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The Shadowhand has taken a liking to a human.

That’s what the gossip at Vurmas Outpost says, anyway. Entertainment is hard to find when opening a window is a safety hazard and ‘seeing some fresh faces’ is only possible in the context of unearthing yet another adventuring party that has recently perished while trying to brave the Eiselcross wilds without a guide. Endless white mountainscapes dull the mind, fray it thin, and turn it to the only possible alternative source of discovery inside bleak walls—interpersonal drama.

So yes, the Shadowhand has taken a liking to a human. Everyone and anyone with two eyes and the free time to observe anything other than the unchanging snow dunes outside the outpost knows. It’s hard to miss, since the human is, well, there. At least twice a month. Sometimes more.

The first time the human came, it was with a party of several others—some sort of slapdash mercenary group that raised questions and hackles alike. That was right before the Shadowhand had disappeared on a mission into Aeor. It had been strange, and probably steeped in some sort of political controversy, and not altogether interesting to the average soldier.

The second time, however, he had been by himself. Rumor had it he didn’t even arrive as a human. One morning, Thelyss himself simply stepped out of his quarters, scanned the horizon, and began to walk downhill towards one of the illusory spires. He had called two guards to accompany him, but when a dot appeared from behind a snowy outcropping and they raised their crossbows to do their job, he stayed their hands. Instead, he looked ahead intently as the creature bounded closer and closer.

It had been, according to hearsay, a large dog—fluffy and copper colored, with floppy ears and a long tail. It raced through the snow directly towards the most important person at the outpost as if it intended to careen directly into him, and yet the Shadowhand did not move. Neither did he request the creature be shot. No, he simply raised both hands as the canine drew closer and had said with increasing weariness, “Caleb... Caleb, no!”

If you were inclined to believe such unlikely events, the Shadowhand’s command had not been effective whatsoever. And if you were a gullible enough fool to listen to fairytales and nod along, you may even be told that the dog had instead thrown itself bodily at the strongest wizard in the Dynasty and taken him clean off of his feet and into the snowbank.

The rest of the story is, predictably, vague. The two guards who claimed to be witnesses to the altercation refuse to speak further, as if under threat of death.

Nevertheless, the human is, demonstrably, present. He also has copper hair, and a wiry build, though it is somewhat bulked by the coat he wears. He is soft-spoken and moves with unexpectedly deft steps through the compound, but when you meet his eyes they crinkle and he smiles kindly at just about anyone. He speaks a little Undercommon, though his accent is notoriously bad, but what he does not have in linguistic skills he makes up for in his easy going nature. After a while, even the most distrustful drow—those who had scowled at his Zemnian brogue every time he opened his mouth—mellow out and merely scoff at him instead.

He has a charm about him, some would agree. What is most curious, however, is the fact that this charm seems to work on Essek of Den Thelyss. This is nigh on incomprehensible, even when the evidence is right there before their very eyes.

For one thing, the human’s second arrival does not bring with it nearly as much tension as the first, and instead the Shadowhand seems almost relieved to see the Empire representative. Their manner about each other is unexpectedly cordial. A few times, the Shadowhand has even been spotted smiling in response to something the human mutters to him as they sit in the dining hall. For those so isolated from their homeland of Xhorhas, having had little time to keep up with more recent cultural developments, this is the equivalent of witnessing a moorbounder tolerate a spider. They do not know what the pale-skinned one has done to win so much favor, but speculate it must have been something grand. Indeed, if news from the south is to be believed, this individual has somehow been involved in peace talks between the Dynasty and their long-time rival.

Other speculations still involve more complicated social entanglements. Some theorize that the Shadowhand is merely pretending to be friendly in order to get some sort of intel. Others suggest that the human is not a human at all, but a darker deity that has possessed the Shadowhand outright. A few even dare to suppose that perhaps the Shadowhand has simply grown bored of the loneliness of the Eiselcross wilds and ordered himself a professional to warm the bed.

But this theory is often met with boisterous protests.

“What are ya, daft?”

“And that—that is when you know you’ve drunk too much.”

“Who would bring a courtesan up to this wasteland?”

“It’s possible! The bastard’s richer than all of us here combined!”

“There’s not enough gold in the world to lure someone to this hellhole—”

“Yer here, ain’t ya?”

“Shut up! I ain’t beddin’ the blasted Shadowhand for cash! Though it might be warmer than the bunks... Fuck, now I’m considering it. And anyway—a human?”

“See, that’s just the thing! He could pay anyone here to crawl into his damn bed and keep mum about it for the rest of eternity—

“Yeah he could. I’d volunteer as tribute.”

“—but instead he gets a human. Why?”

“Why?”

“He’s got a kink.”

“Or they’re just into each other and this is some romantic star-crossed lovers thing—”

“Oh come off it, you—”

“Now you’re just talking shit—”

“I’m telling you, if you observed for two seconds the way that blue-eyed bastard looks at him, the way they both make eyes at each other when they think no one’s looking—”

These arguments can last late into the night when they get started, yet the outcome is mostly the same. Very few people can actually agree on the human’s reason for being there, and the man himself seems not altogether inclined to disprove any of them. He reacts positively to just about any attention, be it in the form of unsubtle prying or even less subtle breakfasts comprised of eggs and mushrooms, two foods heavily associated with a night of strenuous activity in the Dynasty. He denies nothing, and when asked ‘what is it you do exactly?’ he merely smiles and, in a bashful way, admits that he likes to dabble in ‘a little bit of everything’. This sort of soft interrogation even turns into a game of dare amongst the drow at the outpost as they race each other to find a way to confirm their suspicions without asking flat out. Unofficially dubbed ‘Are They Or Aren’t They’, the rules of this competition merely state that, when questioning the human on anything regarding the Shadowhand, it cannot exceed the bluntness one would typically avoid in southern society.

