Chapter Text
It was barely noon and the sun was already baking the earth, drying up patches of mud from the previous night’s rainstorm. Basile adjusted the collar of his cloak and wiped his brow. Although he had spent the last six years traveling further south into more tropical regions, he was still a native of the North and found the humidity unbearable — especially after a storm.
Just a few more days, he reminded himself. His mentor, Pythos, hadn’t been exaggerating when he said traveling to Dwarvenshire would take years by foot. Had he been alone, he could have cut his travel time in half. However, he had other people slowing him down.
“Basile, when can we take a break?”
The tiefling glanced behind him. His “younger brother” trailed a few paces back, kicking rocks off the trail into the grass. Ciaran wore a worn green tunic that had a patch stitched into the side. His pants were slightly oversized, stuffed into his boots and tied with a belt at the waist. His snowy hair was hanging into his face, slightly overgrown and in need of a trim. It was clear that the boy was tired from their hike, but it was Basile who felt the ache in his heels, their soul bond transferring all of Ciaran’s ailments over to him.
“We can rest now,” Basile replied as he shrugged off his father’s cloak. He didn’t like taking it off for long, but the fur-lining did nothing to help with the heat. The two of them stepped off the side of the road and found a shaded area to sit under. Ciaran dropped his backpack and flopped onto the ground as Basile laid his cloak as a blanket. He then unbuttoned the collar of his shirt to let in a breeze. It didn’t help much, but it was a start.
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a worn map. After unfolding it and smoothing out the creases, Basile placed his finger over the destroyed city where he first rescued Ciaran. He then followed the trail marked in ink. Small Xs marked the towns they had visited during their travels; all of which were still standing, as Basile had restrained himself from leaving a wake of destruction. He didn’t want to subject Ciaran to such hardships; the boy would learn how unfair the world was in due time.
“How much farther?” Ciaran asked as he mindlessly plucked out blades of grass.
“Probably another day or two.”
“Thank the gods! I am tired of camping. It’s too hot outside.”
Basile couldn’t agree more. Living on the road was difficult, and he was surprised that he and Ciaran were able to manage it for so long. Sure, they stayed in towns along the way, but finding a safe place far from Modelheim would be a welcome change of pace.
With a contented sigh, he folded the map closed and slipped it back into his satchel. He then pulled out a worn, beaten up journal, a quill pen, and a small half-empty bottle of ink — a spontaneous souvenir from the last village they breezed through. Stealing them from the inn’s front desk was the easy part. Writing the letter was going to be the hard part.
He ran his fingers through his hair as he stared at the blank page. It had been years since he last tried to send a message to his brother, Tomas. Despite Pythos’ creed about leaving the past behind, he was kind enough to indulge Basile in the occasional letter to Tomas. Despite the invitation to write back, Tomas never did. Once Basile became responsible for Ciaran, he stopped trying as well, hoping that the lack of response meant his brother’s falcon, Pip, was unable to track him down and not something worse.
I hope he’s well, he thought longingly, wishing he could reunite with Tomas and assure him that he was okay after all the years that passed. Unfortunately, he had burned all the bridges he had to ever return to Modelheim in person, but perhaps a letter would be safe by now. After all, it had been a decade since he fled.
Basile popped off the cork bottle stopper and dipped his pen into the ink, the black liquid streaming up into the metal nib. He glanced over at Ciaran, who was starting to doze off, before returning his focus on his letter.
Don’t overthink it, just write. He pressed the quill to the paper and began, letting his stream of consciousness take over. It was surprising how easily the words came to him, like he had been writing letters to his brother every day for years. It wasn’t until the page was filled that he began doubting himself. He was tempted to crumple the entire paper and start over, but he didn’t want to waste his supplies, so he scratched out any information he felt may be too risky to keep. Once he was satisfied, he read it over once more:
T —
I’m sorry that I haven’t kept my promise. A lot has happened since the last time I wrote to you six years ago. I have limited writing space, so I won’t recall everything that has happened in that time, but I’ll highlight the important parts.
