The Earthsong played a vaguely quiet, somber song in the nottling's mind. Kalli sat in the corner of Point's Peak's common room. Secluded, off in her corner, so far from the spotlight that she so often craved. Today, that light rankled at her. She spared a sour look upwards, a grimace making her distaste at the light directly above her table clear. Gregory was always determined to never have any dark, shady corners in his humble tavern.

  It was really throwing off her brooding.

  It was quieter than usual. Most of the patrons sat far away from her, leaving a barrier of unclaimed seats and tables around her corner. Perhaps distance would save them from catching... whatever. What would she call it? T-plague? T-virus? T... she glanced down at the scrap of paper, where she had crossed out various ideas. All T-something. None of them felt quite right, yet the answer seemed right there. On the tip of her tongue, just out of reach, out of grasp... with a grimace, she seized the paper in her pink hand and crumpled it into a ball. She made to toss the ball over her shoulder, but she caught the accusing glance from the bar. Gregory was still there, thick eyebrows furrowed in an accusing glare right at her.

  “Untwist your fucking panties, muttonchops,” she muttered to herself. It wasn't loud enough for Gregory to hear, from where he stood – but as she smoothed out the crumpled paper, the message seemed to be received. Gregory simply nodded, returning to whatever busy work he'd find. It was a quiet night, so far. But it was still early. There was time for it to pick up, she was sure.

  Especially if she didn't hang around.

  She sighed, lowering her face into her palm with a long, quiet groan. Her thoughts drifted to the floor above, where Henry still stood. Rather, was frozen? She shuddered, hands tensing into fists as she gripped her hair in frustration. She could almost still hear Frida begging him to eat something... “That poor wife,” she sighed to herself in a soft whisper. A soft thud of a glass being placed in front of her pulled her out of her thoughts.

  “Moping solves about a grand total of nothin', Kalli.” the bard looked up – it was Gregory.

  “Your beer tastes like piss today.” the insult rolled off her tongue before it had even been fully formed in her mind. Dangerous, fighting words – but she couldn't summon the will to care. “You piss in it? You pisser?”

  Even Gregory, unflappable as he was, tensed a little at the comment. “I'll give you one - “ he placed an emphasizing finger on the table, stern eyes laying a fatherly guilt trip on her conscience. “On account of hard times. One. Don't try that again.” Gregory let the stern silence weigh on her, until she felt no choice but to relent. Defeated, she nodded, mumbling out a half-earnest apology. Gregory returned a stiff nod – that seemed to be enough to placate him.

  “'Sides, it's the same ale as yesterday. So that would make you a piss drinker. I don't think you're that kinky – not that I'd want to know.”

  “Heh,” she managed a little gracious smile, recognizing the easy setup from a mile away. “Please, you're begging to know more of this. Like, carnally. If you know what I'm saying.” She finally let go of her hair, straightening up a bit. One hand ran through her hair, smoothing it. The other took hold of the glass.

  “Brevity.” Gregory reminded.

  “Is for cowards,” Kalli grinned, “Just like Subtext.” Finally, she took a drink of the ale – a light taste, with some citrus undertones. Just how she liked it. Delightfully free of piss.

  Gregory let a sharp breath out through his nose, as he folded his arms. “Hm. Quite. Anyway, thought I should let you know; a priest came looking for you earlier today. I don't blab about my customer's drinking habits, but...” he shrugged. The suspicious clientele would be all too quick to rat her out. The nottling slut who cursed poor Henry.

  Kalli sighed, and took a deeper drink of the piss beer. “Great.” She glanced towards the door. She drummed her fingers on the table in an absent-minded rhythm while she considered leaving. “Who should I expect a visit from? Please say it's not a Maid.” She had no desire to be 'cleansed' into a pile of ash.

  “Not quite so bad...” Gregory let the silent 'but' hang in the air. Kalli allowed herself a little mental chuckle – heh. Butts. Hanging in the air. Gregory continued. “Warpriest. Notadae, to be precise.”

  Kalli rolled her eyes, letting out a small sigh. “Great,” she mumbled. She rubbed her temple, already feeling a possible headache forming. “Is it too late to want the Maid?”

  “She seemed a more reasonable one, at least.” he shrugged, noncommital – he was rarely one to state definites or certainties. “Just try not to piss her off. Don't want any more breakages this month.”

  Kalli's eye glanced over to a couple chairs at the unoccupied table next to her. One leg on each of them was a different shade than the rest. Kalli was suddenly reminded of just how she had broken those two, and cracked the table besides... Even in her current mood, the thought brought a pleased, lewd smile to her lips.