Frustratingly, the subject of their attention is either well versed in court doublespeak or so blatantly distracted that he doesn’t even realize what is happening. The most daring variant thus far; ‘Are you involved in a romantic relationship with anyone?’ receives a noncommittal and thoughtful, ‘It is complicated, and besides, we have not seen one another in a while. It would not be prudent to mix work with something more personal.’ On the other hand, the question ‘why are you so skinny anyway? You need to get some proper Dynasty meats into you. Or is our homegrown not to your liking?’, which is asked by the wayside, receives a slow and knowing smile as the man replies ‘On the contrary, I find many things from your country fit my tastes exactly, and am not at all opposed to getting my fill of local meat whenever I get the chance.’

Thus the rumor mill keeps spinning, keeps churning the grit, and nothing conclusive comes of it.

Sometimes, the human is at the outpost for several nights, which tips the scales in favor of some of the more outlandish hypotheses. Other times, he visits for only a day and disappears before sunfall. During these visits and the longer ones alike, both parties are mostly preoccupied with talk of supplies and paths. Stray conversations caught by attentive soldiers as the Shadowhand drifts past, accompanied by the crunching of the human’s boots in the ice, reveal that their murmurs are no more exciting than discussing the price of healing items, arcane commissions, and logistics where hiking is concerned. This, in turn, sets a trend on bets towards theirs being strictly a business venture. A few even reason that the Shadowhand is dissatisfied with the price spike of potions from their supplier in Rosohna and is effectively cheating by buying from the enemy.

In summary, there is enough fodder to grow grapes on a frozen grapevine, and for a while, it is plenty to stave off any hunger for further social needs.

Then, almost abruptly, they leave.

One morning, with barely a memo to the second-in-command to keep things running, the Shadowhand and his mysterious human companion walk into the Eiselcross plains like it is nothing, like they are merely taking a stroll, and disappear.

They are not seen again for another month.

⁜

It would be a blatant lie to suggest that morale does not suffer over the course of this month.

For one thing, a series of storms hit the outpost several days after the Shadowhand’s departure, and there is brief chaos among the ranks when a scouting party disappears. The captain leading Vurmas in Thelyss’ stead does her best, and even goes out in the night to search for the missing soldiers—but when they return, it is with one less than expected. Tales speak of a brave sacrifice and a horrific frost worm met out in the wilds, and for a time, the overall mood is morose at best. The captain and the wounded are bundled up and shipped off further south to recuperate, and instead a new face makes his way up to fill the empty position.

The new face, it is said, is a Taskhand who had recently fallen out of favor with a higher-up in Bazzoxan. He is tall for an elf, with pale eyes and a tight braid, and not least of all a sizeable stick up his ass. The latter is not immediately noticed, but a few days into his service when he yells at a private and cracks another’s crossbow in half over his knee, the verdict is clear. Even his name—Myel’kar—becomes salted with bitter sneer on the lips of those in his service. He is a pious man, it is said, devoted to the Luxon, but beyond that the praise runs dry.

All this, however, is tolerable. It is not the first time the outpost has dealt with entitled leadership from the higher political echelons. Eerily enough, Essek Thelyss was a welcome break from their unlucky streak in that regard. Soft-skinned though he was, he proved himself to be uncharacteristically attentive to the needs of those below his station, and although his manner and speech indicated high society, he was in all other matters dubbed by his underlings an ‘oddie but goodie’. It is the promise of his eventual reprise of his position that keeps many sitting tight, even in the face of Myel’kar of Den Dyrr.

And this joyous occasion does not pass them by. On the 34th day after their disappearance, Essek and his mysterious companion return to the outpost early in the morning, harried but alive, and looking not all that much worse for wear.

Their arrival is met with not an insignificant amount of cheer. Guards that first spot them from the perimeter offer to walk them back to the main hall. Others who hear of the news bargain with their friends to abandon their posts and come see it with their own eyes. By the time Thelyss and the human have made it into the dining area, there is a parade at their heels, and at least five hands offering them a warm cup of coffee and a meal.

The Shadowhand is his usual calm and collected self, though he allows himself to be bothered by questions a little more than usual, and freely answers their inquiries about the sorts of monstrosities they encountered. After an hour of this, however, he seems to finally have enough and silences the crowd with a loftily held hand.

“I appreciate the warm welcome,” he says, in his usual quiet way—forcing everyone to be as silent as possible so that they might strain to hear his voice. “But I’m afraid the work that awaits me will only multiply tenfold the longer I ignore it. Please direct all your further questions to Caleb.”

Caleb, who has at that point suffered a significant cut of the interrogations, looks like he is about to argue before reconsidering it. “Ja, okay,” he sighs, looking at the dozen sets of eyes immediately trained on him. “It appears I have been volunteered. Thank you very much for that, my friend.”

If there is the ghost of a smirk on Thelyss’ lips as he stands, no one dares mention it. And once he’s distanced himself, they dive right back into the fray, now turning their demands of a description of ice spider corpses to the pale companion.

The Shadowhand, meanwhile, is released from the attentions of all but few, who watch him make it all the way to the exit when the recently-demoted Myel’kar makes an entrance. It is hard to miss the scowl of the taller drow as he spies the rambunctious conversations at the opposite table, but his eyes are immediately drawn back to the one person he had probably not expected to see again.

“Shadowhand, it is a pleasure to see you brighten up this dark hole,” he says, his voice buttered with Denspeech. “I admit I am surprised. I was not informed of your return.”

