Chapter 3 – Part 5

Pienna frowned. From what she had observed of the stars before the sun had risen, she figured she was roughly three hundred miles northwest of the town of Cree. It was an exceptionally thick part of a great forest in a land that was almost all thick forest.

She didn’t want to be here, she wanted to be in Cree, readying weather spells against any naval vessels that Aundair was sending out onto Lake Galifar. The Aundairians had not been having much luck in land battles, but they’d successfully landed raiders on several parts of the Lake’s shores.

But she was here, waiting to speak to a druid that she had not seen in eight years about a seal that she had not visited. She was here, supposedly fighting a larger war across dimensions, when her mind was on a battle that legally speaking was not hers.

“It is really only the twenty-second of Aryth?” Brezzy asked, his eyes wide as he stared around. “We came so far so fast?”

“Our trip was instantaneous,” Pienna told the goblin, forcing her impatience down. She found Brezzy too dear to allow herself to be gruff with him. “Many druids do not have the power, but I can transport myself and a few companions any distance on the planet through common vegetation.” She smiled and stroked Missy’s head. The great cat rewarded her with a rumbling purr. “Missy and I have used the spell many times, it is harmless.”

The goblin nodded. A brief time passed as they waited, and finally Bresbin asked “How many times can Pienna use that spell?”

For a moment she thought that question a tad too eager, but then she realized that Brezzy was likely very nervous in this part of the forest, so far from all civilized places. “At most twice a day,” she answered. “I would have to prepare it properly, and choose that power to be channeled rather than others that may be more useful. I only prepared it once this morning, shortly before I used it.”

“Twice?” the goblin asked, astonished.

Pienna smiled. “I have been growing in power rapidly, Brezzy. I have been honing my skills constantly, and as a result that have been getting sharper.”

Brezzy looked away, almost as if he did not want her to see his eyes. Maybe he was afraid of her.

She felt ashamed. Bresbin was looking to the Gatekeeper faith for comfort, and she was coming across as arrogant, maybe even like the monsters of Droaam that he had had to flee as a child. She began to lift her arm, to touch him, comfort him somehow.

“Pienna!” came the call from across the meadow.

“Ama’Shay!” she responded, walking forward to greet the other druid.

Ama’Shay shuffled forward. The druid squinted at the sunlight, trying to stay in the shadows of the trees. He was a full-blooded orc, and like all orcs he found bright light painful. Pienna was shocked to see that his hair had gone full white, and a great deal of it was gone. Only eight years ago he’d had a thick head of gray and white, and a full if hesitant gait. His jutting tusk-like teeth, once powerful, were now withered and yellow.

Pienna knew that time passed quickly for an orc. They had far shorter lifestyles than humans. But still, it saddened her.

She walked forward to meet him in the shade, so as not to force him into the light. Missy trotted at her side, and Brezzy cautiously stayed behind her. She hugged him fiercely as they met, and he hugged her back hard enough to make her take notice. At an age when a human would scarcely be able to force open a stuck cabinet, Ama’Shay could crack a rib if he wasn’t careful.

“Who is this with you?” he asked her. He spoke in the language of druids, having never bothered to learn Common.

“This is Missy,” she said, petting the head of the great cat. “I released Slither from my service about a year after we last met. And this young fellow behind me is Bresbin.” The goblin perked up a bit at the mention of his name, it being the only word that he could recognize.

“This is Filcher,” Ama’Shay said, gesturing as a monkey dropped down from a high limb. The monkey was an orangutan, with long orange hair and deep eyes that expressed sorrow and care for his aging orc master. “Why is the sneak with you?”

Pienna sighed. There were many orcs and goblins that hated one another, but she had hoped Ama’Shay wasn’t one of them. “His family were secret Gatekeepers in Droaam. He knows a little of our faith, and wished to accompany me.”

Ama’Shay scowled. “No one in Droaam is a Gatekeeper except for some orcs in the west, near the Shadow marches. The sneak lies to you.”

“I am good at reading lies,” she told him. “And he had an heirloom, an arrow of slaying aberrations. He shot and killed a carrion crawler of exceptional size that excreted acid. I trust him.”