I had to take on a new identity (my third…fourth? I’ve lost count) and I’m no longer apprenticing under Pythos . I’ve left to be on the road to try and find another way to become immortal. I know that you likely don’t approve of this, but I don’t have any other choice. An oracle told me that I would either become powerful enough to doom the world or die a painful death, and oracles are rarely wrong. I already know what you’re thinking. “Everyone dies.” I know that, of course, but I can’t die yet. I have too much left to do. I must clear my name — our name. I need to find out who really killed dad. I need to break this damn curse.
Right, I never told you about the curse. It happened right after I sent my last letter to you. It’s partially the reason why I stopped writing. Pythos We had found an ancient spell that would grant me immortality if I siphoned the mortality of another being into myself . It was an extremely dangerous spell that would certainly kill the patron , but it was worth trying. So, my mentor sent me to a town where he said I would be able to find the proper surrogate. Instead, I found a city of rubble and an orphan boy. I couldn’t bear to leave him behind, but he was too sick and on death’s doorstep. My mentor said it was not an ideal situation, but one we could benefit from.
I hate that I agreed to follow through with the spell, knowing full well it would kill the boy, but I was desperate and afraid. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately on how you look at it, the spell backfired. Instead of granting me immortality, my very life force bonded to him. If he gets hurt, I feel the pain. If he is maimed, I carry the scars. If he were to die, he would survive and I would take his place. A fitting curse for what I was willing to do to him if you ask me.
I tell myself that the reason I stopped writing to you was because I was traveling, or that I was too busy protecting the boy, or that I didn’t have the resources to do so. But the truth is that I was ashamed. I had always promised that I wasn’t a monster, and yet I had tried to do the most evil act. I’m trying to make up for it now, by becoming immortal for the both of us.
Anyways, he knows nothing. He believes I’m his step-brother and tells strangers that I’m an imaginary friend as I continue to travel out of sight. They assume he’s touched in the head, so we’re safe for now. He wants to become an adventurer, so he can grow strong to protect me like how I’ve protected him. I can’t bring myself to tell him no. He has such wild aspirations. He reminds me of you.
I don’t expect you to understand the things I’ve done or to forgive me. I don’t deserve such luxuries, but I do hope that you write me back and let me know you’re okay. Send Pip south. I’ll write to you again when I’m able.
— E
Knowing it wasn’t going to get much better than that, Basile put away his writing utensils and neatly rolled up the letter. He plucked a tall blade of grass and used it to tie it closed. A town like Dwarvenshire should have some sort of courier that could send his message back North.
“Hey, kid.” Basile nudged Ciaran with the toe of his boot. The young elf grumbled at him. “Wake up. It’s about time we get going.”
“Five more minutes,” Ciaran bargained sleepily.
“You know this was going to be a short rest for us. Up and at ‘em.”
With a frustrated grunt, Ciaran sat up and yawned. As he picked up Basile’s cloak and shook off the dirt, the sound of hooves could be heard in the distance. They were thundering down the road and approaching fast. Ciaran perked up immediately.
“Horses! Maybe we can get a ride into town?”
“Perhaps.” The tiefling stretched out his telepathy to eavesdrop on the approaching caravan. They were still too far away to make out the details, but Basile could sense there were many several unique voices.
“How many people are there?” Ciaran asked, noticing his guardian’s concern.
“Too many. It’s best if we stay out of sight and let them pass.”
“Why?”
“You already know why. The less people we run into, the safer we are.”
“But I’m still tired!” the boy whined loudly. “And I know you’re tired. Wouldn’t it be nice to take a ride into town instead of walking?”
“Keep your voice down, ” Basile hissed as he took his cloak from Ciaran and slipped it over his shoulders. He could now see the horse-drawn cart coming around the bend. “We are not going to get on a caravan full of strangers. Now stay hidden.”