“We made it back not an hour ago,” replies Thelyss, and then gives a pause to study the figure before him more intently, no doubt noticing the insignia of his rank pinned to his coat. “I do not believe we are acquainted. I was under the impression I had left Captain Gnarr in charge.”

“Of course,” replies Myel’kar with a charm that has been, up until now, thought to be absent from his repertoire altogether. “But I am afraid that she came up short where leadership was concerned. Men were lost on her watch, and she was dismissed from duty. I came to take over.”

At this, Essek frowns. He, like the few eavesdropping, must remember that Gnarr, a half-drow half-orc with decades of experience under her belt, was among the best of their number and not lacking in loyalty nor courage where her missions were concerned. It must surprise him to hear of such a report, but whether he believes the lies or not is difficult to discern. His tone remains as cordial as anything.

“It appears I have missed much during my absence. Once you have eaten breakfast, I’d appreciate if you came to my office for a full report.”

Myel’kar, the snake, smiles at the words. “Of course, Shadowhand. I’d like nothing more.”

Essek moves past him, giving only a brief glance back before floating, in his typical manner, from the dining hall. His replacement, meanwhile, wipes the presentory grin and scowls towards the gathering of soldiers currently crowded around another new individual.

What happens next enters the Outpost gossip chain almost before it happens. As soon as they hear the footfalls of heavy steel boots behind them, the drow tense and turn to peer over their shoulder at Dyrr’s approach. They know, logically, he no longer has power there, but it is difficult to forget the political sway he holds regardless of station.

His focus, however, is trained on none other than the copper-haired human sat in the midst of them, who continues to speak on the matter of statues and necromantic gems almost too long, after everyone else who has been eagerly egging him on has grown oddly silent.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he looks up and finally meets the eyes of the Taskhand.

“Hallo,” he says, as he has said thousands of times before, to many others at this outpost.

Myel’kar replies in a similarly predictable manner. “What the hell is this?”

He spits the last word, as if simply referring to the sight before him is an offense, but the venom, well aimed as it is, seems to slide off of the human entirely.

“I am Caleb Widogast,” he replies. “I do not believe we’ve met.”

There is another, tense silence while Myel’kar inflates with fury, before something gives him back the use of his vocal cords. Each word hisses through his teeth like hot air escaping an overblown balloon. “What... is Empire scum... doing at the outpost?”

The silence shifts tones as everyone except for Caleb Widogast exchanges meaningful glances full of unspoken coordination. No less than a dozen eyebrows are raised. At least three chins are tilted in a typical ‘are we going to start this?’ fashion. Five more quick jerks of the head convince the overall group that it’s not worth it.

The human, meanwhile, smiles. He smiles in that same, disarming way he always has, and leans back a bit on the bench. “I am... a traveling companion of E—the Shadowhand.”

“A traveling companion,” Myel’kar repeats incredulously. “To the Shadowhand.”

“That is correct,” Caleb confirms. His smile tightens incrementally, and although he is polite as anything, it is difficult to miss the sharpness in his blue eyes. He is not stupid, that much is not a secret to anyone who has spent longer than a few minutes with him. Indeed he couldn’t be, in order to hold Essek Thelyss’ favor. “If you are worried about my presence here, I can assure you I pose no threat. I have a great deal of respect for your country, and have worked closely with the Dynasty on matters of ending the unnecessary bloodshed between our nations.”

Some recognition ignites in Myel’kar’s eyes at that. He is not as far removed from the capital as the rest, and seems aware, at least tangentially, of the political dealings within Rosohna. His gaze becomes more guarded, analytical. The animal within hides behind a veneer to save face. “Ah... The foreigners who had brought intelligence from abroad for the Queen. I’ve heard of you,” he admits. “I suppose that makes more sense. Still... I don’t understand how it is that you have come into the position of traveling companion to the dunamantic prodigy that is Thelyss. Are you suggesting he had so much interest in an outsider?”

There is no mistaking the disdain in his voice. He looks at the human as if he is dirt that was scraped off of a boot, and is only mildly amused by the fact that it started a conversation with him.

“It is true that we have known each other only for a few years,” Widogast replies without breaking character. Whatever he truly feels, it is far better hidden. “But our interests happen to align, and since he was one of the first people we met after our initial contact with the Bright Queen... that may have helped foster our partnership somewhat.”

A knowing, derogatory smirk lights up Myel’kar’s visage once more. The few previous notes of envy at the unexpected connection are gone in the face of an excuse for a closeness he does not think is well deserved. He grabs for this proof of empty obligation like a carp for bread, without a single concern the line that is attached to it.

“Ah, I see now. Yes, I’ve indeed heard that when you were in the Dynasty, Thelyss was specifically assigned to be your handler.”

Caleb blinks in a way that telegraphs innocence, which most certainly means trouble for those who know him better.

“The Shadowhand has handled me quite a bit, ja,” he replies.

A silent ripple of muffled laughter erupts from every Vurmas soldier clustered around Caleb and travels, like a shockwave, right into the former outpost leadership. If the effect were any more physical he may well have stumbled, but instead something better happens, and he turns positively purple with just-barely held-back indignation.

The jab is unmistakable, and also incredibly well-maneuvered. It is not an insult to Myel'kar at all, unless he chooses to admit to the fact that he is vying for a position that Caleb has subtly claimed. This, unfortunately, leaves him cornered. Everyone around him, even those that are not well-versed in political power-play, knows that he has been backed against the wall. His options are limited. He can admit defeat and take the door Caleb has opened for him, surrender his control. Or he can attempt to best the other in a game he hadn’t agreed to play.

In retrospect, it is not a surprise to anyone when he picks the third, lowest option on the rung.