The orc shrugged. “If you trust him then I am find with him. Come, I need to show you the seal, for I will not be long in this life to guard it. Then I need to show you a nest of dolgrims that are gathering themselves to try and take possession of it.”

“They know where it is?” she asked as he turned back the way he came and she followed.

“Not yet,” he told her. “They are looking in circling patterns. I sense a dolgaunt guides them, and a clever one. We must cleanse them completely, no survivors.”

“Of course,” she said.

“We are too few, we Gatekeepers,” coughed the orc. “Too old and too few to watch all the seals. We must do what we can, stay far from distraction, true to our duty.” He turned to look at her sharply. “And stay out of the wars of the remains of Galifar.”

She almost missed a step. “What do you mean?”

“Merylsward,” he told her. “A brother of ours has been saying that the attack on the town was due to you. That Aundair is hunting for you.”

“Is this brother named Aruunis?” she asked, biting her lip.

“I heard it was an elf that thinks he knows more about being a Gatekeeper than any other,” grinning Ama’Shay. “Like all elves, he knows better than whoever is not an elf.”

Pienna nodded, hoping that Ama’Shay’s bigotry would keep him away from the subject. “Tell me about the seal,” she requested. “It is still a column rooted in the ground?”

“Fifteen feet of it shows above ground, although we have hidden it with growths of moss and nearby trees over the long years. Our histories say that there is another forty feet below ground, and that it forms a great tuning fork stuck in the earth, holding back one of the paths that Xoriat may try to follow…”

Chapter 3 – Part 4

Bresbin waited patiently in the tall grass by the end of the pond. He shifted his muscles slightly now and then, to prevent stiffening, but other than that he made no movement. He was patient, as he always was. For now, he was one with his surroundings. He had done this many times before, and if he was patient and careful as he always was, he would do it many times again.

Of course this time he wasn’t waiting to catch someone unaware, to ambush and kill in the name of the Crown. Now he was simply waiting for Pienna to come out of the pond, to return to him so that he could continue the charade.

He was not totally hidden, of course. The great panther knew exactly where he was, she could smell him. Even now as she appeared to be merely relaxing in the cold, wet grass that surrounded the pond, she was keeping an eye on him.

Missy did not trust him. In some ways the cat was wiser than its mistress.

After an hour of waiting, a great brook trout jumped out of the pond, landing on the muddy ground before it grew and transformed into a human woman of late middle years.

Missy let out a soft mewl of protest until Pienna reached out and rubbed her between the ears. The great panther rumbled with pleasure like a pampered housecat. “Brezzy?” she asked, looking around.

The goblin put on his dumb face, and stepped out of the grass. “Brezzy is here, sister to nature. Is Pienna’s seal holding?”

“I did not make the seal,” she told him with a smile. “But yes, it still holds. More importantly it does not seem to have been visited since the last inspection.” She ran her hands through her hair, and settled the oak circlet she always wore – even when sleeping – into a more central place on her head. The file that the Dark Lanterns had on Pienna said little about the circlet, save that it was magical and that it increased the woman’s abilities somehow.

Bresbin nodded, keeping an eager, dumb grin on his face, keeping his conscious thoughts in persona.

You have to believe the cover story, one of his first instructors had told him. More than your target, more than the mark that you tail, more than whoever you may be eavesdropping on or interrogating, YOU have to believe the lie that you hide behind. If you do, the mask will stay, and you will live. If you don’t, they’ll find the crack in the mask, and tear it off, and then you’re dead.

Bresbin had taken that lesson to heart. To him it had just been another way of hiding. He’d worked very hard to become the best liar in the employ of the Crown that he could. He’d succeeded, too.

But Pienna’s file had been marked three time, by three different operatives, noting how intuitive the woman was. Few could slip a lie past her, much less live a lie with her every day.

Droaam duty hadn’t seemed this dangerous.

“Come,” Pienna said. “I have more Gatekeeper duties, and we must travel quickly through some dangerous territory today.”

“Brezzy follows,” he said, hefting his shortbow.

Chapter 3 – Part 3

“So tell me,” the man said, his words slurring from too much ale. “Why should I re-up? Hm? I did three tours, what’d it get me?” Three old scars marked his face, one cutting up into his receding hairline to touch the line of short-cropped white and gray hair on the top of his head.

