Light’s streaming in, cracking through my eyes. I feel like I’ve been sleeping for days. I squint. I’m in a heart-shaped bed tossed with pink silk sheets and lush blankets. I sit up, glancing around. On the table next to me are a couple daggers and a branch of slight, white-pink blossoms in a slim glass vase. There’s a flask, too. It’s full. I open and sniff it, taking a drink. I gasp, looking at the cask of 450-year-old dwarven whiskey on the bar. It’s velvety smooth and lingers, giving hints of smoke and earth.
The room smells like ocean air, salty and breezy. A faint waft of pine and citrus lingers. Through the balcony, sunlight washes, warm and liquid. It’s calm. And someone is standing there, looking out over it all.
I get out of bed, approaching. I’m naked.
The figure turns. It’s a… person. They don’t seem to have a gender. They’re just a bit taller than me, wearing only a draping, silky white robe. It’s open in the front. I glance down, brows going up. Their chest doesn’t have the curve of breasts, but neither do they have anything discernible down below. Their sculpted skin is neither white nor gold, but somewhere in between. Maybe it’s not a color at all.
Because their skin is glowing like a soft dawn.
“Hello, Chouncey,” they say.
I freeze. It’s the same soft voice as before, except coming from the person – entity – in front of me. It’s Iros in the flesh. I'm speaking with a god. I'm face-to-face with him. But it’s different this time. It’s less dreamy. It’s more like… I’m actually here. Where is here?
I squint, looking past the gentle daylight glow. He's almost too bright to look at. Within, I find glimpses of a face – the point of a jaw, a nose, a cheekbone. It’s handsome or beautiful - I can’t decide which. Maybe both. He’s watching, the kind smile on his glowing face matching the sound of waves lapping on the shore, twined with soft music. For once, there’s no drowning sound of deep water in my head. There’s no sight of Irminric’s black, scaly face in the depths. In fact, here, it’s like a distant memory – all of it, from the last five years. Instead of black, churning waters, it’s a calm pool lit from within. The waters are still, like a quaint fountain I could lie down and nap next to.
I glance around. Why am I here? Am I dreaming again? My throat goes dry. Where’s Arriel and Weekes? Did they get out alright? I take another drink from the flask. It’s got just a bit of spice on the back, but it’s like butter going down. I can barely think around how good it is. All I remember is teleporting away and then –
“Am I dead?” I ask, my voice cracking.
From within the glow, Iros gives a faint, sad smile. “Arriel is intervening on your behalf. She requested I keep you safe.”
I exhale, huffing – a laugh that dies quickly. I glance around, like I’m gonna find answers there. I am dead, is what he’s saying. Is that all it is? After everything, deciding I want to live, I kill myself in a drunk teleportation accident, and it was all for nothing?
I’m fucking dead.
I take another long drink. My throat bunches again. This is so smooth. I’m not buzzing like I normally am. For the first time in a long while, I’m sober – maybe more than I ever have been.
He continues. “I cheated. I have limited foresight – I knew she’d do so, and I’ve ensured you’ll land in a safe location.”
Land? The feeling of crashing into something immutable rears for a split second. It’s absolute agony. “After bouncing off those wards, you mean?”
“She did mention them.”
That’s the last time I’ll make that mistake. “Why’s she intervening?”
“Because she cares for you. But also, she knows she must. She sees the many reasons I sent her to you. And she knows that I can’t do it myself. I’ve already done more than I should.”
“What’s that mean?”
He straightens, clasping his glowing hands. They're nice. “You know the story of the Vanquishment.”
I gesture with my flask. I’d be a piss-poor bard not knowing one of the oldest stories out there. He explains it to me, anyway, probably not for my benefit.
“Thousands of years ago, the gods did to the mortal plane as they saw fit, raising Champions and creating life. There was little oversight, and things became… unbalanced. One god, Orinthius, the lord of nightmares, tried to seize power, to strengthen and challenge mortals by facing their deepest fears. He harnessed the moon, Ornice, as his seat of power. A terrible war arose among gods and mortals. The moon was compromised and careened into Coramine, impacting mainly in what is now Ammon. Orinthius was sealed away by the gods, stripped of his power and worshippers. And the remaining pantheon created a pact that no one would intervene in the affairs of mortals anymore. The cost of imbalance is too great.”