“Is that so,” he says finally, through clenched teeth. “I am afraid I don’t understand. It is, perhaps, the fault of your accent, garbled as it is. Are you suggesting that you are the Shadowhand’s rothe?”

The word that leaves his mouth makes several drow at the table recoil in disgust, and any previous merriment from Caleb’s innuendo withers and rots into scowls. It is not a word they expect Caleb to know the meaning of, uncommon and outdated as it is. Never has a more obvious play on someone’s naivety been presented so shamelessly. A few of the circle even let their incensed anger guide them, and their hands fly to their weapons. Their knees flex as they prepare to rise, but before the fight can even begin, Caleb Widogast cuts through the escalating clanking of armor with a single, light-hearted confirmation.

“If that is how you prefer to think of it, then certainly.”

The newest wave of winces now turns inward. Everyone present is aware that the human has no knowledge of the word, nor its implications, and he is likely making a bargain to assume good intentions. Even if he isn’t—and there is a good chance of it, because even though he speaks not a lick of drow, Caleb Widogast is no idiot—it is clear that he is choosing to cede to the aggressor in order to defuse the situation and avoid further violence.

At his own expense.

Now for a completely different reason, the rage boiling just under the soldiers’ armor burns brighter as they glare at Myel’kar. None dare to intervene and explain what the word means after the fact. The insult has already been dealt. Now there is only damage control.

But the bastard shoves the knife deeper.

“Fascinating,” he says with a poorly concealed sneer. “I did not know Thelyss was in need of such things. But I suppose I can see why he might seek to invest in spoils of war.”

The air in the dining room cools to rival the outside in the span of seconds. Caleb sits in his place as if nothing nefarious is happening, as if this is still merely a conversation between two professionals. He gives no indication that he suspects foul play. The crowd surrounding him fumes silently, unwilling to step out of bounds without his signal.

Dyrr takes this silence for approval to continue, shakes his head, and even gives a chuckle. “This means, I presume, that you are equally unacquainted with Dynasty expectations of those who fulfill such a role.”

“There are many aspects of your country’s etiquette I have not yet learned about,” Caleb admits.

“Then perhaps I can teach you.”

“Taskhand,” says the woman sitting beside Caleb. Her voice is a low warning. “You should take your leave. I believe the Shadowhand is waiting for you to discuss urgent matters that occurred in his absence.”

“I believe that’s none of your business, soldier,” he retorts, tone immediately dipping back into scathing contempt. “And you would do well to know I do not take suggestions. It looks like the Empire interloper isn’t the only one here in need of a lesson in manners. Unless you want to see yourself written up for insubordination?”

Caleb stands so abruptly that even Dyrr steps back, startled as he is by the unexpectedly aggressive motion. He is almost a hand taller than Myel’kar, and the difference in their stature is hard to miss, but Widogast’s face remains perfectly polite and open, as if he had simply decided he was done sitting and had proceeded to continue their conversation on his feet. “I am afraid that is my fault,” he says with an easy smile. “If you must blame someone, blame me. My own Empire fashion must be rubbing off on them.”

Dyrr fumbles to retain control. “I see,” he growls. “In that case, the situation is more dire than I thought. You will need to watch how you behave yourself around them. And they,” he adds, snapping his attention back to the glowering crowd. “Ought to return to their posts. Until the Shadowhand relieves me I am still in charge, and even when I am not, I still outrank you. Unless you want it written on your record that you are slacking off, get back to work.”

And in a huff, he turns on his heel and marches away. The sound of his armor’s metallic din can be heard until he makes his exit, each footfall a tick of dropping pressure on the group barometer.

Slowly but surely, the atmosphere of murderous intent leaks away. The outpost soldiers unclench their fists from the handles of their weapons and instead shuffle off, shaking their heads. It would be a poor idea, of course, to kill the Taskhand there and then, but the urge is difficult to fight. He has already lost one station of power now that Thelyss has returned, and the idea of taking him down another peg is nothing if not tempting.

And yet Caleb Widogast’s cheery reception of the man stops them short of bloodshed. Violence would only spell trouble, and there is no telling how Essek himself would react to such an event. In the best case scenario they would be dismissed from duty, and at worst some level of blame would find its way back to Thelyss, and even to the human himself. Nothing in the Dens is as simple as a fist to the mouth—that’s a big part of the reason they’d come here to escape, and yet now they’re faced with the prospect of having to endure yet another high-brow political brat.

“Don’t take him too seriously,” says an older elf, clapping Caleb on the shoulder as he stands.

But Widogast merely smiles in that demure way of his and shakes his head. There’s a knowing glint in his eye. “Do not worry, friend. I have no intention of it.”

⁜

Whether the human is truly unbothered by Dyrr, or whether he is simply determined to deescalate every situation through strength of will alone is difficult to parse. He talks little of it, and instead goes about his business as if nothing had happened, as if they are simply continuing where they’d left off before the trip into the ruins of Aeor. Essek is swamped with reports and holes himself up in his personal chambers, so Caleb, who comes and goes from these as he pleases, arrives to receive meals on his behalf at the dining tent.

“Tell him not to overdo it,” says the old chef behind the counter as they spoon extra meat into the bowls. “We need him back in working order, not exhausted.”

“I will try my best,” Caleb assures them. “It might be a while before he can fully return to work. There is quite a lot to catch up on.”

“Oh I’m sure. It was a shitshow here without him. But don’t tell him that.”

The man smiles—not wide and showy, but quiet and genuine, full of humor and understanding. “Your secret is safe with me, Angal. Danke.”

