, or five if one counted the Halfling-Dwarf, who now morphed into Ogre form to join them.
Of the Allies, Sarah, Marcus, Borin, and Crumly, who formed one group, covered the northeastern quadrant of the clearing-battlefield, while several of those comprising the injured Bard-Tarot combination group now moved to take positions along the western path where they stood between the enemy and the more seriously wounded. This included Digger, Tuda, Morgyn, half of Hobson, and Ezlea, who was yet involved in some form of lengthy incantation.
On the positive, the Allies now held the advantage of numbers. On the negative, three of the Fighter Class group was yet unarmed with the enemy between them, thus preventing any possible scavenging of fallen weapons.
Morgyn now sported Merfee's sword, but had very little knowledge of swordplay. He held the weapon before him like a talisman, hoping for some as of yet unfathomable insight as to how he might play said instrument.
Digger was armed with an entire compliment of very effective teeth, but he had been caught in one of the explosion spells from the enemy Magician. Subsequently, his left foreleg dangled from a thin section of severed sinew as he limped to the semicircular front line forming about the regrouping Dark-elves and Ogres.
Now acting as the Commanding Ogre, Effigee surveyed the battlefield, what remained of her/his ambush squad, and the scattered remains of the cage and the trail of corpses marking its passage. "Would anyone here care to actually engage in a proper battle?" she boomed in an uncharacteristically intelligent and feminine voice. "Or are you to continue with yet more of your cowardly antics?"
"Enchanter!" Borin shouted, drawing the false Ogre's attention. "If its battle you seek, then seek you me!" he grinned while motioning with both unarmed hands in a universal palms up, fingers curling invitation.
Recognition of her old acquaintance hadn't come until hearing his voice. Effigee momentarily dropped her assumed formed to reveal her true Race, and specific identity. "Why Ambassador," she smiled. "Fancy meeting you here."
Upon recognition of the old embarrassment Effigee represented, Borin rushed forward. Battle was no place for personal conflict. Rather than fall into her trap, he would use the opportunity to catch her while in her true form.
As a Master of her Class, Effigee was easily capable of reverting back to Ogre form in time to confront the enemy charging her. What she hadn't considered was that Borin's attack would be so quickly joined by his Allies.
In averting his concentration to buffer his hands with Barbs of Righteous Indignation, Marcus suddenly found himself dangling by one arm when abruptly jerked off his feet by a notably acrimonious Ogre Warrior. As a result, the spell meant for himself went awry, landing instead on his assailant's face and thereby sprouting a series of random protrusions, bearing close resemblance to large thorns and thus serving to lend further accent on the behemoth's expression of ill intent.
The now thorny Ogre commenced to draw Marcus closer, his broad face twisting into a malicious grin as that maw of greenish broken teeth loomed while expelling a wholly noxious suspiration of semi-digested substances, enigmatic in origin, and proffering a truly fetid animosity that drifted over the now helpless Paladin, who in that moment would have eagerly given up his life for just one last breath of untainted air.
"Hi ya, handsome," came a silken vamping of unmistakably feminine quality, thus prompting both the Ogre and the pendulant Paladin to swivel their attentions to unavoidably gape at an Ogress.
To Marcus, the only observable characteristic to discern her gender was the creature's mountainous if not appealing bosom.
The thorny male Ogre continued to exhibit a grin, roughly similar to that of the one so abundantly displayed while on the verge of biting and no doubt swallowing the helmed head of his foe, although now, with the further exhibition of his lolled tongue, he further displayed his reaction to what was obviously an attractive member of his opposite sex.
This is when the object of his romantic attentions revealed her right hand, fashionably clad within the metallic housing of a finely crafted gauntlet: Hobson, who in joint effort with his mistress delivered a single, neck-breaking blow to her already amorously stricken male counterpart at breakneck speed.
Upon recovery, which involved regaining his feet and breath, Marcus began to express his profuse gratitude for the preservation of both his life and olfactory nerves, when he noticed that his pseudo-Ogress benefactor had already returned to the business of engaging the enemy. She and her gauntlet continued to entice and then neutralize yet another Ogre.