Ciaran huffed and crossed his arms, turning away from Basile in protest. The tiefling rolled his eyes and watched the cart come closer. Riding ahead was an elven man riding a light brown horse. He was very tanned for an elf and had unruly dark hair. He wore armor made of animal skins and had a bow strung across his back. A golden sword hung at his waist, peace bound together with red ribbon. Behind him, a black horse pulled a covered wagon. Sitting at the front was a blond man with a distinct handlebar mustache. He was dressed in a simple tunic with a leather coat, and the only truly valuable item on his person was a large brass belt buckle. Although Basile couldn’t see through the canvas canopy, he could now hear the thoughts of the passengers growing louder; some of which were loud, while the others were soft spoken.
As Basile struggled to focus on a single speaker, he failed to notice Ciaran’s own mischievous thoughts. In a flash of impulse, the boy jumped up and ran out into the road. The tiefling gaped and got to his feet, a wave of magic washing over him with ease. He rushed out to grab Ciaran and pull him back into the shadows, but it was too late. The man driving the cart already saw the young elf waving at him and raised his hand to acknowledge him. Basile groaned and stood still, just out of arm’s reach. Ciaran flashed him a glance and a grin.
I’m going to ground you as soon as we get to town, Basile growled in his mind. Ciaran shrugged and bounded over to the cart as it came to a stop.
“Hi there!” he said. “I’m Ciaran. I like your horses.”
“The name’s Delvin,” the merchant said.
“I’m Lorn,” the elven rider added, patting the side of his horse’s neck. “This is Stormageddon. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Thanks! Are you going to Dwarvenshire?”
Delvin nodded, his mustache twitching. “Sure am. Now, what’s a kid like you doing out in the woods?”
“Traveling,” Ciaran said simply. “We’re heading that way, too!”
Basile frowned and stepped closer to Ciaran. Delvin and Lorn looked around in confusion, not noticing the tiefling in the middle of the road.
“We?” Lorn asked.
“Me and my imaginary friend.” At that, Ciaran gestured toward Basile, who rolled his eyes in response.
Lorn and Delvin looked next to Ciaran, and upon seeing nothing, glanced back at each other. The merchant shrugged. “Sure…there should be some room in the back. Hop on and I’ll take you into town.”
“Thanks, Mr. Delvin!” Ciaran said cheerily as he walked around toward the back of the cart. Once he was out of Delvin’s view, he looked back over at Basile and winked. “ See? They didn’t even know you were there!”
Basile watched Ciaran climb into the back of the caravan. Sitting inside were the group of men who had bombarded his thoughts: a brutish human with a burn mark covering half of his face, a dark-skinned gnome covered in tattoos, a completely shaven dwarf wearing priestly robes, and a hunch-backed gnome back covered in a black cloak.
They weren’t the ones I was worried about, Basile thought warily as Ciaran introduced himself. The tiefling waited for Delvin to start driving once more before hopping on himself, hoping the jostling of the road would disguise his movements. He sat down on the edge, his feet dangling off as he watched the road pass quickly beneath them.
If they were lucky, they would arrive in Dwarvenshire by nightfall; but luck had never been on Basile’s side. He hoped Ciaran’s unwavering optimism would turn fate in their favor.
***
The back of the merchant’s cart was incredibly tight, considering it was only meant to transport boxes of supplies and not five grown men and a child. Everyone was cramped, either sitting on boxes or the floor. With every bump in the road, the cart rocked and threatened to knock over any crates that weren’t tied down. Basile gripped the edge of the cart and prayed to Asmodeus that he wouldn’t slip off.
“So, what’s with the eyepatch?” Dwayne, the tattoo covered gnome, asked Ciaran.
“I’ve always worn it,” Ciaran replied as he tore into a piece of jerky Dwayne had provided. Apparently, he was a chef. “Basile said I got hurt when I was really young, but I don’t remember what happened.”
Basile leaned back on his hands, brushing his fingertips against Ciaran’s leg; a gentle warning to not say too much. He had no intention of telling Ciaran how he received his Mark of Asmodeus, and the last thing he needed was for strangers to pry.
