Chapter Text
To Linde, the Frostlands represent her third home. First comes S’warkii’s lush forests, and second comes her companion’s strange yet loving pack. Full of troubled souls yet noble hearts, she’s grown to love them all. It’s why she braves the northern peaks of these lands on their behalf. With kisses upon her forehead, her master - no, her best friend - requested that she lead the group. She takes a huntress’ pride in the task, tail swishing confidently to assure those following her.
Together, they climb to the highest point of Orsterra, to what they hope is one journey’s end.
The group catches on to H’aanit’s movements, blocking the cliffs throughout the trek. She notes Therion’s brief glances and wonders what he’s thinking.
Upon reaching the steps leading toward the city, the group takes cover behind a cliff face. Linde circles around before sitting at H’aanit’s feet.
“What is it, Linde?” She crouches to place her forehead against hers, and they speak without words.
“Truly?” H’aanit expresses surprise. Linde swishes her tail to confirm, nuzzling her face against her best friend.
“I thanken thee.”
Linde turns around, allowing H’aanit to untie the purple ribbon from her tail. Tucking it inside her coat, she gives one last embrace before sending her forth. Linde backs up before leaping onto the cliffs above, climbing higher and following the ledge toward Northreach.
“Linde will scouteth the town from above. Thou must not calleth her by name, but watcheth for signs. When the time cometh, she will appearen.”
“Knowing Darius, the place is probably crawling with his men,” Therion adds. “Best to pair up and keep a low profile.”
“If thou desiren stealth, then I shall joineth thee,” H’aanit volunteers first. Given recent events, no one argues the decision.
“Is there anything else we must know, my friend?” Olberic asks.
Therion peruses his thoughts.
“Just one: don’t kill if you don’t have to.”
Olberic understands, yet his expression prompts further explanation.
“Stealth aside, a lot of the bandits back in Wellspring were kids. They had the same eyes I did, blindly following, wanting to please.” He lets out a sigh. “They deserve better. I know they do.”
Therion’s wisdom resonates with the others, and they unanimously support his wishes.
“Will do,” Alfyn gives a reassuring smile before resting a hand on Tressa’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s check out the shops. See what we can find.”
He passes Therion with a light hug and kind words against his ear.
“We’re here for ya.”
Tressa turns toward him as well, adopting a softer yet confident tone.
“Don’t worry, okay? We got this.”
Therion merely nods as the pair sets off.
“I shall go to the inn, then,” Ophilia volunteers next. “I’ve learned that it’s not only discounts they give women like me.”
“In that case, I will accompany you,” Olberic declares. “One can never be too careful.”
Ophilia agrees, and when the sun rises above the next mountain peak, they offer their blessings and depart for the city.
“Well, that leaves the two of us, Professor,” Primrose winks. “We’ll take the tavern this time. Better work that charm.”
“I prefer observing rather than instigating, but I will do what I must,” Cyrus pulls over the hood of his Frostlands coat. “Pray that I need not set the tavern alight.”
Primrose reminds her companions to hold faith before ascending the stairs, and Cyrus turns to offer a quick “good luck” before following Primrose’s lead.
The sun rises past another peak in their line of sight.
“What sayest thou?” H’aanit inquires.
A thick mist leaves Therion’s mouth as he processes the moment. “We’ll scout the city in whole. See what we find, and if nothing else, we hit the tavern.”
“Thou art sure of thine approach?”
“When haven’t I been?”
H’aanit gives a telling look.
“I know, I know. But this way, no one has to get hurt. I hope.”
When they reach the top of the stairs, H’aanit peers out toward the bridge. A frozen lake glistens beneath, and if not for their purpose here, she would find the sight beautiful. No guard awaits them as they approach the city gates.
They hope together.
Compared to the scent of flora and roasted game, the frigid air of Northreach stifles H’aanit. Old castle walls cage in the wary townsfolk, who avoid eye contact as they go about their business. Heads turn as they pass unlit streets, like prey anticipating the predator. Windows rattle as a woman hastily shuts her door.
“Thou feelest the same dread?”
Therion merely pulls up his scarf.
Near the inn, a forlorn merchant collects his senses in front of them. Thieves, he mutters aloud and grasps handfuls of snow for fallen leaves. The townsfolk give passing stares before shuffling away, never to approach.
H’aanit’s heart twists at the sight. She steps forward to help until Therion holds her arm. He shares her woes.
“Can’t do that now. C’mon.”