“So you need your clerics to do it for you?”
“Exactly.”
“How am I standing here with you, then?”
“You’re not here with me. If you were in my presence in the celestial realm, you’d be ash.”
Lovely.
“I, the form you see in front of you, am an aspect,” he says. “All gods can create them – they’re parts of ourselves we can manifest in the mortal planes. We retain some of our powers, cognition, and functioning, but we’re only a piece. When we return to ourselves, we bring what we’ve learned. Sometimes, aspects become gods in their own right – they capture some more specific area of their domain. In the case of Roslan, the Death Shroud, one of his aspects is Hypnios, the god of sleep. And one of those aspects is Orinthius, the god of nightmares. His ascension was the catalyst for the Vanquishment.”
“You’ve been assigned to me, then.”
“I volunteered,” he says. It’s hard to tell from the glowing, but he gives a lingering glance downward. His voice is light, soft, sweet, almost musical.
I take another drink. Something’s still nagging me. I shrug, putting my arms out. “Why’d you send Lady Arriel after me in the first place?”
He smiles. It’s like a welcome sunrise on a brisk morning. “The first reason is that she needs a vacation. For several months, she’s been enraptured with gods, cultists, and moons, worrying nonstop about whether she can protect her loved ones. She prays about it daily, sometimes multiple times. I gave her a seemingly meaningless task to distract her - dare I say, she would even have fun. She needs more confidence in her ability to protect and heal her loved ones, confidence that you have in abundance. And she’s been so worried about saving the world that she’s forgotten her duty to save people. My light means nothing without those to see it.”
I snort. “I don’t need saving – certainly not from your clerics. We’ve been over this.”
“No, you don’t,” he says. “That’s one thing I admire about you. You carry so much darkness.” He puts a hand on my chest. It’s warm and tingly. “But so much light, as well. You see those who no one else does, and you act when no one else will –”
I move his hand away. “I’m not asking for a card reading here.”
“Then, another reason I sent her to you is that I will need a Champion soon.”
I freeze. He can’t mean me. Arriel’s right there – his special chosen cleric. “You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
I laugh. He’s trying to convert me. My blood starts running hot. It’s hard keeping my voice even. “Then why in the sweet hells haven’t you helped me? I rotted on that island for five years. Do you have any idea what goes on there? Why would I join a church that’s not given so much as a marid’s watery shart in my direction?”
He shakes his head. His voice softens, wavering with emotion. “I’m not asking you to join my church. And whether you want to worship me or not is up to you. People don’t need more faith in gods – they need faith in each other. My followers didn’t help you, and I’m profoundly sorry. They’ve failed. When I ask them to spread light, they give sermons, organize charities, build expensive churches, and put on a show of their devotion. They find more to gain by appearing pious than by approaching someone like you with compassion. And ultimately, nothing changes. When I ask you to spread the light… You know what you needed most in the depths of your darkness. But that cellar wasn’t as dark as you thought. Through me, you’d have power to break chains and make governments quake. That can spread more light than any cleric.”
I shiver, my skin prickling. This is why Arriel found me? “You didn’t tell her any of this.”
“Her devotion is enough. And I think you’ll enjoy her face when you tell her.”
He’s right about that. She’s Iros’ most favorite cleric, and I’m… something else entirely.
“I don’t expect you to change,” he says, like he’s reading my mind. Maybe he is. “I’ve never expected any of my followers to change, but they do. They think living a certain way is more important than spreading light and life. You have both in abundance. It draws people to you. Use it.”
“I’ve not said yes,” I throw back. I’m still a few lines back, trying to parse this out. He’s offering me new magic or power like some kind of patron, maybe like all the things Arriel can do, like what she’s doing right now, intervening for me. I sigh. I’d hate being a cleric.
He smiles. “I have more clerics than I know what to do with. I need a bard. And you already have this power within reach.”