  “I doubt she'll want a threesome, Greg.” she chuckled. She gave a suggestive glance at Gregory, leaning to the side as she placed an elbow on the table. She waggled her eyebrows – excessively so, some would say. “But hey,” she continued waggling, “Who knows. Maybe we can convince her together...”

  “Hm,” was his only response before he slowly shook his head, turning to leave. “That's not a nooooo~” she teased, eyes glued on the man's rear as he left. It was a nice ass, she still had to admit. Muscled, sturdy – good for grabbing. She'd know.

  More content now than before, Kalli sighed, eyes trailing once more to the door. She thought, pondered, as she drank the citrus ale. “A reasonable Warpriest...” she murmured to herself as she drank. “We'll see.” If there was one thing Kalli knew, it was to not put too much stock in first appearances.

  Slowly, she sipped, and she pondered. At one point she glanced at the other patrons, considered working the crowd. Some of them talked to this priest, she was sure. What she saw in the few eyes that returned her gaze just fueled her raging pessimism. She sighed, quickly giving up on that idea and returning to her ale. “Shit happens,” she looked deep into her mostly empty glass, rotating it to spin the remnants of the liquid around. “We just roll it downhill.”

  Just then, the Earthsong picked up. Where before, it had been quiet and subtle enough to be easily tuned out, now the notes demanded her attention. The tempo picked up, a running bass carried more weight. Kalli turned her attention to the door – something was about to happen. And then, something did happen.

  The door opened, and the Earthsong announced the new presence with a strong, elegant violin. It brought to mind a dance performance at a noble's ball. The kind of stage the more self-important, stuffy young bards might dream of. Kalli wrinkled her nose at it.

  Standing in the now-open doorway was a lizard. The humanoid lizard, not to be confused with the lizard lizards of the world. By human standards, she would be mildly tall and curvy – which meant, by lizard standards, she was mildly short and skinny. Complete with nicely round breasts Kalli could imagine herself getting lost in – a fact that still confused many well-learned biologists. The breasts on a lizard. Not Kalli's love of them. The latter fact was quite self-evident. And frequent.

  She was covered with smooth, green scales that could blend perfectly into a dark forest, yet here made her stand out like a saint in a brothel. Her eyes looked cold, and calculating, but most lizards' did. This one had tried to mitigate a lizard's cold appearance with makeup. A little pink heart adorned the left cheek. Dark lines above and below the eyes, not connected, to try and make the eyes look wider. A few painted blue bubbles floated above her right eye. A rather adorable collection, as long as one could forget the sharp, predatory teeth in every lizard's maw.

  She was dressed, however, as a Warpriest ready for, well, war. Her armor was a mix of closely fitting plate and light chain that left vitals protected and the limbs mobile. Her chest plate was indented in the upper middle, following and even accentuating the curves of the lizard's breasts. A blatant reminder of femininity, and a really impractical choice for armor. Lizards did love their aesthetics. Over the armor, a cloth tabard clung to her frame. Bright orange, edges lined with yellow trim, and the black silhouette of a pitchfork in the middle – Notadae's holy symbol. In theory, it represented the will of the people, of the oppressed. In reality? A symbol used by brutes to make themselves sound morally justified.

  The lizard stuck her forked tongue out, tasting the air as she scanned the crowd. In a single sweep with her eyes, her gaze locked onto Kalli, causing the nottling to tense. Without so much as a hello, or a greeting, to Gregory or anyone else in Point's Peak, she walked in as straight a line as possible. The lizard walked with purpose. An even, wide stride carried her effortlessly to Kalli's table in the corner. The bard tensed. Kalli took one last glance to the door – so long, sweet escape. She prayed she wouldn't miss it much soon. She already did a little bit.

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  “My name is Shraeh. I'm looking for Kalli Graves, and you match her description. Are you her?” The lizard's voice was a flat, rough kind of monotone, and spoke in a quick rhythm that was all purpose. Kalli opened her mouth, somewhat stunned by the directness.

  “Uh -” Kalli stammered, a rarity for her. Before she could shoot a quip, the lizard was seating herself across from Kalli. Or, trying to – on the lizard's back were strapped two weapons. A pitchfork (Notadaeans did love their pitchforks) and a rifle (lizards did love their guns). The forgotten weapons quickly made themselves known as they clattered against the chair, impeding the Warpriests' ability to sit.