He turns, balancing the tray in one hand, and the others part away from him to give him room to maneuver. It seems like an unexciting end to an evening, one they’ve seen countless times before—Caleb will disappear into the Shadowhand’s room, and neither of them will exit until the next morning, as is their fashion (even this once-shocking habit has lost its luster in the repetitive routine)—but at the last moment, fate pivots. The doorway out into the compound opens, and Myel’kar Dyrr strides through, directly into the human’s path.

“Hallo,” says Caleb, pausing his step. The bowls balanced on the tray sway and almost threaten to tip, but at the last moment gravity changes its mind and rights them again. (Many days after the fact, some will claim to have seen the human’s fingers twitch, as if casting a spell, but that is neither here nor there.)

Myel’kar bares his teeth in a manner which could, optimistically, be described as a smile. “And where might you be going?”

“I am bringing the Shadowhand his meal.” Caleb’s response, while light, nevertheless cannot not come across as anything but calculated. Heads turn at the rarely heard of title finding place in the human’s mouth. Though at first they flinched from the idea of an Empire visitor addressing Thelyss as simply ‘Essek’, now the lack of familiarity is a startling beacon of warning. Caleb continues. “He is too busy to come here to eat, so I thought—”

Myel’kar snorts. “You thought he would want to eat the same grub as everyone else? You may be completely unaware of our customs, but surely even you should know that he deserves better? And why are there two servings of stew?”

There’s a pause, which feels somehow louder for the obvious lack of stray voices in the hall. Every functional eye has moved to lock on the encounter.

“Ah,” says Caleb. “That is my serving.”

It is more subtle this time, but the poor imitation of a smile twitches just a bit closer to a grimace. Myel’kar continues on with his borderline friendly tone while his words are anything but. “I do not believe it’s appropriate for a rothe to mix meals with one of the Den’s finest. Are you meaning to insult the Shadowhand?”

The dining hall is so quiet one could hear a pin drop. Caleb Widowgast’s blank, polite expression clouds for a brief instance. It’s almost as if one is hearing a distant peal of thunder. But just as quickly as it arrived, it recedes. “My apologies,” he says smoothly, though there’s not a hint of guilt on his face. “I had no idea.”

“Good thing I stopped you before you could make a fool of yourself,” Myel’kar says. He moves to walk around the other. The moment seems to be coming to an uncomfortable but thankfully anticlimactic end. Then, at the last moment, the drow turns, and in a deceptively clumsy motion his elbow catches Widogast’s arm—the one holding the tray.

This time around gravity gets its due. In a clattering cacophony of dishware, the bowls meet the floor, and their contents arrive at Caleb’s feet.

“Ah,” says Myel’kar, turning around and raising his eyebrows as if he had not orchestrated the entire event. “What a shame.”

Caleb looks down, and then up. His eyes meet the eyes of several others, who are already beginning to rise on his behalf, and, with a subtlety that later leaves this moment up to the trust of the first hand witnesses, he shakes his head.

“Clumsy me,” he says.

Dyrr chuckles darkly. “Indeed,” he echoes. “Clumsy you.”

⁜

Unsurprisingly, the harassment does not stop there.

What Dyrr lacks in decency he makes up for in tenacity. Perhaps if the situation were different his goals would include attempting to win Thelyss’ good favor in order to restore what meager power had been ripped away from him. Finding this impossible, however, he evidently decides that if he cannot flatter his way up, he can insult his way down.

While Essek continues to deal with a backlog of reports and issues from the isolation of his chambers—save for Caleb, who keeps him company and, presumably, keeps him from starving to death by delivering food—Myel’kar hovers around the periphery of their nebulous relationship and does his damned best to snark at the human whenever he gets the chance.

Like a pursuit predator, his approach is slow but untiring. He starts with mild-mannered comments as they pass by each other, and eventually ramps it up to bolder demands, such as that Widogast stop his daily morning walks and fix his hair instead.

“It is unacceptable for even a soldier to leave their hair so unkempt,” he rumbles from a raised platform near a watch spire, which gives him a chance to be taller than the other, if only for a moment.

Caleb gazes back at him and blinks evenly, like a Moorbounder being harassed by a much smaller vermin that it is not at all afraid of. “I did not mean to offend,” he says, as he often does in these confrontations. “I can certainly tie it back if you feel it would be more fair to the other Vurmas servicemembers.”

“Not only,” Myel’kar growls. “But it will be more appropriate for your presentation to the Shadowhand as well. Do you think he appreciates you walking around so disheveled?”

“I do not know,” Caleb admits, with just the promise of a smile on the horizon. “I can only guess at his intentions, since every time I attempt to put it into a braid, he ends up pulling it out for me.”

The choked-off noise Dyrr makes at that revelation cannot be adequately described without deep knowledge of a frost worm’s larynx. He says something else, in between uncomfortable coughing and muttering, but it is barely audible when Caleb hums and continues, as if nothing is amiss.

“Perhaps it is simply preference. Good day, Taskhand.”

And so they go, participating in what can only be assumed to be a strange fusion of a cold war and a spinning dance popular in the Ashkeeper Peaks. Sometimes, Caleb simply allows the other to bark at him, inclines his head, and admits defeat. Sometimes, he talks back. It is never enough to truly end things one way or another, instead prolonging the entire thing to an indefinite degree.

Those observing the drawn-out game of chess can only guess at his intentions. It is mostly assumed that he is, perhaps, unaware of the sort of threat Myel’kar poses. The error in judgement is an understandable one, given the lack of context. Of course, even the lowest soldier on the rung daydreams about giving Dyrr a piece of their mind without consequences, but this aspiration is a tenuous balance on a rope over the River Inferno at best. The fact that Widogast is a visitor, a foreigner in their territory, does grant him some temporary immunity, but surely it cannot last forever.