The elongated shadow continued its approach, inching along the ground and slipping about the dead beetle's shell. It moved silently closer to Perdil as he finished the last of his own mana on the Field of Generation now surrounding Cleetis, who yet lay unconscious. When it drew no more than a meter from its target, the shadow stopped, and then slowly crouched, as if in preparation to pounce.
Perdil jumped with surprise, and then turned in reaction to the crashing thud behind him.
Lying quite still and face down on the ground was one of the Dark-elves, his crushed head surrounded by semi-squished yams and the remains of what had once been a large wooden crate.
"Looks like someone has to keep an eye on you at all times," Tuda informed him from atop the defunct supply transport.
Beside her, the young brunette Wood-elf continued to stare at the crate she had just helped drop. "Braumis isn't going to like this one bit."
After missing the elusive target, the Ogre-Enchantress stepped back, and then lunged, swinging its massive club with all its might.
Borin feigned right and then left in a shoulder roll as his hand came down on the hilt of a small scimitar, which he grasped without thinking as he continued to roll into an upright position.
Realizing the danger in facing an armed Warrior, Effigee turned on her/his heel and fled as Borin pursued. Abruptly, she shifted in size and shape, becoming a large bird which then took flight, quickly disappearing into the tree line.
"I don't know who she was," Ezlea began. "I'm just relieved I didn't have to face her myself. Judging by the way she was shifting, I doubt that I would have stood a chance. Incidentally, how were you able to detect my evil counterpart?"
"My hand mirror," Goppi answered in a whisper, followed by another harsh bout of coughing.
"What, by all the Sirens, did you think you were doing?" growled Minuet while applying pressure to the wound in his chest as it continued to gush his life's blood with each heartbeat.
"Stupid of me," he agreed with a gurgling resonance as more blood trailed his nose and mouth.
"Natura forgive me," Perdil muttered, sitting quickly to commence his meditation.
"Just shut up and restore your blasted mana!" barked Ezlea.
"Not his faul..." began the Maestro, but a spasm cut short his words as blood filled his lungs.
"Lie still, Goppi," Minuet urged in a softer voice.
Maestro Spinwyp shifted his gaze to Minuet. "Ornery old hag," he smiled.
"Shut up, Goppi!" her voice cracked in urgent Gnomish, tears now streaming down her face.
"Still quite fet...fetching, though," he told her with a rattle now forming in his chest.
"I could have helped!" Reginald insisted.
"That's right, Father, you could have, had you been sober," Borin replied as he sat beside Sarah.
"I am soder! Sober!"
"I don't know who he is, or how he survived it all, but here he is," reported Marcus as he rejoined them with an unconscious figure draped over his shoulders. He carefully laid the man on the ground as the others looked on, and then sat down between Borin and Sarah, forcing Borin to scoot quickly to one side in order to avoid being sat upon.
"Good God!" Sarah exclaimed in revulsion, as she viewed the figure covered with gore.
"You're sure he survived?" Borin inquired doubtfully, standing, walking toward, and then squatting beside the prone figure for a closer look.
"Yes. I checked him over," Marcus confirmed. "He's got a couple of small bumps on his head, but none of that blood is his."
"Oh, Gads!" Borin exclaimed in disgust as he endeavored to wipe at the thick layer of bloody goo that covered the stranger's face. He then almost fell backward before realizing the ear he just lifted had once belonged to a Dark-elf.
"I'll see if the others have any..."
"Fresh water, anyone?" Tuda asked, straining under the weight of a large bucket of what Sarah had been about to seek. After noticing the gore-covered figure, she set the bucket down. "Start with that. I'll fetch another." She sighed heavily as she plodded back to the now expired supply beetle.
"Tuda is unharmed, but Cleetis took a hard hit from an Ogre club," Ezlea reported.
"He'll be all right," Magnatha assured her. "I've seen worse than that in training."
"We're still looking for Digger's leg," Ezlea continued. "Perdil says he has a restoration for severed limbs, if that is, we can find it before the blood congeals."
"What about the others?"