  “Ah, beans,” Shraeh sighed before reaching behind her back. One at a time, she carefully removed her weapons, making a quick attempt to prop them against the wall.

  “Geez, buy a girl dinner before you rail her with questions,” she chuckled, and downed the rest of her ale in one quick, desperate gulp. Over her glass, she made pleading eye contact with Gregory, who began dutifully filling two more glasses. Kalli hoped they were both for her.

  “It is hardly the time for dinner,” the lizard replied. Seeming satisfied with the placement of her tools against the wall, she turned back to Kalli before sitting down. “But if an early dinner is the price of your cooperation, I accept. Tell me what you would like, and I can order it for you.”

  “Uh -” she blinked, stunned. It was like talking to a brick wall – and not in the way she expected. Silence hung in the air for a moment. Shraeh tilted her head to the side, quizzically. Her tongue tasted the air a couple times. Just then, thank all the gods, Gregory cut through the silence by suddenly appearing. He placed a glass of ale down in front of each of them, before taking Kalli's empty. Kalli shot Gregory an incredulous look. Reasonable. Reasonable, he said!

  The man had the gall to simply shrug, and walk away. Prick.

  The lizard was still staring at her, unflinching. The intense eye contact made her skin crawl. “Um, never mind. I'm good actually.”

  “Hm.” Shraeh's brow furrowed. “Alright. I can only hope you will be less indecisive if we are to cooperate in the future.”

  It was Kalli's turn to furrow her brow. She bought herself a bit of time by taking a drink, curiosity mixing with suspicion as she stared down this odd Warpriest. “Yeah, who says I'm cooperating?” She leaned her chair back and crossed her legs. “If this is about Henry, I didn't do it. Last I checked, fucking someone doesn't make them do... that.” Her eyes flickered upwards, unable to help thinking of Henry's predicament. Still there. Frozen. Standing like a T.

  For more than a day.

  Instinct told her to be coy, of course. To not be the first to bring up Henry – but Kalli was tense. On edge. The faster this was over with, the better.

  “I'd be surprised if you did.” The Notadaean glanced down at the table, and seemed to blink in surprise as she noticed the glass for the first time. She took her time picking it up, flicking out her tongue to taste the air above the liquid before finally bringing it to her lips. She took a slow sip, smacking her lips a few times before she seemed pleased, smiling slightly.

  Impatient, Kalli began tapping her fingers on the table. “Well? Then why are you here?”

  “Oh, right, yes.” The lizard took one more brief drink before setting the glass to the side. That intense eye contact came back, the drink seemingly forgotten as the Warpriest leaned in, resting her forearms on their shared table. “I can't detect any magic on the man.”

  Kalli shrugged, looking down and to the side. “Yeah. And?” She had checked, too. Not a drop of magic. No illusions, nothing to hide the magic, either. The thought made her squirm.

  “Obviously, that is an impossibility. Nothing physical or natural could compel him to stay so still, to be so immovable, so perfectly stationary. Yet there he is, all the same. Further, he is alive.” Shraeh tensed her gauntleted hands, exposed claws carving divots into the table. Greg wouldn't like that.

  “I mean, yeah, I felt his breath.” Kalli leaned back a little more in her chair, subtly creating a bit more distance between her and this intense lizard. “But his chest wasn't moving. He didn't exactly look like he was breathing.”

  Shreah nodded. “No movement, yet breath. Another impossibility, unless if he secretly became a construct while we weren't looking. Unlikely, since my spells detected life. Regardless,” she dismissed that line with a shake of her head. “Ultimately, it wouldn't matter if he was a construct or a man. He is aware, Kalli.”

  Stunned, Kalli gulped at the implication. She suddenly stopped leaning back, letting the chair's front legs thud onto the wooden floor. “You mean -”

  “Yes. He is afraid. He is confused. He is hungry, and we cannot open his mouth to feed him. He is thirsty, and we cannot will his throat to swallow. He is an immobile prisoner in his own mind and body. I cannot allow it.” Shraeh suddenly stood from her chair and leaned on the table. “Notadae cannot allow it.”

  Kalli swallowed, scooting her chair slightly back and away from Shraeh. She glanced to the door again, contemplating escape. When a Warpriest was on their Warpath, it would take a serious fool to cross them. “Sooo... what's that got to do with me?”