Fortunately, the dwarf named changed the subject. Unfortunately, he focused on another sensitive topic. “Basile is your imaginary friend, yes?”
“Yep! He’s been with me forever. He takes care of me.”
H’rathen stroked his nonexistent beard. “Very interesting! I had an imaginary friend when I was your age. The name was Fignoth.”
“What the hell kind of name is Fignoth?” the burned man asked, his armor clanging together as he crossed his arms.
“I’m sorry, what was your name, again?” H’rathen retorted.
“Rhaegar Clegaine of the Commonwealth.”
“That’s a long name. You should have a nickname, like Ray or Reggie,” Ciaran said with a wide grin, earning laughs from the group. Rhaegar reached over to smack H’rathen, who laughed the loudest, and glared at the boy in annoyance. Ciaran ignored him. “Are you all traveling together?”
“Never met these men before today,” H’rathen said boisterously. “I was just traveling through, much like yourself, when good ‘ol Delvin let me hitch a ride.”
“I’m Delvin’s guard,” Rhaegar said. “Hired me back in Ilden Ti to make sure bandits didn’t cause him trouble on the way to Dwarvenshire.”
“Cool! You’re like…a real adventurer!” Ciaran said in awe.
“Damn right!” Rhaegar stretched and flexed his muscles dramatically. “Delvin made sure to hire the best.”
“The best at what? Taking up space?” Dwayne teased, shoving Rhaegar aside. “Besides, you’re not the only one he hired. He’s also paying me to help defend his cart.”
How much? Basile asked Ciaran, who repeated the question aloud to the group.
“10 gold pieces,” Dwayne replied.
“Hell, if he’s willing to pay, I’ll help out, too,” said the quiet gnome in the back corner of the caravan. It was the first time he had spoken, other than introducing himself as Marven.
“With how many stragglers he picked up, he’ll be broke by the time we reach town,” H’rathen commented.
“Nah, I’m sure he has plenty to share. RIGHT, DELVIN?” Rhaegar shouted, cupping his hands over his mouth.
Ciaran laughed and leaned slightly to press against Basile’s. “I like them!”
Glad you’re having fun, but don’t get too attached. We’re not here to make friends.
“Aren’t we going to be staying in Dwarvenshire for a while?” Ciaran asked. “We’re going to have to make friends at some point.”
Basile let out a quiet sigh. He knew Ciaran was right. If they were going to be staying for an extended period of time, the boy was going to have to make connections. It wasn’t fair to keep him isolated in the same way Basile kept himself hidden from the world.
All right. Just be mindful of who you decide to befriend.
“I know. I’m never going to put you in danger,” Ciaran promised, his thoughts heavy with the guilt of knowing he caused Basile pain.
The tiefling pressed his back against Ciaran’s firmly. It’s not your fault.
The cart jerked suddenly to the side, knocking everyone over. Ciaran yelped and fell back, knocking Basile off the edge of the cart and onto the ground. He grunted as he hit the dirt and rolled a few feet away. Coughing, Basile got back to his feet and quickly brushed any dirt off him. The horses were baying and panicking, attempting to flee from an unseen danger. Panicked thoughts bombarded his head, immediately giving him a migraine. He looked around and saw that Lorn was guiding Stormageddon around to the back, drawing his bow at his side. Basile stepped out of the way as he sped past, then barely missed being trampled on by Rhaegar as he jumped out of the caravan.
“What’s going on, Lorn?”
“We’re being ambushed,” the elf replied quickly. “Make yourself useful.”
The fighter drew out his sword, which glistened in the sunlight. “Finally some action!”
Ciaran’s head was peeking out from the cart as Dwayne came up beside him. “Best you stay here, kid. Let the adults handle this!” He then jumped out, followed by Marven.
“I’ll keep ya company,” H’rathen said cheerily, sitting down next to Ciaran and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “I’m not here for payment.”