"I'm afraid the Human Bard died in battle, and it doesn't look as if the Gnome will make it either. Merfee should be all right. I'm not sure, but I think one of the Dis'Errants hit him with that death thingy they do. Hobson needs some work, but I can..."
"Blast Hobson! What of the Fighter group?"
"We're all fine, Granny," Crumly announced as he approached.
"Stop fussing, Sweetie," Nefari urged from beside her unconscious husband.
"But I want to help," Aqua sniffled while attempting to adjust her mother's sling.
"Is there anything I can do?" Braumis asked softly from behind Aqua.
"Thank you, Braumy, but I'm sure we'll be fine just as soon as the Cleric gets around to us. And if he doesn't, I'm sure my own mana will return soon enough."
"Yes, mistress," he agreed with a dejected expression.
"Will you two perk up? You're depressing me," she intoned.
"Aqua's concerns are no doubt compounded, as you and Squire Rainswalker are family," Sibastian began as he joined them, bearing the same expression as those of Braumis, and Aqua.
Miria listened from just outside the tent, not having worked up the nerve to join them, but also bearing a similar countenance.
"Still, I feel I can speak for everyone when I say we are all feeling a bit guilty, mistress."
"Is this true?" Nefari asked while reaching with her good hand to grasp Aqua's arm.
In reply, Aqua simply nodded without looking up.
"Well for Natura's sake! That's the most ridiculous..."
"I took cover while you fought, Mother."
"Of course you did. You four are just children."
"I am seventeen summers, Mother."
"And I am but two summers younger than Squire Rainswalker was when he led his first rescue party," Braumis added.
"That's different!" Nefari insisted. "My husband is a Ranger. He's trained for this sort of thing. You have all chosen a path of culture and refinement," she continued, releasing her daughter's arm to lift her face, and then repeated the gesture for Braumis.
"As for you, young man," she addressed him soberly. "Were it not for you, the fighters would not have been released. We would all be dead now."
In response, Braumis offered a feeble smile. "And right after I released them, I took refuge with the injured." he admitted as his smile faded.
"Bards have proven essential in many conflicts!" Nefari scolded him. "Countless battles would have been lost, but for the driving force of inspiration alone. All the music, stories, and artwork that your Class gives..." she cut herself short when Miria's sobs became loud enough to be heard.
Sibastian pulled the tent flap back to reveal her, now on her knees and weeping openly.
"What is it, dear?" Nefari asked cautiously.
"Maestro Spinwyp just died," she whispered as Sibastian knelt with an arm about her shoulders.
Despite the beard, certain facial features had begun to emerge as Borin's eyes grew wider with each swipe of the cloth. In his mounting rush to expedite a vague but urgent recognition, he lifted the bucket, emptying its contents on the unconscious figure, who instinctively commenced to cough and sputter to avoid taking water into his lungs.
"Hey!" protested Jester's familiar voice as Jesse first sat, and then leaned, bracing himself while continuing to expel water. "You trying to drown me, or what?"
"I should have known," Borin intoned in weary recollection, and then returned to sit on the other side of Selina.
"Huh?" Jesse asked while slowly getting to his feet, the world about him yet swimming in a slight tilt. "Umph!" he then exclaimed when struck by Sarah in what appeared to be a bear hug as she realized who he was.
"Excuse me?" Marcus interjected expectantly. Are you and this...person...acquainted?"
"He's my..." she cut herself off, suddenly realizing her recognition would not be shared. She was the only one who knew what was really going on. Still, her relief at finding him was such that she continued to embrace him. She had found him. She had found her brother.
"This is all we can spare," Tuda announced, straining under the bucket's weight, and then dropping it to the ground, not noticing that its contents thoroughly splashed her. "Jester!" she cried, rushing to attach herself to his left leg while abruptly commencing to weep.
"Huh?"
"Unbelievable," Borin muttered with disgust as Selina and the Halfling woman continued to make fools of themselves over the fleabag.
"Nice beard ya got there, Bunkie," tittered Crumly while assisting Magnatha properly to greet and thank the fighters for their help.