It slams into me like a fist. A whisp of light draws me inward, twirling around a thrumming, throbbing ley line connection. I close my eyes and feel it, following its chorded, wrapped ethereal magic. My breath leaves me. I'm quivering. It thrums with power I’ve never touched before – I’ve not dared to. I listen to it, hearing its magic – a seventh note, a seventh melody adding to the symphony of the world. For the first time, I hear the entire scale, chord, song. It staggers me. The last. The final. And beyond it, its harmonic overtone sings with potent, massive power, swirling with the endless depths of the universe. I attune with it, feeling it. It’s almost begging to be touched.
And seared into the darkness of my eyelids like an afterimage is burning, roiling, swirling pink magical energy. It’s absolutely vibrating with potential. A shudder goes through my spine. I know this spell – or know of it. It’s something like what Weekes got – central to some of the oldest tales of the fall of power-hungry wizards or beggars who become kings. The ability to manifest reality through sheer intent, presence, charisma. The ability to grasp the seventh ley line, warping it to your desires and brushing against the eighth, the power of the gods. I shudder. It’d be so easy to reach out and pluck it, forming the right chord, the right music – if I wish to.
I shock back into my body. Iros is watching me. I’m sweating.
“You still have much to do,” he says. He puts a hand on my face, cupping my jaw. “I know this task is important to you, and I don’t ask you to drop it. You’re doing a noble thing, and you have my blessing. It’ll be hard. But light can only come from darkness. Whenever you can see, there I am. And you’ll find you’re not alone.”
It’s rare when I can’t think of anything to say. I only pause, mouth open. For some reason, I feel like crying. Or maybe it’s the glimpse of the face within the light. He’s smiling softly.
“Now, it’s time to return. You love life too much to join me now.”
He pulls his hand away, then touches me on the chest. Searing white light burns my vision. And the room vanishes.
I wake up gasping.
My body throbs, my heart stuttering. I groan. I heave, and nothing comes up. I feel like a tarrasque stepped on me. The black waters in my head are like a geyser.
I blink. Torchlight comes into view. It’s cold – I’m shivering, shaking. The smell of blood and musty floorboards is cloying. Something’s stabbing into my leg. I can’t move it. My neck's stiff as a board, but I turn to look. I'm a heap amidst shattered crates, like I was chucked at them. The room has walls of stacked stone and earth – some kind of basement. Feeling returns, like a fire stoking. I groan into the floor. I’m inches away from death.
The door opens.
Through torchlight, blurred orange and gold in my vision, a person stands in the doorway – a young half-orc woman. She’s wearing a basic white robe with a sun symbol stitched on it. A familiar amulet is hanging over her robe. Her eyes widen.
“Gods, are you okay?” she stammers, hustling toward me.
Just what I need right now. “I’m not sure what you mean. I’m fine. Fuck off.”
She halts, halfway crouching and hovering over me. I search around, grunting. I can barely push myself up. I’m stuck on a shattered half of a crate. My lower half is numb. Something’s broken, too, because I can’t move much. Or maybe several things. My mandolin’s a few feet away. My throat’s bone dry. I hum a shitty triad and flick out my arcane hand. I flop back down. My blood roars. My arcane hand brings the mandolin over. I strum a chord with bloody fingers –
“Wait,” she says, putting a hand out. She gestures at my lower half. “You’re…stuck. Please. The Dawn Lord sent me to help.”
Of course he did. I’m sopping wet, but I’m not sure it’s ocean water. Everything’s starting to throb. I can barely think around it. “Fine.”
I look away as she frees me from the crates. My stomach lurches at the sound. I swallow bile. I strum the three chords, and warmth flushes through me. I squawk as things crack back into place. I’m shuffled like a deck of cards. The hole in my leg seals a little. My headache eases.
“Here,” she says, kneeling over me. She’s getting blood on her white robe. She grabs her amulet and puts a hand out, touching me, dark brows scrunching together. “Dawn Lord, mend this wound.”
Gold light flares. Not much happens, but I can feel my toes again. She does it again, sweat gathering on her jutting green brow.
“Sorry, that’s all I can safely do right now,” she gasps. I remember those days. “I can bring you upstairs for more help – or you can stay here –”
Upstairs? “Where in the hells am I?”
She blinks at me. I can smell sweet, salty seawater. And whiskey. “The church of Iros. The one in the Low.”