As the motley crew of adventurers circled the caravan, Delvin struggled to calm his horse. Laughter and shouting came from the surrounding woods. Basile maneuvered himself in front of Ciaran and grabbed his dagger.
A group of goblins emerged from the shade, cackling and shouting in a language Basile didn’t understand. They wore bear-skin skirts and helmets made from the skulls of animals. They held out long spears as they circled in on the caravan.
Before anyone could make a move, an arrow shot out of the forest, bounced off the trunk of a tree, and ricocheted straight through the forehead of a goblin. They crumpled to the ground, blood spurting from its skull. Basile looked out to where the arrow came from and saw a winged man dropping from the canopy. The mystery archer aimed again and fired, striking another goblin in the neck.
Chaos erupted as the goblins charged forward. Dwayne yanked a spear out the hands of one of the goblins, tossing it to the side to begin wrestling them directly. Lorn drew his bow and let an arrow fly, but his horse backed up at that moment, so his arrow struck Rhaegar in the shoulder instead of the goblin that he was attacking.
“Sorry about that, friend,” Lorn shouted as Rhaegar spat curses at him. The brute swung his sword angrily, slashing his blade into the chest of a goblin, easily knocking him down. He then swung around to cut into the side of another goblin charging at him.
A wave of fire cut through a small group of the enemy, scorching them and sending them fleeing. The sudden flames caught everyone’s attention, and everyone looked to see smoke escaping Marven’s mouth.
Finally, someone who draws more attention than me.
“Look out!” Ciaran shouted, grabbing the silver whistle that hung from around his neck. He blew it loudly, the shrill noise making him flinch in pain. Ciaran pointed toward a goblin charging at the cart. Basile lashed out with his dagger as the goblin came too close, slicing their throat open. Blood spurt out from the wound. Basile stepped to the side to avoid getting any on him as the goblin collapsed at his feet.
A triumphant shout from Dwayne signaled their victory as the goblin tribe retreated into the forest, deeming their siege to be too dangerous to follow through. As Rhaegar started cutting off the ears of the goblins to sell in Dwarvenshire, Basile cleaned off his blade on his pants.
“What in Kord’s name was that?” H’rathen asked loudly, catching Basile’s attention. The dwarf was staring at Ciaran’s whistle. Basile looked around and noticed that others were also looking between Ciaran and the corpse in front of him.
Shit…
“What do I say?!” Ciaran thought in a panic.
Basile chewed on his lower lip in thought. Normally, people didn’t witness Ciaran’s “imaginary friend” act out, but it seemed the whistle — which he typically used to signal danger whenever the two were separated —- caught everyone’s attention. Tell him it was me, Basile decided. Trying to explain it any other way will be too difficult.
“Um, that was Basile,” Ciaran said awkwardly as the other adventurers walked up to the cart. “I blow my danger whistle and Basile protects me.”
H’rathen was at a loss for words, but his mind was reeling with questions. Before he could probe further, Delvin came rushing around the back.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, a cut on his cheek from a stray arrow. “Was the merchandise damaged?”
“Nothing was tampered with,” H’rathen assured, distracted for the moment. “I think the others were able to successfully drive the enemies away.”
“Thank goodness. As soon as we get into town, I’ll pay you all handsomely for the help.”
“You don’t have to do that. I wasn’t hired for —”
“Thanks, Mr. Delvin!” Ciaran said happily.
The merchant went back to his horse and the others crowded back into the cart. Basile watched from a distance as Lorn spoke with the raptoran archer, pointing further down the road. The raptoran nodded, gestured toward Lorn’s horse, and then headed back into the woods. Lorn climbed back up onto his horse and trotted to the front of the caravan to lead the way. Basile stepped back onto the caravan as it pulled away, and he saw the raptoran following behind from the shadows.
Although the conversation in the caravan returned to recounting the details of their battle, Basile could hear the echoes of a similar thought repeating in everyone’s mind: “There’s something strange about Ciaran.”