"Grub? I've half a mind ta beat ya right back into that blasted trance!" Magnatha exclaimed while quickly hobbling to join both Tuda and Sarah in a group expression of emotional rejoinder.
Jesse might have been more receptive, if not for his misinterpretation of the old crone's aggressive greeting. This resulted in an instinctive attempt to retreat. Unfortunately, it ended in an awkward lumbering over the attached Halfling as he crashed back to the ground when the other unfamiliar madwoman continued to cling until he lost his balance. She then released him, so as to avoid a similar fate. While yet on his back, he opened his eyes to the inclusion of yet another unfamiliar face.
"Puppy!" exclaimed the decidedly feminine voice of Ezlea, still bearing the form of an unusually well endowed Ogress, who upon recognizing Jester, fell upon Jesse with a relief of tears and kisses while nearly shutting off his oxygen as certain overly generous portions of her anatomy threatened to engulf him.
If this is a coma, I hope to God somebody pulls the plug!
"Hail the camp!" came a shout from the path, instantly drawing the attention of all save Jesse, who was simply grateful for the opportunity to escape the clutches of the exuberant mob.
"Who is it?" Borin asked cautiously as he and Marcus both came to their feet.
"Hail, Master Goren Stelthak!" Crumly returned, walking out to greet the new arrival.
"Goren?" Magnatha asked, recognizing the name, and then recalling the boy who now stood before her as a man wearing a Rogue Master's cloak, no less.
"And all Hail the legendary Trickster!" continued Goren, coming to stand before Jesse, and kneeling with his head bowed in fealty.
Absolutely unbelievable!
Below the city streets and buildings of New Malice, there lay the same network of crisscrossed aqueducts that had served as a sewer system to the citizens of Arbitos for generations. For the most part, it still served the same purpose, though now there was a small portion that had been converted to another function.
The expansive antechambers connecting to the rehabilitated underground haven were, to the untrained eye, no different then they had always been. Filth-encrusted layers of lime coated stone for as far as the eye could see in such gloom, with naught but the occasional rat or snake to propose anything other than places to be shunned by all who would avoid the ambient stench that would certainly frequent such conditions.
Near the end of one such passage, two cloaked figures came to the conclusion of their long journey. They came to a stop near an old wooden crate that lay broken and half buried in lime so thick as to fuse it to the very surface of the floor and wall.
Here, one of the figures reached out with his walking staff gently to slide a loose plank from the center of the crate, thereby revealing a small section of relatively unsoiled wall-surface, where a series of odd scratches were etched into the stone itself in a seemingly random pattern: one resembling a skull with two other bones crossed beneath it.
The other of the cloaked figures then stepped forward to reach out and brush the skull gently with his own staff. A moment later, a small door within the wall slid open with an issuance of stone against stone.
For a moment the strangers were scrutinized by unseen eyes. The first of the figures stepped closer, drawing a small dagger and holding it up to reveal the blades curved serpentine shape.
"Welcome, Scapegrace," whispered the entombed voice.
"We greet our Allies with open arms and hopeful hearts," Delphi returned, now drawing back her hood.
"May both the Necromancers of Surripere and his Scapegrace find victory in both life and death," Tobar offered while drawing back his own hood.
"May the unification of our factions free all those enslaved by Malignancy," offered the familiar voice, no longer in whisper as its owner stepped aside, making way for honored guests.
As Delphi passed through the doorway, she became aware of several others in the room who, though active, were nonetheless defunct.
A number of the combined group, including Borin, Magnatha, and the other Tarots had found a certain difficulty in readily accepting the Rogue's revelation. In fact, his declaration of fealty was in itself cause for merriment.
Goren offered them no argument. He only listened patiently. All was as it should be.
He had completed the first of two steps in his overall Quest as prescribed by Master Bane. The Trickster had been found at the very spot prophesied, just as his own Acolyte had found the other who had recently been stipulated by Master Bane's visions. In turn they had converged upon this very spot, thus joining all three of the prophesied components. Of what was truth, there were no doubts left in his mind. The Prophecy would continue. Its undeniable accuracy, along with its unquestionable wisdom, made manifest the only true path. For now, he was content to sit and enjoy the campfire's warmth, a privilege he had not partaken of since his journey had commenced.