An escalated fight, if one were to break out, would be messy. For one, Myel’kar’s position in Bazzoxan is not completely unearned, and he is a renowned Echo Knight capable of holding his own. Caleb, meanwhile, looks like he could be bested by a particularly intense pushup. And secondly—there are worse wounds than a knee to the ribs and a set of knuckles to the jaw. Those living in southern high society are constantly inventing new ways to make your life hell, and Den Dyrr is no stranger to underhanded political string-pulling. If Myel’kar truly wanted Caleb Widogast to suffer for his perceived insolence, he could likely make it happen.

There is, of course, the role of Essek Thelyss to consider as well. His own stance on the matter is largely unknown. Though he is presumed to be close to Caleb and possesses more than enough power to end this, he seems to either be unaware of the altercation right under his nose, or does not care. Either option feels unlikely, but the facts are what they are—if he has been informed of what the Taskhand is doing, he takes no action to stop it.

“I reckon Caleb hasn’t told him,” posits one of the inner gossip circle on the third day, after the matter has been reported up the pipes and disseminated to those who are interested in keeping tabs (which is the majority of the outpost). “I figure he wants to deal with it himself.”

“I did not take him for a proud one,” grumbles another.

“S’not pride, though, is it? He’s not running to the Shadowhand, because he wants to keep the stress off his back. Not get him involved. Thinks he’s doin’ him a favor, I bet.”

“The blessed fool. It’ll only get worse.”

“Yeah it will. I saw ‘em again today, over by the cliffside.”

“What happened?”

“Dyrr was tellin’ off Caleb for one thing or another. Didn’t hear too well, wasn’t close enough. Best I can tell it was about hierarchy ‘n all that drivel. Called him ‘rothe’ again.”

A chorus of hissed disapproval echoes around the table. “Aiaiai,” someone groans, and someone else tsks.

“Widogast still don’t know what it means, I take it?”

“I’m tellin you he does, he musta. He’s a big reader, that one. See him reading all the time. He might be Thelyss’ scribe, now that I think of it.”

“A scribe? Come off it.”

“Clever fingers, those scribes have. Many uses for ’em.”

“Ahhh, especially on those cold Eiselcross nights—”

“Shut up, the lot of you! We have to talk to him before this gets out of hand. Caleb doesn’t know what he’s up against with the Taskhand. The day he snaps, that beanstalk is going straight to the infirmary. Gods forbid he decides to try something even worse and get rid of him permanently.”

“Thelyss wouldn’t stand for that—”

“Thelyss doesn’t know it’s happening, does he? It’s up to us, I’m telling you. Without us, Caleb doesn’t stand a damn chance.”

⁜

They make a plan, after a lot of arguing and back and forth. It would be ideal, of course, to go tell Caleb immediately, to stage an intervention, but that is easier said than done. The man is often within Essek’s chambers when not walking the outpost, and no one dares to knock on the door and attempt to lure him out. No, it would be foolish, they think, to try to rush things. So they plan a script, and they make fallback scenarios to distract Myel’kar, and they decide who gets to keep an eye on Caleb until there is a chance to pull him aside and talk some sense into him.

It is not a bad plan, all things considered. Vurmas prides itself on efficiency in the face of hardship and they have worked far more deadly scenarios before. By all accounts, it should go off without a hitch.

Which is, predictably, why everything gets turned on its head at the last moment.

It starts off relatively well. In the morning, Caleb Widogast exits the Shadowhand’s door and heads off towards the canteen, winding his scarf tighter around his neck as he goes. His eyes are far away, focused on something unseen, as if he is distracted with a complex math calculation. Nevertheless, when one of the younger outpost soldiers—a tiefling with pale lilac skin—jogs up to him, he offers her a distracted smile and does not fail to be as polite as always.

“Guten Morgen, Mira,” he says. “Chilly today, isn’t it?”

The tiefling smiles nervously before glancing around and nodding to the others, who are in position already. “Yes it is,” she agrees. “Caleb, if you are not busy, do you have a moment?”

He slows, transmuting his polite look into a mildly concerned one, though there is still a faraway tether on his attention. “Right now? I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry. I meant to get Essek and myself some breakfast, as we had plans—”

“We can get the breakfast, we’ll ask someone to pick it up,” she promises. “I just need you for something.”

He visibly hesitates at that, glancing back towards his original destination a bit desperately, though it’s clear his good will is making the decision difficult. “Is something the matter?” he attempts to ask. “If there is an emergency—”

“No, nothing serious,” she insists, and takes a step back. “We just wanted your opinion on what we had prepared for the Shadowhand.”

Caleb blinks. “Oh?”

“You know him best, you see,” she explains, taking another step back. This time he follows, unable to resist the courtesy of keeping the conversation going. “And we knew how long he was gone, and what stress he must have been under, exploring the ruins of Aeor, so we had planned a bit of a surprise for his return.”

“Oh.” For a moment it seems like Caleb almost winces with some unknown remorse. “That is very kind of you, but...”

“We wanted to get your input,” she continues.

It is working—they are walking away from the dining hall now, back towards the empty tent that they’d cleared for ‘the talk’. The Taskhand is supposed to be busy, distracted by a hubbub in the food line that they planned to grab his attention and keep him stationary.

Everything is perfect—until it isn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Caleb says suddenly. “I hate to do this. But I am afraid that whatever plans you have may not pan out. Essek may soon be leaving.”

Mira freezes and whirls. The script goes completely off the rails. “Wait, what?” she gasps.

At the same time, there is the sound of metallic footsteps, and Myel’kar rounds the corner.

