Chapter Text
Bong! Bong! Bong!
Thistle jerked awake, kicking spastically against a cocoon of blankets. The vestiges of a nightmare retreated back into her subconscious, details forgotten almost immediately and apprehension left in its place. She couldn’t remember how she ended up here, sitting in a comfortable bed that was, quite frankly, tempting her back to sleep when yesterday she’d been out on the streets.
The bell rang three more times as Thistle stretched. Her head throbbed with each beat, her muscles aching in protest. Her mind was still in a dull fog as she rubbed sleep-crusted eyes, and she felt strangely hollow—a sign of heavy magic expenditure.
She was hungry, too, and her throat ached with thirst. Her whole body was clamoring for attention, but most of all Thistle was tired. She allowed herself to fall backwards onto the tangle of sheets and raked clawed fingers through her hair. Six o’clock was still early. Surely she could afford to sleep in a little longer…
Thistle froze, fear coiling in her belly. Ten sharp nails dug deeper into her scalp, her hands ungloved and her hood nowhere to be found.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Thistle jumped out of bed, exhaustion forgotten. Her feet scarcely hit the floor before she was pointing at the door with a spell on her lips. The curtain to the room’s one window was already drawn closed, but Thistle wasn’t about to take any chances. In seconds she had activated every ward and disillusionment charm she knew. It was impolite and sometimes even criminal to use so much magic in a public space, but someone might have seen.
The blind panic faded into a more manageable hum of vague unease when Thistle found where she’d thrown her shirt. Hastily she he pulled it back over her head, her face once again lost to the shadows—
where you belong, you beast, you freak of nature
—and her personal safety secured. There was still a chance that there was a trap laid out for her the moment she left the room, but she didn’t think so. People didn’t tend to think rationally when brought face to face with a monster, and if someone was going to attack they probably would have done it while she was still asleep.
An involuntary shiver went down Thistle’s spine. She was in a city full of mages and soldiers who were more than capable of hurting her, with an actual job with people who could find out her secret at any time. She would have to be more careful.
Thistle plopped on the edge of the bed and massaged her aching head. The memories of the previous night came trickling back: the Drath; Grand Master Wu; what she, Orrig, Brent, and Lyra accomplished together as a team. This time when Thistle’s heart beat faster, it was with excitement. Everything worked together in the end, even though she hadn’t been strong enough to save the professor herself.
It had been a long time since she’d been able to sit next to someone and feel truly comfortable, but last night next to Orrig, Brent, and Lyra she’d done just that. One day wasn’t enough to assuage the corrosive doubts that ate at her constantly, but it did relieve them somewhat. A wave of the hand undid her hurried spellwork, and Thistle left her room wondering if the inn provided breakfast.
Orrig sat at one of the common room’s long benches, hunched over large stacks of paperwork. He was one of a half dozen people awake, and the only one Thistle recognized. She inched towards him, for the first time missing the weight of her bag on her shoulder so her hands would have something to fidget with. The taciturn orc acknowledged her presence with a nod.
“Sit.”
Thistle couldn’t tell if it was an invitation or a command so she treated it as the latter, planting herself in the seat opposite him. Orrig scribbled a few more lines with an oversized quill that still managed to look too small in his massive hands before setting the paper aside and looking at Thistle directly. She could scarcely see his eyes beneath the horned brow his race was known for, but she got the impression he was studying her. The scrutiny made her uncomfortable, and she found it easier to look at the grain of the table than return his gaze.
“Sleep goot?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Thistle said. “You didn’t have to get me a room—“
Orrig cut her off with a wave of the hand. “Is better dis way. Team should stay close. Vill be getting new job soon.”
“Already?” Thistle asked, surprised.
“Is adventure season. Ve take vat ve can get.”
This statement did nothing to lessen Thistle’s confusion. Something that was almost a grimace passed over Orrig’s face, and he scratched his cheek. “Ah, sorry. Is forgetting you is new. Summer busy season for mercenary guild. Monsters hibernate in vinter, people not travel so much, is no vork.”
Suddenly Orrig’s preoccupation with payment made more sense. “And what do you do during the offseason?” Thistle asked.
“Go home. See vife,” Orrig said warmly. He went silent for a moment before letting out a contented sigh. “But dat months away. Now, ve take jobs, get paid. Is simple.”
Orrig glanced surreptitiously around, but the inn itself still seemed half-asleep. The orc reached into a bag set beside him and pulled out a bulging moleskin pouch. He offered it to Thistle and said in a low voice, “For yesterday.”
The weight of the coins felt heavy in her hands. Master Wu made sure they were handsomely rewarded for their efforts, but this…this was too much. Thistle said as much to Orrig.
“Is fair price,” Orrig said. He shuffled through his papers and pulled one of the advertisements that had attracted Thistle to him in the first place. “See here, hiring bonus if keep past one job. You do vant to stay for more jobs, ya?”
“Yes,” Thistle said, her voice small.
“Goot. Also, performance bonus. Brent and Lyra vill get same,” he said as Thistle moved to object. “Some vork more dangerous than others, is my job as boss to take care ov employees.”