I’m in Carthesia, at least. I pause. My nondetection’s still there, but it’s nearing the end. It’s been almost a full day. Have I been dead down here all this time? Iros said something about making sure I land somewhere safe. Are Arriel and Weekes alright?
The half-orc stands, offering hands to help me up. “Let’s move you somewhere comfortable. I’ll get the High Priest – he can help you more.”
I take her hands, staggering to my feet. Blood rushes in my neck. I nearly pitch over, catching the wall. She steadies me. I grab my mandolin and sling it on. I’ve still got my swords – one’s missing. That’s right. It’s in the fucking ocean.
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I fish out my flask. It’s still there, and half-full. My other one’s untouched. I slug down a few mouthfuls and head toward the door. She skitters behind me. “Take it slow –”
I’m feeling hot. I stop and turn to her. “Thank you ever so kindly for your help. I don’t need the rest of it.”
“Oh. Okay. The light be with you.”
“Sure, uh… and also with you.” Clothes are piled on a crate nearby. I grab a set, then continue out the door.
Down the stone hall, I start opening doors. I find a small closet where I stiffly change into new clothes. I’m a bruised and bloody mess. I leave my old ones. They’re beyond saving. I search inward for a moment. My head’s foggy and sagging like a wet blanket. Grabbing the fifth ley line to teleport right now – or do any magic aside from minor ones - might push me too far. Apparently, being dead didn’t give me any stamina back. I shudder and take a long drink, trying not to think of it.
I find a set of stairs. And upstairs, I find a church.
I pause. It’s not much, but it’s a church nonetheless. Chipped and battered pews line a path down the middle of the atrium. At the end is a statue of Iros, a person in a robe with a sun symbol on their chest. Light comes from the ceiling – I don’t see a source – casting over it. Out the windows, it’s pitch dark. It’s quiet inside, and peaceful even.
More people in white robes turn and stare at me.
I look like I crawled out of a dumpster fuck with a minotaur, their faces tell me. I'd take that over anything right now.
I gather myself, continuing toward the tall double doors at the end of the hall. My legs are stiff. I stop again. Next to the door is a small offering plate of copper coins. I sigh, glancing back at the statue. I chuck a silver piece in. The light winks overhead.
I push into the dark streets of Carthesia.
Carthesia’s a lovely city if you don't mind walking for hours to get anywhere. It’s hardly a city and rather a small nation. It’s dozens of miles long, and that’s no exaggeration. The Low is the shit end of it, and I’m surrounded by dilapidated buildings, beggars, mud, and dark alleyways I’m not touching with a ten-foot pole. Luckily, I’m wearing armor and weapons. In an ideal world, that means fewer people will fuck with me. But I, for a reason tucked away in my chest pocket, don't live in an ideal world.
I stop. On a community board is tacked another poster with my face, like the one I’ve still got from Weekes. Although this one’s on behalf of Takazaki. I scan it. They’re looking for Chance of Six Pines. There’s nothing for Arriel. I snort and grab it, stuffing it away.
As I walk, I soon hit the end of my nondetection. Without the comforting hug of magic around my mind, it's like being clothed at an orgy. If Irminric’s still alive, I’m sure he’s claimed a new mage and is ravening to find me. Or Weekes, at least. Irminric certainly knows people here who’d scoop me up. Hopefully, Arriel knows to start looking for me, wherever she is.
I push toward the High as best I can. It’s the massive hill overhanging the undercroft of the Mid, easily seen from anywhere in the city. I sigh. Of course Iros put me in the worst of his churches.
It’s a long, long day of walking.
My feet are dead, but I keep going, ignoring the stares. By the time morning starts cresting, I get out of the Low, passing through the gates into the Mid. It’s instantly cleaner. Teleport circles are available around the city, but it’s an absurd one gold per trip. For a half copper, I flop on a long cart pulled by oxen. I step off into a residential area with bright houses and apartments. By afternoon, music and bustling pour out of taverns. It’s a sweet sound. So is the red district, but the workers only look at me with concern as I go by. I skirt through the undercroft lined with street vendors. The smell of grilled food wafts, but I’m hardly hungry. Mostly, I’m exhausted. Arriel said her estate’s as safe as can be. The sooner I get there, the better.
Suddenly, there’s an odd static feeling in my head, and I hear a familiar voice.