***
It turned out that Dwarvenshire was not only named after its founder, Duarph Dwarfson, but it was also built atop a massive mountain that had been magically carved to resemble that of a dwarf. Leading up the side of the mountain was a winding path with no guardrails to stop a cart from careening off the edge. To help Delvin’s horse manage the incline, everyone agreed to walk the rest of the way except Lorn, who continued to ride on Stormageddon up front. With the woods behind them, the mysterious archer rejoined the group. The raptoran was barefoot — or rather, bare-clawed — and wore only a green tunic, which was almost too short for his tall stature. His mottled brown wings were tucked neatly against his back.
“I’ve never met a bird-man before!” Ciaran said as he walked up behind the raptoran.
That’s rude, Basile chided, but it seemed the archer didn’t take offense. In fact, he looked confused by Ciaran’s comment.
“Bird man?”
Ciaran pointed at the man’s wings. “Yeah, your wings. They look like a bird’s.”
The archer glanced over one shoulder, then over the other, before returning his gaze on the boy. “I don’t see any wings.”
“What?! They’re right there!” Ciaran reached out to pull on his feathers but Basile grabbed his wrist down and scolded him.
From atop Stormageddon, Lorn laughed. “I’ll spare you the headache, Ciaran. Neebs is an elf, just like us.”
“But elves don’t have wings!” Ciaran argued. “Or clawed feet!”
“I don’t have wings, and these are just special shoes,” Neebs countered simply, much to Ciaran’s frustration.
Let it go, Basile advised, narrowing his concentration onto Neeb’s thoughts. He honestly thinks he’s an elf…as impossible as that is.
“That’s crazy,” Ciaran thought with a huff.
Not much crazier than a boy with an imaginary friend.
As Neebs jogged ahead to speak with Rhaegar up front, Lorn let himself fall back. Stormageddon slowed to a lazy walk beside Ciaran.
“Have you ever ridden a horse,” he asked in an attempt to cheer Ciaran up. The boy shook his head. “I’m sure you’re tired after all this walking. Would you like a ride?”
Ciaran immediately perked up with excitement. “Can I?” he asked loudly.
Inside voice, Basile corrected, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple. And I’m not sure…
“Well, I offered, didn’t I?” Lorn responded, oblivious to who Ciaran was actually speaking to.
“Sorry, I was talking to Basile,” Ciaran explained in a rush.
“I see.” Lorn looked to the empty space beside the boy, his eyes unknowingly falling directly on the tiefling. “And what does he think?”
“He’s not sure. I think he’s scared I’ll get hurt.”
The older elf smiled with amusement, believing that Ciaran was projecting his own worries into an imaginary friend; Basile found some relief in that logic. Lorn pulled on the reins to bring Stormageddon to a stop. “Basile has no reason to be nervous. I’ll make sure you won’t fall, and we won’t go faster than a trot. How does that sound?”
Ciaran turned toward Basile and looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes — the gaze he always saved for when he really wanted something and needed his older brother to crack. The tiefling sighed and nodded. Ciaran shouted happily and climbed up onto Stormageddon’s back with Lorn’s help, sitting directly in front of him. Lorn kicked his heels lightly into Stormageddon’s side and led them forward. Basile watched anxiously from a distance.
The rest of the trek up the mountain was relatively easy. By the time they all arrived at the town gate, it was well into the afternoon. Two massive elm trees acted as the posts, while the gate and walls themselves were made of stripped wood and reinforced with iron. The barrier around Dwarvenshire curved with the natural shape of the mountain, and a watchtower loomed over the walls and cast a shadow over the group as they approached.
“Hello, travelers!” A man shouted from above. He was a short, portly dwarf with curly black hair. His beard was impressive, reaching down to his chest and tied at the ends with a golden clasp. The guard wore simple armor and he leaned lazily over the side of the railing. “Welcome to Dwarvenshire. I am Can Tankerous, the town guard. Please state your names and your reasons for visiting.”
Delvin stood up from his seat and bowed. “I am Delvin Moross of the Yi Ti Trading Company. Mr. Dwarfson put in an order for construction supplies and food, and I’m here to drop off his delivery.”