Reluctant steps trudge through the snow. H’aanit observes the cliffs, spotting a prowling Linde beyond the castle walls. She skulks about, stares down at snow-laden rooftops, and continues forth.
“Dost nary a guard watcheth from atop the walls?” She eyes an equally suspicious Therion.
“He’s not that stupid,” he murmurs. “Still, watch your back.”
When they reach the crossroads of the city, H’aanit spots a potential target: the city armorer. During travels with her friend Eliza of the Knights Ardante, they exchanged knowledge of traditional and modern weaponry. Even if words halt upon her tongue, she may save herself through the knowledge alone.
“I shall inquiren of the keeper there,” she informs.
“Alone? Talking’s my game if you need the extra hand.”
“I hath learneth much from thee,” she smiles. “‘Tis best we meeten later.”
“Heh, I’ll leave you to it, then,” he mirrors the townsfolk’s hurried steps across the adjacent street.
H’aanit opens the door with too much force - a bad habit of hers. The shop keeper brandishes a blade, cursing with the realization. He sets it beneath the counter, acting as if nothing happened.
“Er, what can I do yer for, traveler?”
Undeterred, she wears a fake smile, hoping the speech can keep up.
“Greetings. I seeketh weaponry for hunting amongst these lands.”
“Huntin’, huh?” he peruses the sparse wares. “Blade? Dagger?”
“I preferen the bow, thanken thee.”
“Sharpshooter, ain’t yer? ‘Fraid we’re lackin’ of the sort”, he returns to the counter. “Normally they keep away from me shop, but them brigands cleared me stock right under me nose. Gotten mighty bold, they ‘ave.”
Feeling words twist upon her tongue, H’aanit resorts to her tried and true method. Removing a modest pouch of leaves from her pocket, she drops it onto the counter. Her face is all business.
“Telleth more of these brigands.”
The keeper gives a skeptical glance, but smirks when he peers into the contents. The mood shifts with his eyes, confirming boarded windows and no prying eyes.
“Listen close, ‘cause I ain’t gonna repeat it.”
H’aanit assesses the scene before leaning close.
“Feels like many moons ago, but outta nowhere, them brigands started swarmin’ the place. First a ragtag group, then a whole lotta gray cloaks. Plunderin’ from townsfolk, travelers - hell, even the guards - for their own gain. Children don’t play in the streets no more, folks run aroun’ in fear, and what guards are left turn a blind eye. Got it so far?”
H’aanit nods, concern brewing within her chest.
“Oh, but that ain’t all.” He retrieves a tattered paper underneath the counter and slides it toward H’aanit.
She faces a crude portrait of Therion - a wanted man with whom involvement would directly oppose “Lord Darius.” H’aanit scoffs at the title, yet realizes the heightened stakes of their mission.
“Them posters are all over town: shops, tavern, yer name it. Not mine. I don’t give a damn about ‘is personal business, but we’re strugglin’ ‘ere. Yer gotta have stones to visit a town run by petty thieves.”
H’aanit’s eyes bore through the poster, and she etches this false lord into her mind.
“I see… and what of this Darius?”
The keeper’s shared contempt quells her anger.
“Never met ‘im, but sounds like the mate’s got a stick up ‘is ass.”
H’aanit smirks at the phrase. She’s learned a lot from Therion.
“Dost thou knoweth of his location?”
“Eh? Why do yer wanna know that?”
She grips the air with a hand. “I may wisheth to putten another.”
It takes a moment, but the shop owner forces back a laugh.
“I like yer already,” he looks around the shop once more before whispering. “Back o’ the town’s been abandoned for some time. It’s yer best bet.”
“I thanken thee,” she nods and prepares to leave the armorer.
“Say, traveler, yer heard about someone slayin’ a godsdamned dragon in these lands? Thought it was a myth, but rumors were spreadin’ fast.”
Chuckling, H’aanit turns around with a charm that would make Primrose shiver.
“Thou hath spoken to her.”
The keeper stares back in awe.
“Thought yer fit the description! Shoulda told me I was speakin’ with a legend!” he crosses his arms in approval, spirit restored from a friendly face. “I got yer back. If ya see that Darius, kick ‘is ass for me, will yer?”
“We shall see,” she waves upon leaving.
H’aanit meets Therion in one of the many dark alleys. She has yet to encounter a single brigand. What sparks her curiosity, however, is the renewed strength in Therion’s eyes.
“Thou hast been somewhere.”