Chouncey, I’m doing this again to get through. Please let me know you’re safe and well. Where are you? I’m going to scry. Please respond.
I smile, my throat welling. I shuffle off the road into an alcove between two buildings. “I like the sound of you missing me, Lady Arriel. I’m headed through the Merchant’s Walk near the High. Try scrying now.” I pause. I’ve heard of this kind of magic before. I only have so many words. “What’re you wearing?”
There’s a pause, and then another static feeling. Her voice shakes. Oh my gods, finally. We’ve been so worried. We’re at the estate. Are you okay? Stay put for a few minutes. I’ll message you soon.
I let out a breath that shudders my chest. I can’t cry yet. They’re both alright. I lean against a building, glad to take weight off my feet. I glance around, spotting a couple street signs. I cross my arms, sleighting a finger. Pink text appears in the air, reading “Second and Market.” I pause. Just below it appears “send nudes.”
I wait. A gnome stares at me while tottering past.
I get another odd feeling in my head. She’s less excited this time. Okay, I see you. You’re still a few hours out. Please get here quickly and safely – I’ll make sure they know to look for you.
My illusion vanishes, and I keep walking. People give me odd looks when I start talking to myself. “I’m sure you can tell I’m doing just fine, by the way. And no, I don’t need a carriage. I like walking. See you soon.”
I don’t get another spell.
Finally, I find the High. At the top of a crushingly long set of stone stairs is a shut iron gate. I stop halfway and collapse on a bench for a few minutes, catching my breath. Carthesia stretches for miles across the plains beyond. I squint. It’s gotta be the middle of the night back in Rheda. I approach the gate. It’s riddled with guards wearing fancy, polished armor, holding pikes and swords. Fuck me. This won’t be easy.
A guard approaches. She’s an oread with earthy cracks across her coppery skin. She’s a captain, wearing mail and a tabard. She glances me up and down. Her voice is stern. “What’s your business in the High?”
I scratch under my eye and tease the first ley line. It saps me. The mandolin hums. “I’m headed to the Ronchellard estate. Lady Arriel and her wife requested a… member of the Wilderkeeper’s clergy. Surely, you can let me in without a fuss. They’d like a bit of discretion.”
Aenta the Wilderkeeper is the goddess of nature. Some of her clergy like practicing nature in its most basic form with anyone interested in lying on the altar of worship. Arriel’s gonna smack me for this.
The oread blinks. Her eyes flash pink for the briefest moment. She softens. “Of course. What… happened?”
Even a simple charm’s got me sick of being around people. I’m exhausted. I glance down at myself. “Things got a bit rough in the undercroft.”
“Again? Gods. I’m sorry. Go in. If you’d like to make a report, one of my sergeants can bring you to the guardhouse down there.”
“Thank you, dear captain. Could you point me to the estate?”
She turns, gesturing. “It’s the second gate as you follow the road to the left for about a mile.”
“Excellent. The light be with you.”
Her brows pull together for a brief moment, but she doesn’t say anything. I nod, passing through the gate as they open it for me. I glance back, and she returns to her post. I hustle quicker.
Once I’m out of sight, I strum three chords, borrowing a spell from my mandolin, and make myself invisible.
I’ve never been in the High. It’s an odd place – like someone took a suburban community and transplanted it to the top of a city, vast wastes of green space and all. Dappled throughout are disgustingly wealthy estates, all interspersed with greenery and even a fucking vineyard. I go past a small collection of inns, taverns, restaurants, and shops I’d not have a hope of setting foot in.
I spot a few massive churches, too. It's easy enough picking out the one with the sun motifs carved in gold. I stop, looking at it for a long moment. It's all white marble, carved by some poor masterful underpaid artist. Rich gold rugs follow the stairs to the open doors of deep mahogany. Elaborate, divided benches and manicured shrubs give it a peaceful look. People in pristine white and gold robes meander in and out, along with people in fashionable dresses and tunics. I think the roof might be made of gold, too. It’s understandable why Iros didn't put me in that one - I wouldn't want blood and poverty on those rugs, either.
I continue on. Then I find another fucking gate with more guards.