Can Tankerous pulled out a book and flipped through it, nodding to himself. “Yep, I see you right here. Was expecting you to arrive yesterday.”
“There was a delay back in Ilden Ti,” Delvin explained. “Thankfully, I was able to acquire these fine bodyguards who helped ensure Mr. Dwarfson’s order arrived safely.”
“All right, before I let y’all in, I’m gonna need the names of your bodyguards.”
“I am Lorn Thrax,” Lorn began. “And this young boy is —”
“Ciaran Graywing, sir!” Ciaran said excitedly.
Can Tankerous harrumphed. “A bit young to be a bodyguard, don’tcha think?”
“Gotta start ‘em early, that’s what I always say,” Rhaegar interjected. “I am Rhaegar Clegaine of the Commonwealth.”
After Rhaegar went H’rathen Calderfield, Cleric of Kord — the god of thunder and strength, and Dwayne Johnson of Nai’i’u Archipelagos.
“Have you ever heard of the Ebonfire?” Marven called out when it came time to introduce himself.
“Can’t say that I have,” Can Tankerous said, jotting the name down in his book.
“Good. You can call me Marven. Marven Strifelaughter,” the gnome said, adjusting his cloak over his back.
“Fair enough. And how about you?” he said, gesturing to the raptoran.
“My name is Neebs.”
“You got a last name to go with that?”
“Nope, just Neebs.”
Can Tankerous snapped his book shut, and even from a distance, Basile could hear how exasperated the dwarf was. As he turned the large crank, the gates began to slowly open and the group was welcomed into the spacious frontier town.
It was…unimpressive.
Along the simple dirt path were a handful of buildings, some of which were still under construction. The buildings that were finished were simple in design, made of wood with stone foundations, and the most decoration they had were simple, hand-painted signs. Despite being cleared out, there were still large patches of wooded areas that were in the process of being cut down for future homes.
Is this really the place Pythos recommended? Basile wondered with confusion as Delvin paid everyone for their assistance. Pythos. Are you here? he called out, hoping his mentor would respond. However, he was met with silence. Seems that we beat him here. Now we just have to sit still and wait.
Ciaran hopped down off of Stormageddon and thanked Lorn for the ride before jaunting off to Basile to show off a small velvet pouch. “Look! Mr. Delvin paid us for killing that goblin. We’re real adventurers!”
“Glad you had a good time,” Basile said softly, his head still aching after prolonged exposure to internal thoughts.
“Can I go explore?” the boy asked as he handed the pouch to Basile, who began to count the silver pieces.
“Yeah, just stay within earshot. I’m going to see if one of these buildings is an inn.”
“Good idea! I will, too!” Ciaran bounded off toward the more developed part of town, making a beeline toward a brick building. The sign hanging from the awning said “The Phoenix.” Basile could hear live music playing softly through the large, opened windows lining the building. He had a feeling The Phoenix would be a bit out of their price range.
With an additional 30 copper to their name, Basile followed the rest of his impromptu traveling companions into a large, two-storied building called The Three Shepherds. Before he stepped through the front door, a spear of pain ran through his head. The tavern was incredibly rowdy and loud, filled to the brim with people and their thoughts. The tiefling turned away and headed for the building across the street.
The Last Call was…questionable. It was much smaller than its competitors, being only one story tall and made of worn wood. The front door was propped open by a standing sign that read “Menu: Meat, Bread, Ale.” Basile walked inside and let out a deep sigh. There was no music, no patrons, no voices. It was perfect.
With the entire place empty and only the faint thoughts of an employee in a back room, Basile let his invisibility drop. Maintaining the illusion for long periods of time was exhausting even after years of practice, and the migraine he had developed after several hours of unfiltered telepathy drained him further. He walked toward the darkest corner of the dining area and slid into a chair, resting his head in his arms and pulling the hood of his father’s cloak over his eyes. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d be able to sneak in a small nap while Ciaran was roaming the town.