“Taskhand!” Now at a total loss, she looks back in the direction he came from desperately. “I thought there was... something happening at the dining hall?”

“Figure it out yourselves,” Dyrr growls dismissively. “The Shadowhand has sent for me to come to his office. It’s urgent.”

“But,” the tiefling protests, and that is as far as she gets before he whirls on her, teeth bared.

“Enough distractions!” he snarls. “What is it with every single useless nobody in this outpost and getting in my way?”

She bristles, visibly containing a retort. “I merely—”

“You merely annoy me,” he hisses, and stalks past, shoulder-checking her as he goes. He does not even throw Caleb a glance, but it turns out that he does not have to, because this time it is the human who calls out to him.

“I would not do that if I were you.”

Like a spell of ice, the words hit the drow and root him to the spot. He freezes immediately, and only the flattening of his ears gives away the fact that he has heard the other. When he finally begins to turn, the chitinous armor of his shoulderplates grind together.

“...excuse me?” Even his voice is low, cold.

Caleb’s playful demeanor is nowhere to be found. For once the confrontation feels not like an annoyed competition of words, but like a storm, brewing so close you can smell it in the air. “I said,” he repeats, “I would not do that if I were you.”

Myel’kar’s boots scrape the ice loudly as he pivots, eyes hooked into Widogast like harpoons. He says nothing.

“Even while you are no longer the leader of the Outpost, you could treat your subordinates with a little more respect.” The man lowers his chin, but he does not avert his gaze. “If you continue this way, it will not bode well for you.”

A laugh tears its way from Dyrr’s stiff lips. It’s halting, full of incredulity. “It will not... bode well... for me?” he echoes. “You... you are telling me how to behave? Here? In this place?” He laughs again. “Am I dreaming? The rothe is teaching me how I should act with my underlings?”

Caleb maintains whatever eerie quiet has taken him. “I have been told I am good at teaching, that is true,” he admits. “But I only teach if I believe a student has the potential to learn. Do not mistake my intention, Taskhand.” His voice drops an octave. “This is not a lesson. It is a warning.”

The tiefling, standing there stunned, cannot find it in her to speak. Something in her knows there is a different sort of game now, with different rules, but these are no rules she knows. Although her common sense tells her that she should grab Caleb, step before him, and talk the both of them off of the edge, the idea is simultaneously impossible. Caleb, sweet and gentle Caleb—in this moment, he scares her. The way he holds himself, the way his fingers are so loose, flexing just lightly under the sleeves of his coat. His eyes are alight with a sharpness she has never seen in him before.

Whether or not Myel’kar can feel it, she does not know. But he does not stop laughing.

“A warning,” he barks, and strides forward. “A warning to me, to... what... be nicer? To those that I have risen in rank over?” He moves closer again.

Caleb stands his ground.

“You,” Myel’kar hisses. It could be a sneer, or it could be a spiteful noise of simple disgust. “You warn me... about what I ought to do. When you yourself still have not learned your place. You—” he drags in a breath, visibly shaking with rage now that he is up close. “You think yourself worthy of speaking to me, speaking against me, of all things. Well here is a warning for you,” he spits, and leans in. Almost nose to nose with Caleb, who has not moved an inch. “You are no closer to being worth something for having won yourself a place at the foot of the Shadowhand’s bed. You hold no position here simply because he has chosen to fuck you. Whatever pleasure he derives from your body, he can certainly get it without you talking back. In fact, if you are worth his time at all,” he adds with a crook of his head and a vicious grin. “You can learn to give him what he needs without a tongue.”

They say that dunamis permeates many areas of Eiselcross, but especially those closest to Aeor. Chief among its qualities is its effect on time. Most simple soldiers do not understand the complexity of the arcane and all that goes into it, but if there is a chance to experience the effects of slowed down time, it must be now.

Which is to say, that through the power of shock and adrenaline, the tiefling standing just behind Caleb manages to see and focus on several things in rapid succession, even without any magical training.

First, she registers the knife in Myel’kar’s hand. The sun glints off of the silver blade as he draws it out, just as his other hand goes for Caleb’s throat. At the same time, Caleb’s lips part and he lifts his hand—but not to push Myel’kar’s attack away. Instead, his fingers move deftly through the air and he forms arcane runes he had very clearly been holding onto.

There is a pulse of energy, and Myel’kar’s eyes widen while the rest of his body grows stiff. His hand pauses mere inches from Caleb’s throat, and a curse about to jump from his lips stutters to a premature end.

Widogast takes a deep breath... and sighs.

“I see we will have to do this the hard way,” he says. “Unfortunately, you have chosen a very inopportune moment to do this.”

As Dyrr chokes in vain to force some semblance of words through an ineffective mouth, the man before him casts again. This time, the spell manifests not into invisible binds but into a gigantic cat paw. Raw arcane energy surges into being, forming toes, then claws, and just as it coalesces—and the spell on Dyrr breaks for but a moment, loosening the paralysis of Hold Person—Caleb makes a casual flicking motion, sending it directly into the drow in front of him.

To say the Echo Knight is knocked back would be an insult to the amount of physics involved with his trajectory. The wallop is so precise that he is sent back towards the nearest snowbank like a skipping stone across a pond. It takes only a moment before he plows full-force into the powder, and as soon as he reaches his final destination, the paw slams down on top of him again, holding him down.

Mira finally remembers to take a breath just then, and looks, mouth agape, from the Taskhand to the wizard—wizard!—before her.

He does not meet her gaze, and instead begins to meander, almost as an after-thought, to the snowdrift. It takes him a full ten seconds to walk over, and when he does, he deigns to crouch, if only to get himself to eye-level with Myel’kar, who is now upside-down, firmly pressed prone by the spell. Though he is not visibly injured, he looks dazed, and when his eyes finally find Caleb’s, they are wide and confused—and even frightened.