A fancy “R” is intertwined in the bars. Through it, I see a massive stone estate with a long drive and perfect landscaping. I’m dead on my feet. I take a long drink and release my spell. The guards sitting in front of it eye me, surely thinking of moving me off. That, or wondering how I got in here in the first place. One of them enters a small guardhouse. Standing here waiting for Arriel is certainly not an option, especially in a half hour when that guard captain realizes what happened.
I sense a faint magical hum. And then I glance up.
A telltale shimmer of wards runs along the gate and high stone wall, expanding into a dome that covers the whole area. Just to the right of the gate, about ten feet up, is a bright pink smear.
“Hey. What are you doing here?” one of the guards calls.
I approach. They meet me halfway, putting hands on weapons. I hold my hands up, gesturing with my flask. “I’m looking for Lady Arriel.”
They’ve got a fatter chance of cleaning my magical insides off those wards than believing I'm anything other than some wayward, squiffed vagrant.
The guard eyes me. “Are you –”
“Chouncey!”
I glance over. Arriel and Weekes come sprinting down the drive. The guards hustle to open up the gate. They slip through.
Arriel nearly knocks me over. Weekes joins her.
They both hug me. I’m wholly unprepared for it. The smell of blood and seawater is chased away by fresh-washed hair and verbena oil. The throbbing is replaced by the velvety-soft feel of Weekes’ baby ear against my cheek. They weren’t that worried, were they? Arriel squeezes me tighter. Weekes is shaking like he’s gonna cry. I’m gonna cry. It’s like breathing again. I wrap my arms around them.
It hits me all at once. I was dead. I died getting out of there. I’m only here because of Arriel. She cared that much. They were that worried. What if I’d given up and taken Irminric to the bottom of the ocean with me? My throat bunches up. I hold them both tight. A friendly voice nuzzles in my mind.
Whenever you can see, there I am. And you’ll find you’re not alone.
I clear my throat. “We should get out of sight. I charmed the guard captain getting in here.”
Arriel stiffens, pulling away. “You what?”
I’m already halfway through the gate. I’m gonna collapse before much longer. She catches up, and I put an arm on their shoulders. And they help me inside.
I’ve never set foot anywhere half as exorbitant as the Ronchellard estate.
We step through rich, wood double doors into a foyer filled with art, luxurious rugs, and enormous windows. I barely see it. I need rest as soon as possible. Arriel’s halfway holding me up.
“Moyo,” she calls to a catfolk waiting at the base of the grand stairs wrapped with plush white carpet. “Could we get a bath, please? And double check a room is ready.”
“Of course.” The catfolk holds up a small pen, talking into it. People start flocking from nowhere, carrying buckets. My stomach turns queasy. They’ve got servants.
I stop. “It’s alright. I can handle it.”
Arriel turns to look at me. I lean on Weekes instead. “You’re barely walking –”
“I'm exhausted, and I don't need this right now,” I snap back.
She pauses, then speaks a bit softer. “They work for us. We pay them more than any of the other estates. They live here as part of the family – and they’re free to leave whenever.”
“Free to work or die, huh?”
She only keeps looking at me, a sad smile on her lips. I can only take in her face. It’s beautiful.
“Hey, I’ll help them out,” Weekes says, giving me a pat and freeing himself from under me. He lopes after someone carrying an empty bucket.
I sigh. I wish he weren’t so likable. I sway, and Arriel keeps me upright.
I stagger upstairs, leaving prints of a unique blend of dried blood, dirt, and city shit. At the top of the landing is an enormous framed painting. I pause, catching my breath. It’s a family portrait, lifelike and high quality. They must’ve gone far for an artist that good. I check the signature in a corner. In the center, sitting in a plush chair with legs crossed, is a slender woman with ashy, purple-tinged skin. Her raven-black hair is pinned up, and she’s wearing a long, fashionable coat of deep blue over a pressed, starched, high-collared white shirt, with tall, polished boots. Her hand’s slipped between two buttons. From her forehead sprout two small horns. And spilling from the chair is a barbed tail. Her eyes are pure black.
Standing beside her, hand on her shoulder, is Arriel.