“Somebody shut the drunk human up,” snarled a shifter at a nearby table. That hairy worthy was so smashed that he could barely move. Earlier in the evening, when, admittedly, the evening had still been rather late, he’d polished off an entire bottle of whiskey after killing a halfling who’d started a fight. He’d bitten the halfling’s throat out with fangs that he’d caused to grow a good four inches.

“You shut up, shifter,” snorted the heavyset halfling who ran the tavern for House Ghallanda in this part of Varna. The little humanoid stood atop a reinforced stool behind the bar so that everyone could see the wand in his belt. He’d used the wand against the comrades of the throat-torn halfling, setting two on fire. His business meant more to him than any racial loyalty, and the shifter hadn’t started it – then. The eyes of the wand-toting Ghallanda operative said that given a chance he’d dish the same out to the drunk shifter who still had blood on the corner of his mouth. “He can drink and run his mouth so long as he pays.”

“Exactly!” The scarred, grizzled human banged his fist on the bar, and then threw down a few more coins. “Gimme ‘nother, please!”

The Ghallanda barkeep shrugged and refilled the man’s cup with something that gave off smoke as it came out of the bottle. It was called lungmist by Varna’s inhabitants. It was cheap to make but had a nice kick that lasted.

“How about I pay a little more and he goes to sleep upstairs,” asked an exasperated human male in a recruiter’s uniform. He’d been trying to get people to join the Reacher forces for several hours now, and until the grizzled, scarred man had come in shortly before midnight, he’d been doing rather well. “What do you say, gramps, comfortable bed and hot oatmeal in the morning, my treat, eh?” The people who had been listening to him had already started to drift away.

“Took money and offers from his type once!” the scarred man exclaimed. “Look where it got me, look!” A lean woman with a crossbow who had been listening to the recruiter now frowned and went up the stairs to her room on the second floor.

The doors to the tavern – which should have been locked – were opened, and a figure in a hooded cloak came in.

The recruiter came up to the bar, teeth gritted. “Please, take the offer, you’re hurting the Eldeen.”

“Ah shut up,” the scarred man grumbled, putting back his lungmist in one swallow.

“Shut the door!” barked the halfling, gripping his wand. “And lower your hood, I don’t take kindly to strangers hiding their faces this late at night!”

“It is cold,” said the hooded man said. He lowered his cowl to show that he was a half-elf. Chain shirt armor showed underneath his cape, and he wore a longsword on one hip and a shortsword on the other. “The hood was to protect me from the cold.” The half-elf walked closer to the bar, and scanned the room with hard, blue eyes.

The recruiter turned, and a smile fit easily onto his face as he sized up the newcomer and his weapons. “So friend, I don’t suppose you would consider protecting liberty against the butchers of Aundair, and the –”

“Save it,” the half-elf said. He pulled a piece of folded leather from a pocket and displayed it. It said his name was Parnain d’Medani, and the badge attached to it proclaimed that he was a Master Inquisitive with writ from the Wardens of the Wood. “Like the barkeep, I serve no country or crown. I’m here on work.”

“I don’t need more of this noise,” the scarred man said, moving away from the bar with a bit more agility than a man in his cups normally had. “You two can play who has the bigger one without me.”

Parnain grabbed the arm of the scarred human as he attempted to walk past. “I’ve been looking for you, actually.” The Medani’s eyes were without pity, without hesitation.

“Let go of me,” the scarred man said. His voice was no longer slurred, and he yanked hard.

Parnain yanked harder, and the scarred man fell to the floor.

“Hands off the paying customer, half-elf,” snapped the halfling, taking his wand out and pointing it square at the Medani inquisitive. “You may have a badge but you don’t have a warrant.”

“I don’t need one, according to my writ from the Wardens,” Parnain pointed out, somehow watching both the scarred man and the halfling. The scarred man seemed to be trying to figure out where his best chance of survival was as he carefully and slowly rose to his feet.

“This is Ghallanda territory,” the halfling said, his grip on the wand tightening. “And I say you need a warrant.”