“Talked to an old butler in an old house. I’m also wanted, but what else is new,” he says, nodding toward a neglected road. “Though he did give me a lead.”
“As did the result of my inquiry,” she states, sharing details from her meeting. “Soundeth as if two allies hath joineth our side.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Therion gazes toward the cliffs. “Any sign of Linde?”
H’aanit shakes her head when the castle walls obscure her vision.
“I trusteth her senses. If she hath not alerted us, she deemeth the path safe.”
Therion’s about to respond when the pair hears something shatter nearby. A plume of dust clouds the air before falling upon the snow. Silently, they approach the source. Several thuds against the ground draw them closer until they converge toward a dingy alley.
On H’aanit’s cue, the two emerge from their spots with drawn weapons.
“Whoa, ya got me,” Alfyn raises his hands innocently. Beside him lies evidence proving otherwise: four unconscious gray cloaks lie prone in the dirty snow.
“Where’s Tressa?” Therion asks.
Alfyn gestures nearby, where a drowsy Tressa offers a slight smile.
“Just takin’ a breather,” she sleepily nods.
“Didn’t expect the sleepweed dust to spread that far. She only caught the edge after lurin’ them here, but give her a minute, and she’ll be good to go.” He addresses Tressa with a sheepish look. “Sorry ‘bout that again.”
She waves the apology off.
While H’aanit checks Tressa’s condition, Therion keeps an eye on the streets.
“You the reason for the missing thieves?”
“Not just me. Phili and Olberic were goin’ at it themselves. Even saw Prim leadin’ a poor guy from the tavern. Professor’s on the loose though,” Alfyn conceals the last gray cloak. “Either they’re bad at their jobs, or somethin’s off.”
“Yeah,” Therion crosses his arms. “Linde hasn’t picked up anything, either.”
“Hm,” Alfyn hesitates, but figures that there’s no better moment. “I didn’t wanna bring it up again, but Darius...”
Therion eyes him with suspicion, but they’re not cold. Alfyn lowers his voice to a whisper.
“After what he did to ya, I’ve never wanted to kill another man more in my life, and I already…”
“Hey,” Therion is gentle in tone. “We can talk about that later, but right now, we have to focus.”
“Right,” Alfyn takes a deep breath. “Even back in Wellspring, he left a bad taste in my mouth, leadin’ his team around like he owned ‘em. Maybe we’re not the only ones who see it.”
Therion’s still thinking when Tressa shakes off the last of the sleepweed, rising to her feet. Satisfied, H’aanit returns at his side.
“If ya don’t see us, we’re here helpin’ the townsfolk if things go south. Now go,” Alfyn gives a resolute smile.
The four exchange best wishes, and together, H’aanit and Therion weave between run-down homes toward their destination.
Both of their sources spoke the truth. The snow falls harder, blanketing the ground in pure white. Save for the rustling of bare branches, the silence speaks volumes. Here, they would conclude the journey.
They hear crunches of snow in their direction, and hands raise in defense when the purple cloak meets axe and blade.
“Cyrus,” H’aanit lowers her weapon. Therion follows suits after confirming himself.
Hands raise higher only to remove the hood, and Cyrus lets out a huff. He gestures for them to follow him behind an abandoned home before explaining further.
“This cloak irritates the skin, but more importantly, I did not require it in the first place. I encountered nary a brigand other than the one I accosted.”
“It seemeth our friends hath done their duty,” H’aanit shares Alfyn’s findings with him.
“I concur that they are a rather disorganized bunch. From what I gleaned at the tavern, they feign might when I can see the fear in their eyes. This is not a life they truly wish to live.”
A lorn cathedral sits at the edge of the city, seeking a sacred flame of its own. Wild grass clings to its foundation, but the walls keep them away.
“Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” Therion states dryly.
As the two discuss strategies, H’aanit sneaks away to scout the scene. The front doors remain the only visible entrance, and mindful of her habit, she quietly opens one of them. It creaks for a second, but stops as she slips in through the gap.
The dark atmosphere and dusty air greets her senses. Brushing cobwebs aside, she spots a peculiar handle on the ground. The outline against the wood confirms her suspicions, and she notes her findings upon return.
“Took me a second to notice you’d left,” Therion appears proud. “So?”
“A strange door lieth within the cathedral. I hath nary a doubt that our quarry hideth below.”
Therion hums and glances toward Cyrus. “You ready for this?”