She’s wearing a long, draping dress in a soft cream color. It reveals the milky plane of her chest and collarbones, clinging to her hips and the inviting softness of her stomach. Her ashy blonde hair is long and gently curled. She looks stunning. Three other people are standing, too, all of them human. There’s an older man and woman who look oddly like the half-devil. And there’s a woman, too, a few years younger than Arriel. She’s wearing a frilly mint dress with bows, her hair in a fluffed braid over one shoulder. At her feet is an odd gray cat, one eye yellow and the other blue.
“That’s the family,” Arriel says. “This is Bri, her parents, and Lespira, her little sister. Her parents aren’t here right now – they’re vacationing on the sky ship around eastern Vesh.”
A fucking sky ship. “They’re human.”
Her lips form a line. “Bri discovered the Ronchellard family contains devil blood, going all the way back to the first mingling between an ancestor and the goddess of bad luck. She found that every few generations, it’s expressed… as such. It made her… less desirable for marriage with the other nobles. It caused her to fall out with her parents. But she secured some business deals, reconciled with them, and kept the family from falling apart. As for the curse… she’s in the Nine Hells investigating more. One of her ancestors is there – the offspring of that original mingling with the goddess.”
“She must not have been too undesirable for marriage.”
“Well, she asked me. I would’ve done it regardless of her assets. Financial ones, I mean.” Her face reddens.
“Your wife’s lovely,” I say quietly, looking at their likenesses. I’m not sure why it’s hard to look at. I find myself looking at her in particular, something stirring in my chest.
She doesn’t say anything to that, nudging me along.
I’m brought to a massive washroom already steaming from a tub full of soapy, hot water. Weekes is there, shuffling things around. I don’t waste a moment slinging my things off and slumping against the wall of the claw-footed tub. I melt as the hot water seeps into my bones. The water’s instantly opaque.
“Gods,” Arriel breathes. I glance in a tall mirror. I’m a bruised and battered mess. The gnarly gashes Irminric hacked into me are only mostly sealed. It stings. My neck has purplish claw marks. My leg still has a gouge through it. I’m too tired to even feel queasy. “May I?” she asks, gesturing toward me.
I sigh. “Fine.”
She perches on the tub, putting a hand on my shoulder. She holds her amulet. “By the Dawn Lord, heal.”
More warmth seeps through me with a pulse of light behind my eyes. It’s almost like coming. I groan. I go limp, all the tension easing from my muscles.
The full impact of everything is starting to hit me. But Weekes and Arriel are still here – Weekes sits next to me, taking my hand with his paw. It’s soft. His big eyes watch me.
“What happened?” he asks.
I hum and flick out my arcane hand, searching for my flask among my things. It hovers over and deposits it in my hand. I stare at it for a moment. Then I take a long slug. It’s almost empty. I stick a leg out of the water, and my arcane hand massages my foot.
“I died,” is all I can say. I’m certainly not ready to have that chat with Arriel about what Iros said.
They both freeze, gaping at me.
“I’m sorry,” Weekes sobs. He throws his arms around me, sticking his face in my neck and squeezing. The soft fur is nice. “I sent you to die. We should’ve stayed. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s alright,” I say, patting his head. “I told you to get out of there. The ship was quite literally going down.”
“I know. I still feel awful. You’re my best friend. I shouldn’t have let you go.”
I look to Arriel. She’s only staring at the floor in front of her, fingering her amulet.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” I say. You’re my best friend. My throat’s closing on me fast. I can’t cry right now, or it’s gonna be ugly.
He stays there, squeezing me. I keep looking at the flask in my hand. Days ago, it didn't matter if I liquored myself into a ditch and never left. Irminric might be peeved, but nobody would care. But now?
“Iros brought you back,” Arriel says quietly. Tears are gathering in her warm blue eyes.
“From what he told me, you did,” I throw back. “I’m not the least bit sure why.”
I do know why. But my blood’s running hot. Everything with Torm went so well. Is this really what I’m hurtling toward?
“What else did he tell you?” she asks.
I sit up, set my flask on the table, and clean off with a plush washcloth. It’s red the moment it touches my face. My arcane hand switches to the other foot. “It doesn’t matter. You and your god have gotta leave me alone.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Weekes says. “I would’ve missed you. I won’t let it happen again.”