“This part is not a warning,” Widogast tells him, evermore in that calm, quiet manner of his. “This part is a gift. I can tolerate you mistreating me, but I will not stand for your manner where these kind people are concerned. And trust me when I say, it is a good thing that you have had the pleasure of having this experience now, before you arrived at your intended destination. Because I have quite a bit of practice with holding back.” He tilts his head just a bit, and some of his loose hair slips over his eyes, casting dappled shadows over the clear, blue irises. They are sharper now, their intensity burning with the cold fire of a stranger, completely unlike the soft-spoken man from just a few minutes ago. “But I cannot promise you Essek would have been quite so patient.”

Myel’kar swallows hard.

“Also,” Caleb adds, reaching into his component pouch. “Today I am on a tight schedule. So although I would love to stay and chat, I’m afraid my business brings me elsewhere. But I believe it would be good for you to learn your place... by staying here for a little while longer.” And he withdraws his hand, thumb smeared with gold dust. He casts again, an undeniable dunamantic construction of arcane symbols, and presses the component directly into the drow’s armor, smearing it across the exposed chestplate, which stiffens and locks into place.

Myel’kar jerks his body, but it moves no more than a sardine in a tin can. The panic which has taken root in his eyes experiences a rapid growth spurt, the likes of which his emotional maturity could only dream of.

“N...no...” he chokes out. “You can’t...”

“Do not worry,” Caleb tells him, and pats his cheek amiably. “If anyone asks, you can tell them it is all the fault of my terrible Empire manners. I hear cultural difficulties are very tricky to sort out.”

⁜

In the end, Essek and Caleb leave again.

Just like before, their departure is rather sudden, as if there are things happening behind the scenes the rest of the outpost cannot even conceive of. For all their spying and eavesdropping, they are missing some very relevant clues about the reality of whatever the two wizards are up to, on a much grander scale. Caleb smiles and waves to everyone as he leaves, and Essek, hovering magnanimously at his side, surveys the lineup of those who are seeing them off and seems to be pleased to find a certain someone lacking.

That evening, when the outpost is quiet but for the howling wind battering the eastern walls, the usual group of officers sit down around a longer table and read out from the letter left to them by the Shadowhand.

‘I apologize for once again deserting my station with so little prior notice to those who may be most affected by my decisions. Were it simple enough to explain, and safe enough to relay the details for the reasoning behind my actions, I would do so. As it stands, I am afraid I must keep some matters confidential.’

‘Due to the fact that our current excursion will likely be longer than the first, and more perilous, I have decided to be more careful about who I leave in charge. Caleb has advised me to pick from among the best of you, and I therefore feel quite confident that Officer Halga, Annex Tri’sei and Captain Gnarr, whose return transfer I have organized for posthaste, will be up to the task. Those who were erroneously offered the position will be seen back to Bazzoxan, where a trusted associate will deal with his behavior personally.’

‘On that matter, I wanted to make it clear that I was not unaware of what Taskhand Dyrr was doing...’

“I knew it!” someone yells, slamming a fist down onto the table. They are immediately shushed, and the reader clears his throat and keeps going.

‘...however, against my better judgement Caleb had convinced me to let him deal with it in his own way. Had I lacked confidence in his abilities for even a moment, I would have protested the suggestion, but he insisted that underestimating him would not only be a good learning opportunity for the Taskhand, but also extremely good for the morale of the overall outpost. Based on what he relayed to me, his methods were successful, though I must admit my own way of dealing with the issue would have likely been faster. Unfortunately, he was strictly against this and, to use an Empire phrase, my hands were tied.’.

“I don’t know enough about Empire idioms to dispute this,” mutters Mira, blushing a dark violet.

“More importantly,” one of the officers interrupts, “we have our answer, don’t we? Thelyss knew all along. He let Caleb deal with it.”

A few people snort into their fists. “Well, deal with it he did.”

“And that’s not the only thing we know,” adds Halga with a meaningful clearing of the throat. “If we’re going to be reading into idioms, we may as well read all the way. According to this, the Shadowhand wanted to take the more ruthless option, and Caleb... stopped him. You know what that means.” She raises her eyebrows meaningfully, and glances about at the others as realization dawns on them, one by one.

There is an old expression in the Dynasty which can be crudely translated into Common as ‘the one that stays the hand’. It is a newer drow phrase, one that came about with the advent of the Luxon. For although Leylas Kryn did indeed bring their people out from beneath Ghor Dranas and into the light, she was not successful because she was quick to forgive.

But then the Bright Queen found someone, a partner that transcended lives, someone who would reach for her own hand, quick to judge and call for punishment, and soften its blow. The application, over the years, has evolved into a more colloquial, romantic turn of phrase; a way to refer to a lifelong partner who inspires not only the burning urge to defend with violence, but also the will to choose kindness when possible.

Amid this stunned dawning of the probable truth, a single gruff voice calls out—not from the table, but from behind the counter. Angal, the orcish line cook, slams down a tray of extra tubers and smirks with all his crooked teeth.

“What did I tell you? Pay up.”

There’s groans of disbelief, protests, but a bet is a bet. Slowly, but surely, the coin starts rolling, stacking up. The meal continues. The fires burn, and the gossip mill keeps on turning.

Rumor has it the Shadowhand has taken a liking to a human.

Rumor has it, the two have gone somewhere deep within the arcane ruins of the mysterious city of Aeor not to explore—but to elope.

That’s what the gossip at Vurmas Outpost says, anyway.