“I don’t need a warrant,” Parnain d’Medani said, slowly withdrawing a packet from a belt pouch. “Not to arrest a changeling agent provocateur in the service of Aundair.”

“What sort of bilge is this?” asked the scarred man. “I’m Grinno of Havenglen, ask anyone! I didn’t serve two tours of duty to get accused by some House-kissed popinjay!”

The Ghallanda operative’s eyes narrowed at the word ‘House-kissed.’ “I thought you said that you served three tours of duty,” the halfling noted carefully, lowering his wand.

The scarred human who called himself Grinno of Havenglen ran for the door. The Medani inquisitive punched him, sending him staggering backwards. The recruiter, no doubt seeing a propaganda advantage, kicked the back of the scarred man’s knee, toppling him with a sickening sound of tearing cartridge.

Parnain threw the packet in his hand, and it exploded as it struck the prone man. Dust arose around him, glowing briefly with a discharged spell. The dust settled on his skin. The scars faded, the color faded, the hair shifted, and the man’s limbs grew skinnier, more elongated.

What was left was a humanoid with pale and gray skin, and thin hair. A changeling. Considerably younger than the human it had been pretending to be.

“Is Grinno of Havenglen still alive, then?” the recruiter asked. The look of satisfaction on his face was savage.

“It’s the least that he has to answer for,” Parnain told him. “Your assistance was appreciated. Now back off.” The recruiter read the Medani’s tone and stepped well clear.

“I work for Thrane, not Aundair,” the changeling said, gripping his knee while wincing in pain. “Please, you have no beef with Thrane, right?”

Parnain d’Medani produced a set of manacles. “I already know who you work for,” he said, approaching the prone man. “Even though I bet you don’t.”

The changeling spy, who actually did think that he was reporting to Aundair, flinched as the manacles went on.

Chapter 3 - Part 2

Festa buzzed over the treetops, keeping himself invisible with his inherent arcane energy as the leaves rustled slightly in the breeze. It was a soft breeze, barely noticeable to the bigger folk, but Festa – who weighed barely four pounds – had to bank hard to the left to avoid being shoved down into the branches.

A sparrow burst upwards, nearly colliding with the pixie that it could not see. Festa restrained himself from speaking a naughty word, and swung downward to hug the nape of the ground. The pixie liked flying high because the view of the Reaches was better, but he was less likely to have a collision near the ground.

The thought of flying while visible so that the birds could see him was not an option. One of his uncles had been eaten by a hawk.

The pixie curved upwards, over a gassy knoll, and then came to a halt, hovering in mid-air.

Festa recognized the elf, mostly because he first recognized the eagle sitting on a nearby tree limb. It was the Gatekeeper druid with the stern face. The cranky elf was casting a spell to determine what magic had been used in the vicinity. The pixie could follow that sort of thing. He didn’t know how he did it, he simply did. Festa was on the serious side, for a fey creature, but he was by no means introspective.

“What was slain here?” the druid wondered aloud.

The pixie flew forward, but slowly, keeping an eye on the eagle’s sharp beak. Many of the big folk had died in this area, this was where Pienna and the Reachers had fought back the snooty people from across the river. Festa wasn’t sure how long ago it had been, not a week, but longer than yesterday, that he knew. He had been planning on flying past Chubat’s grave to put a flower petal on it. He wondered if the elf meant Chubat.

The druid was pursing his lips, studying a slightly burned area in the grass. Upon seeing the burn, Festa suddenly remembered.

“A carrion crawler!” cried the delighted pixie, popping into view.

The elf jumped back and swallowed what probably was a naughty word. The eagle spread his wings and yelled, causing the pixie to make himself invisible again.

“No, no do not go!” the elf commanded, rather sternly. He waved his hands, muttering magical words, and Festa found himself wreathed in blinking purple colors, fake flames that stuck with him no matter how he flew. They did not burn, or provide any heat. But they made his invisibility useless.

“Brother of nature do not let your bird eat Festa!” the pixie begged, noting that the eagle’s eyes were locked on his form.

“No, no, he will not,” the elf said in a more conciliatory term. “I apologize, for you startled me. One of the aberrations was here?”

“Yes,” Festa said, spitting. “Daelkyr-worm. Fagh! Bresbin killed it.”