  Shraeh scoffed slightly, apparently displeased by Kalli's response. “I don't believe you caused this, yet I'm told you spent considerable time trying to find what's wrong with him.” She placed a finger on the table. “Even after failing, you're still here, when you could easily choose any tavern in the city.” A second finger hit the table. “From what I gather, by all accounts you are an empathetic person.” A third finger. “You have not been in town long enough to put down roots. You could have skipped town. You didn't.” A thumb joined her three fingers on the table, before Shraeh's hand flattened into a palm.

  “You can waste away in a tavern where suddenly nobody will touch you with a ten foot pole. Or you can come with me, and perhaps together we can stop this before anybody else is affected.”

  The Earthsong picked up. The violin that announced Shraeh's entrance had picked up speed. Bass joined in – hard, deep notes that danced complementary to Shraeh's violin. Kalli sighed, hearing the music's plea as both instruments together played an inspirational song that tugged at hear heartstrings. “Fuck it,” she shrugged. “Let's ball.”

  Shraeh smiled in satisfaction. She opened her mouth to say something, but then her rifle slid down the wall to clatter onto the ground.

  “Ah, beans.”

  —--

  Elsewhere, but not far...

  It was a cozy room in a cozy inn, its wooden walls and floor stained in a mildly warm tone. On the floor laid a rug. Red, old, and somewhat faded – yet soft and welcoming all the same. Each wall in the compact, yet cozy room had a small shelf. And on each shelf was packed all manner of nick-knacks. Warped pottery, falling apart straw dolls, a crude and cracked dagger. Every piece seemed hand made with all the skill of a bumbling novice, the variety of the collection could be said to be it's only positive quality.

  Near the corner, leaned a shovel. Or, rather, something like a shovel. It stood nearly as tall as an average man. Halfway down its stout wooden half rested a small wooden crossbar. The shovel's metal edges tapered down to a deadly-sharp edge. From the back of the sharpened shovel's head jutted out a spike. A combination tool and weapon that obfuscated its true, primary purpose. Was it more weapon than tool? Or more tool than weapon? Perhaps they were one and the same.

  Next to the shovel, resting on the floor, tucked away into the corner, was a bucket. A wooden sign was affixed to its back – in as much as something round can have a back. Lopsided, of course. Written on the sign in jagged, faded charcoal, were the words “bucket o' dirt”. Indeed it was a bucket of dirt. It was filled just over halfway full of a soft, fine dirt. The kind of dirt one might be tempted to sink their hands into, the kind of dirt that could flow through and around one's fingers without a care in the world.

  In front of said bucket, kneeled a dwarf. Clean-shaven, hair cropped short and neat, one could be excused for thinking him a very short, quite stout, human. That is, until one saw his eyes. Orbs black as night, pupils white as snow. The pupils had 4 corners to them that remained stationary. In normal light, they could almost form a perfect square. Now, those lines were so convex they nearly formed a circle.

  His breath was labored, on the verge of panting through gritted teeth. Repetitive motion taxed him. His arm ached. His fingers felt raw. Exertion brought forth sweat on his brow, and dampened his fine, ruffled shirt. But he couldn't stop. Again and again, his hand buried itself in the fine dirt. He scooped some up in a digging motion, only to let it slip back out through his fingers. Most of it, anyway. Traces always seemed to find their way out of the bucket, landing on the floor nearby. He would need to clean that up later. Once he could make himself stop.

  “Damn... Shitter gods...” he grunted the foul oath. His whole body tensed. Knuckles turned white, where they gripped the top of the bucket. He dipped his hand in the dirt again. Again. Again. Again. He tried to stop. To will his body to stand.

  But then that horrible ache would return. He would ache until he was done.

  And so, he dug. His right hand was beginning to ache too much. And so he swapped. This was not the first time he had swapped hands. His left arm ached as well – but less than his right. Soon, he hoped. Soon he might be done. His left hand dug itself into the dirt. Scooped it up. Let it fall. Again. Again. Again...

  All the while, a yearning called to him. Indescribable, wordless. Pulsing, throbbing. From somewhere far, far below, in depths nobody could remember. Or would even want to remember. A mother's embrace. It missed him, it said. Yearned for him. He could come back. He could find her. He could be whole again. Saccharine-sweet promises of belonging that turned into bitter ash in his weary mind.

  Yet he dug towards her all the same. Again and again and AGAIN AND AGAIN AND -

  “YAGH!” he cried out and fell backwards as the compulsion snapped away. His mind returned to him with a crack, like an over tense rubber band being finally released. He landed on his ass. Truly panting now, drenched with sweat, white pupils finally returning to normal. The Dwarf Mind had let him go.

  For now.