He looked to the western horizon. The sun was setting. Soon the daylight would give way to both the night, and the Prophecy.
The new allies dispersed to confer among their original formations, though each group conducted conversations of generally similar purpose, i.e. withdrawing from this area of obvious peril. Further, they were all in accord as to the best time for that action, i.e. post-haste, with the first available post-haste being first light.
In conclusion of the principal subject of immediate survival, other matters were then broached. The Tarots' route home was carefully altered to a slightly less convenient course, which offered a much greater likelihood of avoiding further un-pleasantries with such things as Ogres and Dark-elves.
Accordingly, the Bardic field trip was ended. Each student was to return home immediately. This was in direct opposition to the unanimous vote taken by the students themselves, whose primary concerns were centered exclusively about finishing what Maestro Spinwyp had started. As is almost always the case, the majority rule of their student body was unceremoniously canceled by the minority of their ruling elders.
There remained but one overall group with unfinished business. The Fighters yet lacked a final destination, since what would have been the destination of their choosing no longer remained an option, given their having been cast out. Unfortunately, this unresolved issue quickly led to other yet unresolved issues of ever-increasing volume.
The only issue remaining outside the three-way domestic dispute being debated amongst the Fighters was the identity of the hairy-faced Half-elf, although he himself had lost interest quickly after learning that his delusions now included the obligatory designation of his WF character. With nothing further to be gleaned there, he managed to meander over to the Fighter group.
"Do you mean to suggest that... that ...is Squire Jesterwolf Thistle?" Merfee asked again, and still pointing in the general direction of the colorfully dressed and thoroughly bearded stranger.
Aqua listened without interruption. There was something familiar about that name.
"I suggest nuthin," Magnatha spat without hesitation, while applying a curative ointment to Reginald's bruised ribs in the continued absence of Perdil's still-regenerating mana. "I'm plain outright tellin ya. That be Jester, just as sure as them over-sized bat wings be Elven," she concluded, indicating Merfee's slightly elongated ears.
Perdil simply sat, leaning against the dead beetle's shell while desperately avoiding any sudden motion. This was due to the wolf, Digger, who now lay with his head in Perdil's lap. Apparently, the beast was somewhat grateful for his reinstatement from tripod to quadruped. Although Perdil could appreciate Digger's appreciation, there still remained the fact that there was a semi-feral brute of a creature bearing some very long and sharp teeth in relation to what would otherwise have been a most inadmissible vicinity, were it not for the beast's intimidating...grin? Oh, heavens, I do so hope that's a grin, he thought as Digger rolled over in hopes of a belly-rub.
"Mother?" whispered Aqua. "Who are they speaking of?"
"Oh, you remember, Dear. I used to tell you stories when you were little."
"I think so...but it's been so long."
"He's your Godfather."
Aqua slowly leaned to her left, so as to peek around Nefari at the small group near the center of camp, now huddled as if in conference. Among the group was Jesse, clearly distinguished by his costume. Her expression of neutral curiosity suddenly shifted to something more closely resembling mild alarm. After a moment, she asked, "That doesn't mean he's a blood relative, does it?"
"No, of course not."
"Good."
"Why do you ask?" Nefari asked, her voice oddly suspicious.
"Oh, just curious," Aqua smiled innocently.
Goren's attention shifted to his peripheral left and the almost inaudible footfalls of an unmistakable gait, quickly joined by many other gaits, and visible only in a secondary sense as they impacted upon a precipitous shift of air current, witnessed through the minor disturbance of dust particles following their silent wake.
With all eyes now coming to focus on the four-way argument near the center of camp, Goren had no trouble in remaining undetected while traversing the distance between himself and his charges, who by coincidence played heavy rolls in that diversion.
That voice, Crumly thought curiously as the figures near the center of camp continued to argue. Where have I heard that voice? he wondered, while absently wandering toward them.