I sigh. I can’t stay mad at that. “Let’s get you laid while we’re here. There’s gotta be a lovely lady bunny somewhere.”
He brightens, his ears standing a little straighter.
I sag against the edge of the tub. I’ve barely got energy to clean up right now. I pass the washcloth to my arcane hand, and it takes over.
Suddenly, I feel fingers in my hair. I tense. It’s Arriel. She’s got her sleeves rolled up and a handful of soap, scrubbing and untangling. It’s divine. She works her fingers through my scalp. A groan slips out. I move some bubbles to cover what’s going on under the water.
“Right now, let’s get some rest,” she says. Then, she calls toward the door. “Lorwen!”
The door instantly opens. A dark-haired, sour-looking high elf steps in. His hair’s starting to gray at the temples. He’s wearing a smart-looking tunic and a double-edged Carthesian sword. He glances me over. I gesture in greeting with my flask. He only nods.
“Could you get those to Jasper, please?” Arriel says, pointing to my busted chain jacket and shortsword.
“Of course,” he says. He gathers it all up, eyeing my mandolin sitting there, too. “Expedited?”
“Yes. He can bill us for it.”
I’m not sure what that means. “Careful with all that,” I say. “It’s irreplaceable.”
He cocks a brow, looking at the rusted, broken chain. He’s practically holding it between two fingers. “Clearly. Can we get you anything more to drink?”
“A bottle of whiskey, if you’ve got it.”
“We drink wine here. But I’ll send someone out.”
Then, he leaves.
“Who’s that?” I ask, taking another slug.
“Our head of security. He’s very nice, once you get to know him. We’re trying to get him to retire,” Arriel says.
“Not hard enough, apparently. Get him a cock in his ass, too.”
Weekes sputters a laugh. Arriel ignores it. “I’ll have him stay outside your room so you can feel a little safer.”
I can’t think too much about that. But I’m relieved for not having to ask.
“There,” she says, finishing up with my hair. She’s even trimmed it. “We’ll let you finish up. Your room is directly across the hall. I’ll make sure it has everything you need.”
She plunges her hands in the water, rinsing them. I jerk aside so she doesn’t find any surprises.
“Hey, I’m right next door if you need anything,” Weekes says. “If you need to talk or just… want someone to drink with.”
He leaves, and a door shuts across the hall. I rub my face. It's numb. My hand's red when I pull it away. Arriel gathers the rest of my things, then pauses in the doorway. “Would you like some quiet?”
It’s crashing around me fast. I’m sure she can tell. It’s enough to grapple with having died, but… Irminric was there. His claws were on me. We were face-to-face again for the first time in months. It was almost just the two of us, two piles of bones at the bottom of the ocean forever. My ankle’s starting to itch. And there’s a roaring, crashing feeling in my head.
I can only nod.
“Dawn Lord, bestow silence.”
Like a heavy blanket, utter silence lies over me. The door closes without a sound. I set my flask down and sob. It’s ugly, heaving tears, screaming myself tense. And I stay like that for a good, long while.
Finally, the silence winks away. I finish cleaning up. There’s a razor on the table, and I make good use of it. The room’s whirling by the time I haul myself from the tub. I dry off with a plush towel and find the door across the hall. I push inside.
It’s lush. A big bed takes up the center, four-postered and piled with pillows and blankets. One of these rugs could feed me for six months. It makes my skin crawl. People have things like this when there’s people like me stumbling through life. I shove it all out of mind. New clothes are laid on a dresser next to my whip. My mandolin is on a small stand in the corner. And on the table next to the bed is a bottle of dwarven whiskey.
I uncork it, slug down a few mouthfuls, flop facedown into bed, and sack out.
HOST STATUS: LORD CRESTFALL (ERROR)
[BREEDING SCHEME ABORTED] Su Ian Hoo woke up male, uninjured, and infinitely more spiteful.
[FOREKNOWLEDGE ACTIVE] She knows exactly who holds the hammer.
[OBJECTIVE] Dismantle the Chancellor's plot using pure, unadulterated chaos.
Cursed into a useless peacock, then murdered and reset—Lord Crestfall is done with destiny. This time, the "Immortal Scam" is taking no prisoners, only grubs, and certainly no breeding partners.