“Bresbin?” The elf seemed confused.

“Aye,” Festa said.

“Please elaborate,” the elf said, moving a step forward, holding a smile on his face.

“Well, on the morning after they buried Chubat,” Festa said. “You know Chubat?”

“Focus,” the elf said. “Before the Reachers moved south and west to Varna and the Brelanders went north. What happened?”

“Carrion crawler,” Festa said. “Big one. Very big, more than others, hard chitin, acid tentacles.”

“A horrid animal, but a twisted thing,” the elf said, grimacing. “But Pienna did not slay it?”

Festa shook his head. “Crawler sprang without warning, no one was sure what brought it here. An air spirit told me yesterday that someone left a trail of food for it, but –”

“What happened here?” the elf pressed, his patience growing more false.

Festa swallowed, and considered flying away, but he wanted the elf druid to remove the fake flames around him so he decided to do as asked. “Crawler killed three men,” the pixie explained quickly. “Arrows and swords did not hurt it. Pienna was trying to stop it, Bresbin popped out of nowhere. Shot it. Carrion crawler keeled over dead, they burned it.”

“Who is Bresbin?” the elf asked, stepping forward again.

“Goblin archer, good at hiding, comes out of hiding from nowhere and shoots you,” Festa answered, moving an inch or so backwards.

“And killed it with one arrow?” the druid demanded.

“Said it was a family heirloom,” Festa explained, finding himself whining and not sure why. The elf made him nervous. “Arrow of slaying also holding other enchantments. Killed the crawler right away.”

“Family heirloom?” the elf frowned.

“Goblin say he’s a Gatekeeper, too,” Festa explained.

“The goblin is from the Shadow Marches?” The elf seemed very skeptical.

“Droaam. Then here, the Eldeen.” Festa flew a foot higher. “Druid, can you remove the flames?”

The elf held his hand out. “You need to sit in my palm to do it,” he said.

Festa frowned. He didn’t think the elf was being truthful. “The Gatekeeper is sure?”

“The goblin went with the Reachers?” the druid asked, ignoring Festa’s question.

“No, with Pienna,” Festa said. “She wanted to go by herself, she did, but Bresbin promised he was a Gatekeeper follower, so she took him with her.”

“Where did she go?” the druid asked, a cold desperation entering his voice.

“The flames?” Festa asked.

The elf was quiet for a moment, then stepped forward and cast a spell. The pixie relaxed, but then wondered why it seemed that the druid was casting an earth spell.

A stone jutted upwards, flowing like a candle melting in reverse, grabbing the pixie by his feet, sliding around his legs and thighs like cold snakes. Festa shrieked, trying to wriggle free, but to no avail. While he wriggled, the druid cast another spell, and the cold flames around Festa vanished along with his invisibility. In seconds the rock was a hard, solid prison around the lower half of Festa’s body, and the pixie was exposed for all to see.

The elf stepped forward, and glared down at the pixie. Cold, sickly fear spread through the pixie’s body.

“Where is Pienna now?” the druid asked, a sick, hard desperation in his eyes.

“Nature-brother, Festa is a fey, not a twisted flesh!” the pixie exclaimed. “Festa is not the Gatekeeper’s enemy!”

The druid leaned down. “Where. Is. Pienna?”

Festa began to shiver. Needing to fly, needing to flee, but being unable to. He fought back tears. “Festa promised not to tell,” he said, trying to sound big.

The elf withdrew a very sharp needle, half as long as Festa’s body, from a pouch on his belt. The needle was made of cold iron, making Festa’s flesh crawl just by looking at it.

“Festa will tell,” the druid said, leaning forward.

No one but Aruunis and his eagle heard the pixie’s screams of pain. It took almost an hour, for Festa was braver than even Festa knew, but in the end the pixie talked.

Chapter 3 - Part 1

THAN DREAMED OF IN YOUR PHILOSOPHY

Two hours before sunset on the 19th of Aryth, 993 YK, on the banks of the Wynarn River.