He said it solemnly, the same way someone might utter an oath. Thistle remembered reading about Orcish culture, where honor and keeping face were just as important as status. To argue with Orrig over payment would insult him by implying she didn’t think he knew what he was doing.
Besides, all her money was currently lying ruined in a puddle of acid. She needed this.
“Thank you.”
Brent came down soon after, dark circles under his eyes and a surly expression on his face. Even without the Echo haunting his every thought, Thistle guessed he hadn’t slept well. The persistent, niggling voice in the back of her head was quick to tell her that if she had just forfeited her moral outrage for just one moment she might have prevented the professor’s possession to begin with, and by extension Brent’s suffering.
This was ridiculous on several levels, and while she knew that intellectually it was difficult to convince herself it was actually true as Brent sat next to Orrig with a dull thud. He was dressed casually, his sword nowhere to be found. Even without the weight of his armor his shoulders slumped wearily.
“Good morning,” Thistle ventured. Brent grunted in response.
Well, at least she tried.
They did not have to wait in awkward silence for long before Lyra descended to the common room, looking well put-together and not at all like she had battled unholy monsters from the Pits of Hell the night before. She returned Thistle’s timid greeting with a smile—a genuine smile, not a condescending smirk or a polite courtesy.
“As shy as ever, I see,” the elf drawled as she slid next to Thistle, nodding in the general direction of her hood.
“Leave her alone,” Brent snapped.
“Oh, shut up. I’ve not even had a drink yet,” Lyra said. She rolled her eyes to Thistle. “I was just giving you a hard time. I couldn’t care less about the whole ‘mystery mage’ thing.”
Thistle forced herself to relax. It wasn’t that she disbelieved Lyra, but most people did care. “I really am just that shy,” she said. “It’s…it’s easier this way.”
“I totally get it,” Lyra said. Even Orrig glanced up from his paperwork to give her a quizzical look, and Lyra laughed. “Good mages are in demand, right? If people knew your face they’d never leave you alone. Better off anonymous,” she said authoritatively. “And seriously, where are the drinks?”
“No drink until after business,” Orrig said. “Receive new post dis morning.”
“Already?” Brent and Lyra said in unison, and Thistle had to stop herself from giggling at their twin looks of disgust.
“You’d think we earned a day off,” Brent said.
“We haven’t even gotten paid for the last one,” Lyra muttered. She was cut off when Orrig passed her a sack of coins in the same discrete manner he had Thistle. “Holy $#!^. Never mind then. What have you got lined up for us, boss?”
He held out a sheet of paper for their inspection. Lyra and Brent crowded around, leaving Thistle little to see except for the mercenary guild’s official insignia stamped at the top of the page. With a small sigh she leaned back and waited her turn.
“The client’s going to pay for us to travel all the way to the Salt Rock Hills?” Lyra asked. “The guild doesn’t have anyone closer?”
“Dis…different from other posts,” Orrig explained. “Ve replacement for previous party.”
Brent’s scowl deepened. He studied the paper, his mouth moving silently as he read. “What, did they quit before they finished the job?”
“Sounds like a good way to lose your reputation and your license,” Lyra said thoughtfully. She propped her head on one hand and slid the post over to Thistle once Brent was finished. “It doesn’t look too tough.”
Thistle inspected the document carefully, reading each line twice. She blinked, confused, and looked back to Orrig. “Something’s killing winged horses?”
He nodded. “Town go to guild to find out vat. Party go, end up dead. Now, monster back, and more hoses dead. Ve go, ve find, ve stop. Get paid.”
“Is simple,” Brent finished sarcastically. “Do they even know what kind of monster it is?”
“No,” Orrig said.
“And you want us to march out to the Salt Rock Hills to find out,” Lyra said incredulously.
“Ya.”
“And how much are they paying us again?” Lyra said, snatching the post from Thistle’s hands. She let out a low whistle. “Travel expenses included. Wow, they really must be desperate.”
“Town ask for us specifically. Vhy, I do not know,” Orrig said. “I understand ve just came off hard job. I vill give choice: Ve go, or ve find small jobs close to home.”
There was a brief silence as the three remaining members looked at one another for confirmation. Thistle got the impression from Lyra and Brent’s expressions that their employer didn’t often give them a choice.
“If there’s something that can catch a winged horse, then the townspeople are in danger,” Brent began slowly. He raised his head for the first time all morning. “It needs to be stopped.”
Lyra snorted and leaned back in her chair. “If they’re paying we might as well go check it out.”
Three pairs of eyes turned to Thistle, and she shrank down. Dead horses and dead mercenaries were hardly more appealing than Drathmakal summoning, but what choice did she have? There were no moral objections to raise, and, besides, Brent was right: anything fast enough to catch a winged horse was dangerous to the people who lived in the area. She just hoped…
and so the monster goes chasing after monsters. irony that thick deserves to be cut with a sword. hypocrite, coward, greedy
…The moleskin pouch full of blood money burned cold against her side, like ice and fire, and Thistle realized she didn’t know what she was hoping for. At least this way she would have some savings built up the next time she was run out of town. Bowing her head so no one could see the conflict in her eyes, Thistle said what had to be said, and she thought she might hate herself for saying it:
“I’ll go.”