"Your name...is Borin?" Jesse asked abruptly, suddenly discovering yet another link to his delirium while effectively interrupting Selina's inquiry of how her friends had managed to locate her.
"Is that not perhaps a question better posed to your husband?" inquired Marcus expectantly, and thus drawing her attention from Borin.
"All right, let's just get something straight, once and for all!" Sarah exclaimed, now neither directly addressing Borin nor Marcus, but rather the space between them and herself while placing both hands out before her in the universal crossing guard signal for halt.
"That's B-O-R-I-N, right?" Jesse went on without regarding or noticing Selina's efforts.
"Do you mind?" Sarah retorted.
"How could you!" Marcus abruptly cried to his wife, and then quickly turned away, wiping tears he could no longer hold back.
"Why do you act as if you don't recognize me?" Borin asked Jester irritably while glancing sidelong at the spectacle Marcus was currently making of himself.
"No, I know you...I think," he assured the stranger uncertainly, and then whispered confidentially, "That you, Bubba?"
"I'm not the person you think I am!" Sarah insisted.
"Will you stop looking at me like that!" Borin chided Jester as Jesse continued to search for any sign of recognition.
"Obviously not!" Marcus lamented in reference to his estranged spouse's revelation, and no longer attempting to conceal his weeping.
"Oh, brother," Sarah sighed, first proffering an expression of disgust at the dramatic display Marcus was creating, and then shifting to a more speculative look as she returned her attention to the sibling she had sought and now stood beside.
"What's his problem?" Jesse asked, no longer able to stave off the insistent voice of the now whining Paladin.
"Come back to me, my Love!" Marcus cried out as he dropped, falling to his knees to better beg Selina's forgiveness for whatever transgression he had perpetrated.
At this, all eyes turned toward the groveling image Marcus had come to represent. A long and uncomfortable silence followed while the four figures about him continued to stare.
"That's Borin Krue, right?" inquired Jesse, unexpectedly breaking their repose by returning to his original topic of discussion, and just as abruptly becoming the new center of attention for everyone, including Marcus, but excluding Crumly.
"Waldo?" Crumly asked, as Borin's face and voice began to coalesce through an inebriated memory of summers past.
"Pardon me," Goren offered shortly, while shoving Selina out of his way, and then dropping to one knee to continue the next stage of his duties.
"Hey!" Sarah shouted indignantly as she managed to catch herself before falling.
"Get your hands off my Wife!" Marcus shouted while reaching to grab the unruly Rogue, and then momentarily dropping back as a result of Goren's painful head-butt.
Goren himself offered no further sign of violent behavior, but rather simply returned to the task of preparing the crystals in the correct circular pattern on the ground.
"Hold!" Borin commanded while drawing his sword, and then dropping the blade while falling backward due to Goren's abrupt kick to his solar plexus.
"Fear not, milord," Goren assured Jesse, who along with Sarah had taken several tentative steps back to avoid any further aggravation of the volatile Rogue.
"What's going on over there?" Merfee demanded, briskly making his way toward the commotion while followed by several others, including Magnatha, Nefari, and Aqua.
"Attack!" That shout came from just outside the camp, immediately followed by the war-howls of what had to be at least a hundred Trolls.
As Goren placed the last crystal in position, a bright flash engulfed the entire camp, suddenly striking the first wave of invaders who then had only enough time for a single unified guttural screech before freezing in position as they transmogrified to stone.
A number of their comrades, who had not yet cleared the protection offered by the outlining foliage, were only partially affected by the artificial sun. Many of their number lay screeching, their bodies half in and half out of the light, flesh and fur emerging from stone, too heavy to be dragged to safety by what limbs were left them. Several among the remaining force made futile efforts to reach the injured, only to meet similar fates as their igneous clawed hands and feet met with the unforgiving light.
"The crystals will not last for long!" Goren shouted. "Everyone draw in close!"
Though yet stunned by the rapid turn of events, the order was met with no objection as everyone, Tarots, Bards, and Fighters alike, quickly assembled about the young Rogue. As the light began to fade, Goren turned the four outside crystals one half turn inward. The light then shifted, becoming a brighter refracted dome that was much smaller, but still large enough to engulf the allies.