Pienna was in the form of a hawk. Aside from liking the plumage, she found the animal’s sharp eyesight perfect for keeping an eye on potential enemy forces at a distance. At the moment those potential enemies were a pair of Aundairian light cavalry scouts. The horsemen stayed well to the east of the river, and seemed to be concerned with defense, not offense. Pienna watched them from her perch atop a tree who roots were half in the river that had been a bustling route of trade before war had come here.

They finally galloped off, and she flew to the ground, changing to her normal, human form as she landed. That made he wince somewhat. She was no longer young, or even nearly young, and such stunts were better left to younger druids.

But even younger druids knew better than to appear to have chosen sides in this war. Aruunis’ accusations of partisanship still stung her. Especially since they were true.

Had you seen Merylsward, Pienna thought to herself, if imagining directing the comment to the stern elf, had you seen the bodies of the children, you may have felt differently. She had not raised that argument with Aruunis, hadn’t really debated with him, instead preferring to let the man vent and then give half-truths and assurances that she would never give Aundair cause to target the Gatekeeper sect.

And it hurt her to have to give such assurances, because she knew that Aruunis had been right. Aundair was willing to do whatever it took to win, even if it meant fireballing children or targeting those who kept the world safe.

Or leading carrion crawlers to us, she thought. No sane person trafficked with the daelkyr creations, but desperation made many consider the insane. And Aundair was desperate now. Chubat’s Battle, as they were now calling it, had blunted a drive meant to split the Reacher forces in twain. The loss of so many powerful wizards had made the former masters of the Eldeen back away from their rebellious western province (as they saw it), and focus their attention elsewhere.

She closed her eyes, trying not to remember the screams of men torn apart by the hulking thing. Unlike other carrion crawlers, it had been big, ferocious, and bloodthirsty. It had struck the other side of the camp from her, killing three men in less than a minute. More would have died if not for her new traveling companion’s quick actions at the time.

“Miss Pienna?” came a soft, dutiful voice.

Pienna turned to see the goblin leaning on his shortbow. “Don’t worry, Brezzy,” she said. “We’re moving on.”

The goblin nodded and smiled. She smiled back. Brezzy was such a simple creature, and his simple happiness was infectious.

Pienna walked past him, gesturing for him to follow. She did not see the sudden shift in his eyes, the calculation that replaced the guileless act.

Chapter 2 - Part 15

“No, no, no,” the elderly tiefling said, scattering the runestones again. “No!”

Pellhomno snorted, his hooves pawing at the ground. “I grow impatient, seer,” he said. I have heard many promises within the past few days, but I have seen no results.”

“I have results,” she said. She swallowed. “They are – gone.”

“Gone where?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “There is no answer to what you ask. They have no where. They are more than dead, for even if they were dead, the matter that made up their bodies, even if…There’s nothing.”

“I gave you something that you desired, witch,” Pellhomno reminded her. “You said I would have answers within the hour. That was how many days ago?”

“They were and now they are not!” she said. “They simply are not!”

Pellhomno stared at her, then realized that she wasn’t lying. “Did they travel to another plane?” he asked.

She slowly shook her head. “Even then, even then there is a trace, for all the planes are tied to one another, and while many diviners would not be able to find them, I should be able to…” Her voice trailed off. “They’ve – they’ve been obliterated.”

Pellhomno compressed his lips, then he turned and galloped off. The Chamber needed to be informed that their last hope had vanished.

Chapter 2 – Part 14

Thomas laughed. The fiend driving the boat had been winning, had come very close to throwing Thomas’ control off, but something had jerked it away. What that something was, Thomas cared not. What was important was the win.

Now my trump card, the half-daelkyr thought. He gripped the startled body of the stormstalk and yanked it from its roots in his flesh. Pain and weakness hit him as he lost blood and tore nerve endings, but he was prepared for it, and his concentration on the ship did not waver.

The stormstalk hit the floor, and twisted around in terror to stare at its former master. Thomas ignored it, closing his eyes and grabbing with his mind.

The walls behind him buckled, and then peeled away. The wall was still there, but thinner, as he mentally forced the now-pliant wood into long, twisting strips.

Space and time, the Crimson Ship moves space and time, Thomas realized, grinning, finally understanding what he held.