“As I will ever be,” he confirms, relaying the plan to H’aanit. “Once I have lured out the brigands, we shall occupy them here. Do not let them back inside, but do remember our friend’s rule.”
“Thou thinkest I will killeth upon first sight?”
“Well, you have done so before.”
“‘Tis true,” she says. “If thou hast agreed upon it, I shall helpen thee.”
“Your words give me strength,” Cyrus smiles. Removing his cloak, he holds it toward Therion. “Now then, I believe this is in your hands.”
A bit large, but it’ll do. Therion accepts it with a silent thanks.
“Our friends watch over the city as we speak. Let us pray for their success.”
H’aanit takes her position as Cyrus strides forward with an air of nobility.
“Stay safe, you two,” Therion murmurs before moving out of sight.
“O Aelfric, Bringer of the Flame,” Cyrus professes with candor. “I humbly apologize.”
The wind magic swells in his palms, and he sends the gale pounding against the cathedral. Stone walls tremble and the sky rains shards of glass, windows no more.
A minute passes, and gray cloaks flood through the entrance. A portion breaks off toward the city gates, hollering about not dealing with this anymore. The rest encounter an esteemed sorcerer with a penchant for chaos.
As Cyrus prepares a second spell, H’aanit looses an arrow into a brigand’s leg. She braces against the second gale, and heads meet the knob of her axe with a thump. Thieves circle around her, and she provokes them forward.
Two thieves rush toward Cyrus, blades aimed for his neck, when a magical force sweeps him aside. He’s still light on his feet as H’aanit knocks out his assailants.
“Tressa?”
“You know it!” she emerges with an air of confidence. “Saw Prim and Phili guiding the townsfolk when this old man showed me a shortcut. Therion makes friends with butlers?”
“That is not my business,” Cyrus says. “And thank you for your aid.”
“No worries,” Tressa eyes the disarray, preparing her own spell. “So, what’s the plan?”
“As Therion would say - give them hell.”
“Easy enough!” And Tressa releases the gale toward the unfortunate souls.
When H’aanit reaches behind for an arrow, a shield blocks the one aimed for her back. A protective shadow looms over her.
“Just in time,” Olberic announces, beckoning the gray cloak for a challenge. Seeing his stance, the thief quivers in fear before fleeing the premises.
“I passed a shop keeper on the way. He said I would find the ‘dragon slayer’ here?”
They pivot, back-to-back, and said dragon slayer immobilizes a foe with her axe. Olberic follows suit with another.
“I liketh the name.”
Amidst the frenzy, a purple cloak dashes from the shadows into the cathedral - and crashes into a fellow gray cloak.
“Oi, watch it!” a gruff voice sounds.
The gray cloak squeaks, admitting he can’t stick around for this mess any longer.
“If yer goin’ to warn Lord Darius, he’s in a frightful mood!”
“Better than lettin’ some bastard run in without ‘im knowin’! Now stop gawkin’ and go so I never gotta see yer ugly mug again.”
“Y-Yes, sir!” the gray cloak trips over himself on the way out.
Therion descends the stairs with a smirk.
“The hell ya mean they’re bailin’ town!?” Darius presses his hands against the wooden table.
Another gale whips through the ceiling, rattling the cellar walls. Glass bottles shatter on the floor and chairs slide toward walls. The thieves fear for their safety, but Darius glowers.
“What are ya lot standin’ ‘ere for? Go an’ see what’s ‘appenin’!”
“But my lord-” one of the new recruits protests.
“Ya ‘eard what I said.”
The recruit crosses his arms, muttering to who he thinks is himself.
“If Gareth was still ‘ere, he’d-”
The murder in his boss’ eyes shuts him up.
“Don’t.”
A gulp, and Darius sets his mug down hard. Mead sloshes and splashes across the table.
“Get out before I really hurt ya.”
The young recruit wastes no time, hurried steps pattering away, never to return. Two thieves exchange looks behind their boss’ back before exiting.
Darius pushes himself from the table and retreats further into the cellar. He picks the splinters from his palms and broods. Gareth… his right-hand man, slain by a former flame. To be struck down by no petty thief, but the tea leaf himself, is a cruel twist of fate. Why can’t the past just lie down and die?
Said flame’s probably searching for him right now, all cocky and bristling. Sentimental too, the godsdamned fool. No matter how many times he tried to beat it out of him, the fool held onto his worst trait. Such a trait would only lead to more betrayal.
Darius knows better. He always does.
And he knows he’ll choke out the flame for good.