"Everyone listen," Goren began. "As I'm sure some of you have already gathered, our attackers are Trolls.
"Obviously," Selina replied, thereby earning her a doubtful glance from Crumly.
"What you see in the clearing is but a fraction of their force in total," Goren announced with confidence.
"And how is it you know this?" Borin asked.
"Aye. That be a fine question, Goren Stelthak," Magnatha added.
"Is this more of your Prophecy mumbo-jumbo?" Merfee asked, finding himself uncomfortable with any deduction lacking the sole usage of the five senses.
"No," Goren answered quickly, ignoring the slight and trying not to allow his voice to reflect the urgency of their situation. "The Prophecy only provided that we would be attacked. It was not specific to the location, or how long after our meeting that the attack would take place. It did refer to the attackers as unclean children of shade or stone."
"Well, that explains the light crystals," Merfee confirmed, glancing briefly about the dome of light, "but it still sounds as if your information was derived from mumbo-jumbo."
"Who cares where he learned of the attack?" Nefari asked. "What's important is it worked."
"All right. What now?" Sarah asked.
"Now we must escape," Goren replied. "More importantly, the Trickster must escape," he added as said Trickster continued to squint about while attempting to see if there were any giant birds among the statues.
After a moment, with the continued aggregation of eyes now concentrating solely on him, Jesse finally turned his attention. "Uh... That's me, right?"
"In a moment, the crystals will die," Goren told them quickly. "We must prepare ourselves as best we can, for Surripere's word only provides for the preservation of Prophecy."
Upon this last revelation, Jesse, who was yet the center of attention, quite abruptly found the majority of those around him shifting from a tolerant countenance to a somewhat less than friendly appearance. There followed a short but awkward moment wherein the politic differences between outside and inside the dome of light seemed to have become slightly less distinctive.
"Until now, Lord Surripere has never taken a direct hand in the shaping of destiny," Goren continued. "These," he said while withdrawing a handful of tiny translucent crystals, "are the only known Scapegrace artifacts to have survive the ages intact."
"What are they?" Minuet asked, standing on her toes and peering over the edges of his cupped hand.
"A form of mana crystal," he said while lowering his hand to give her a better vantage.
"What do they do?" Borin asked suspiciously.
"They are similar to gate potions."
"Then we can escape!" Perdil blurted while expelling the breath he had been holding.
"Some of us, yes. Some of us... Well..." Goren half-answered ominously.
Accordingly, Perdil immediately re-held his breath, except for a small amount which escaped in the almost inaudible whine that manifested as he struggled against hysteria.
Nefari opened Goren's hand, and counted the crystals. Then she counted everyone among them. "There is exactly one crystal for everyone here," she announced.
"Not all of the crystals are true," Goren added, and then poured all the crystals into Nefari's hands. "The false crystals will leave their holders here to die, or be captured."
"How do we know which..."
"What has been written by Lord Surripere will come to pass, regardless of what actions we might take, or choices we may make," Goren replied in answer to Tuda's broken question. "So make your choices, then," he told them all. "Make your choices, and know that Fate is served.
Sarah turned and followed her new host to the left, through another set of swinging doors, then on through yet another long corridor.
When at a point of particularly colorful though volatile verbal exchange, this individual had conveniently interrupted her discussion with her not-so-successful interrogator, who by coincidence was wearing identical apparel. Obviously, brown was in this year.
"And here we have the infamous Lab," continued the man in the brown suit as if coming to the end of a waxworks tour. In contrast to his colleague, this gentleman proffered a more affable interaction, though his lack of direct eye contact, due primarily to his mirrored glasses, invariably left Sarah with the distinct impression that such implied anonymity was no doubt intentional. If she had not known better, which she didn't, she might have thought the men in brown were playing the old good cop/bad cop routine.
Regardless of their paint-by-the-numbers version of psychology 101, she did find communication easier now that the evil half of the brown twins had taken his partner's advice, and was now presumably on the coffee break suggested.