The strips of wood, still connected to the ship, lurched forward and burrowed into the spot near Thomas’ neck where the stormstalk had been. Power and awareness flooded Thomas’ mind and the ship became his fully.

The Crimson Ship had been built to be adaptable. It wasn’t a symbiont, but Thomas could make it behave like one.

“I claim thee,” Thomas said, speaking the guttural, twisted language of his father’s people. “I CLAIM THEE!”

The stormstalk, realizing that it was no longer needed, blasted the door jamb, and then escaped through the newly-opened crack. Its former master ignored it.

Thomas opened his eyes, light emanating from them. He could still see, but he did not bother, not with his eyes. He saw with his mind. He saw the latticework of dimensional warping, the power behind the ship, the forces that –

That were surging unfettered, beyond his control.

“I CLAIM THEE!” he shrieked. But it was a panicked cry, not the triumphant utterance of a few moments before.

White light filled the world, and the Crimson Ship – along with its occupants – ceased to exist.

Chapter 2 - Part 13

The Captain gripped the wheel, trying to identify the source of the rebellion. For the first time in centuries a sweat broke out on his brow, and he was grateful that the hag was not there to see it.

“This cannot be,” he gasped. Someone would have to be an expert at manipulating magical devices in order to –

The wheel jerked a bit, and he jerked it back, snarling. He expanded his senses, using his powers. Below decks? He was shocked. A hunter, a paladin, a warforged, and a barbarian, how could one of them do this?

“The half-daelkyr,” he realized aloud. Some symbiont was doing this for the spawn of the twisted ones. It mattered not, the Captain’s focus was far greater, he had centuries of experience, and –

The Captain’s concentration shattered like glass when the first arrow pierced him, gouging a slice from the side of his neck. He had rock-hard flesh and magical damage reduction, but the composite longbow in the hands of the half-orc staggered him and sprayed the ship’s wheel with dark, black blood.

And worse than the physical wound, his mind had slipped.

Chapter 2 - Part 12

Ois tightened the lid on the chamber pot, twisting its seal into place. As she set the pot into a slight depression under her bunk, she admired its craftsmanship. Many chamber pots were made to seal away the smell of waste, but few fit so perfectly, even those in Ghallanda inns.

She stood and turned to the mirror that she had found. It had been in the drawers, and was now propped up on a ledge that probably had been meant to serve as a desk.

She picked up a small sponge and dipped it into a pitcher of scented water. She did not know if Delegado had used his House’s powers to find these things or if they came with the cabin, but she thanked the Flame for them. She had not had anything near a proper grooming since the Festering Holt, and she had not bathed in any fashion since she’d passed through Varna. Her race’s ability to shapeshift helped with grooming, but only somewhat. Accumulated sweat was accumulated sweat, and the cosmetic malleability of her flesh could only cover ragged hair, not even it out in truth.

She stared at her reflection briefly. She was nude, holding the dripping sponge as she studied her grayish-whitish skin. Her form was her own now, and she could see the darker gray spots that were bruises, and thin white lines that were scars. She had healed much in the previous two days of sleep, but the infiltration of the demonic city and the escape from it had left many a mark on her.

And of course she had the scar on her face from Droaam. She tried not to think about that, afraid that she would again project bitterness onto Delegado.

“It wasn’t his fault,” she told herself in the mirror as she began rubbing the sponge on her neck, her arms, and her breasts. “I cannot blame him.”

Memories came to her as she bathed while standing upright. All changelings practiced with mirrors when they were young, using them to master their abilities. After she had passed through a difficult adolescence she had used her abilities to give herself a more attractive form.

Delegado had wanted to see her true form. He had refused to make love to her until she had shown him.

I want to make love to him again, she thought, a tear flowing quietly from one eye as she washed herself. Surely the pleasures of the flesh are not evil, even with a non-believer. And he may even believe a little bit. And anyway, I have confounded the fiends, beaten them in their own city. Surely I am entitled to some happiness?

She set her teeth, and walked to the cabin door. Still unclothed she cracked the door open, just slightly. Now when he came to the door he would ‘accidentally’ see her.

Smiling a bit, she returned to bathing, only now careful to hold her posture so that she was no longer slouching, so that her form best attracted.

Surely I am entitled to some joy.