"As you can see, Mrs. Hoffman, the Doctor has reconsidered," he offered with a confident smile, continuing to guide her directly to the work-area Kwibee now occupied.
Sure enough, there he sat, typing furiously at a terminal, apparently unaware of anything but what he was so obviously intent upon achieving.
"What's going on, Doc?" she asked cautiously.
"At the sound of her voice, Orval glanced up. She noted several cuts and bruises about his face as he looked at her through glasses that had been broken in half, and then taped back together. He squinted at her through his right eye-the one she had hit-as the left was now swollen shut, evidently the result of governmental paint-by-the-numbers persuasion 101.
"What's she doing here?" Kwibee asked without inflection, and then returned his attention to the terminal. "She's an untrained civilian. All she'll do is get in my way."
"Oh, I think Mrs. Hoffman will prove invaluable, Doctor. After all, she's had first hand experience."
The portal's light faded as those holding the true crystals suddenly found themselves standing on a small beach, the evening tide lapping at the sand as gulls cried in search of their evening meals.
"Welcome!" shouted an enthusiastic voice from overhead. Then the gull who had issued said greeting swooped down to join them.
The small group glanced about, seeking some bearing on their surroundings. The coastline was unfamiliar to them all.
Recognizing the bird's voice, and therefore realizing that the Rabbit was now the Gull, Jesse asked, "Where exactly are we?"
"Mother? Father?" Aqua abruptly called, her distress flashing to panic as it became obvious they weren't among those to have drawn genuine gate crystals.
"Calm down, dear girl," the Gull soothed. "I assure you, your parents were not killed. In fact, of those who survived, your parents and the wolf were the only ones to escape."
"Who are you?" Ezlea asked absently while casting about as if she had lost something. "Are you an Enchanter?"
"No, milady. My name is Surripere, and I'm afraid Hobson did not make it through the gate."
"I've gated with Hobson dozens of times," Ezlea insisted angrily, and not at all comfortable that a talking bird, who wasn't an Enchanter, knew of her enchantment's name.
"Perhaps, but not through one of those gates."
"We have to go back," Aqua told Jesse, her eyes pleading. "I know my father. He won't go home. He'll try to save the others and end up caught himself."
"There's really nothing that can be done until we conclude our business in Deja first," Surripere insisted.
"And why is that?" Selina asked.
"Well, for one thing," replied the Gull, "we must complete a specific task before your crystals will function again. The task is essential if we are to free the world of the Empire's dominion."
At this, Borin's concentration immediately doubled as the Gull cocked its head, seeming almost to grin while watching his shift in expression.
"Okay, look," Jesse began with a wary expression. I realize this whole thing is most likely the result of some quack-happy M.D.'s idea of a psycho-bandage, but I never signed on for..."
"Shhh," Borin hushed him.
"But..."
"Shhh!" commanded both Selina and Ezlea.
"Survivors," Marcus said lowly. "Does that mean there were any who didn't survive?"
"All died except the wolf, Aqua's parents, the Halfling girl, and her father," replied the Gull, addressing Jesse, rather than Marcus.
Jesse couldn't understand why, but for some reason, the old crone's death was upsetting. His brow furrowed. He turned away as he found himself fighting back tears.
Ezlea quickly joined him, one arm wrapping about his shoulders while the other clasped his hand in support.
"My friends," whispered Aqua softly, her legs suddenly too weak to hold her weight as she dropped to the sand to sit in silent grief.
"Even my own Vassals," intoned the Gull lowly in reference to Goren and Crumly while staring at the sand. "I watched them both fall."
"Father," Borin whispered.
The Gull turned, and hopped onto a rock in front of Borin. "You should know that he went out as a Warrior. Professor Krue killed three Trolls before they overwhelmed him. He was sober, and his mind was clear of purpose. You would have been proud of him, Valiant."
Borin had no need to fight back tears. There were none to struggle against. He stood, maintaining his dignity, and then turned from the others to walk the beach, alone.
The adventure continues, in the fourth book of the four comprising the series. That work, entitled Rendering Nirayel: Demons Dreaming , by Nathan P. Cardwell, will soon be available at DDP.