His rest didn’t last for much longer. The soft buzzing of voices started to tickle his brain. He groaned and slid back into invisibility, glancing up to see Lorn and Rhaegar walk in through the door. Not far behind then was Ciaran, who was going on about different animal facts.
“Did you know that a Hippogriff lays eggs, even though it has the back end of a horse? I read that in a book once.”
“That sounds like a load of horse shit,” Rhaegar said, grinning at his own pun.
“You should really watch your language,” Lorn advised calmly. “He is a child, afterall.”
“Who are you, his dad?”
“I don’t have a dad!” Ciaran said too cheerily, catching the other two off guard. The looks on their faces caused Basile to break out into a fit of laughter, and he had to bite his lip and cover his mouth to keep quiet.
Before Lorn and Rhaegar could question Ciaran further, the owner of the tavern came out from the back rooms. She was a heavy-set dwarven woman, with mousy hair pulled into two braids that were pinned in the back. She wore a simple gray dress, and as she walked up to the bar, she wiped her calloused hands on the front of her apron.
“Welcome to The Last Call,” she said gruffly, a slight frown on her face. “My name is Shale. What can I get for you gentleman?”
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Lorn said politely. “I would like to try your stiffest drink.”
The dwarf raised her brow and looked the slightly elf up and down. She barked out a laugh. “Are you sure you can handle it?”
“Certainly,” Lorn replied, ignoring the way Rhaegar was chuckling behind him. Basile could hear the fighter’s skepticism from across the room. “My companion here isn’t the only one who can handle his liquor.”
“Sure thing. And what would you like?” Shale said as she grabbed a tankard.
“I saw that your sign said you served meat. What type do you offer?” Rhaegar asked.
Shale rested a hand on her hip. “The red kind.”
The three patrons glanced between each other quietly, but their thoughts were loud and clear: “That’s unnerving.”
“Ah...just a plate of red meat, then…”
“That’ll be ten copper all together.” The dwarf held out her hand and collected the coins, stuffing them into the pouch at her side and heading into the back. In the meantime, Ciaran excused himself and walked over toward Basile’s table.
“Do you want any meat?” he asked as he took a seat next to his brother. He kicked his feet back and forth idly.
“I’ll pass,” the tiefling said, resting his chin on his hand. “How’d your exploring go?”
“The Phoenix has rooms!” Ciaran said excitedly. “It’s really nice. There’s a big fancy rug when you walk in and a big dining room with a bard! I didn’t get to see the rooms since they were upstairs, but the lady said that each room has a private bathroom and a big bed!”
Basile raised his brow. “Oh yeah? Sounds nice. How much per night?”
Ciaran frowned. “Three gold per night.”
“Hmm, she didn’t fall for your charms, did she?”
The young elf huffed. “No. She must hate kids, cause I did the whole big-eyed, orphan boy act and she didn’t even care.”
Basile shrugged tiredly. “Oh well. We can always camp outside.”
“What about the place across the street?” Ciaran asked, looking out the small window toward The Three Shepherds. “Rhaegar said that he was planning on staying there, along with the others.”
“It’s too loud. I’ll never get any rest.”
Ciaran frowned and stared down at his hands. He toyed with the edge of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I disobeyed you and now you’re hurting.”
His guardian reached over and softly ruffled his hair. “It’s okay. We were going to end up here, anyways. Tagging along with Delvin saved us some time.”
“You’re not upset?”
“No, I’m —” Before Basile could finish his thought, another dwarven man entered the tavern and shouted out a loud and warm welcome to Lorn and Rhaegar, who were standing at the bar. The tiefling groaned. “I’m more annoyed at how loud everyone is.”
“You two must be Lorn and Rhaegar,” the man said. “I’m Duarph Dwarfson, founder of Dwarenshire. Thank you so much for helping out Delvin during his travels.” The mayor was elderly and sported a neatly braided, gray beard that reached his belly. He shook Rhaegar and Lorn’s hands fervently in greeting.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Lorn said, massaging his hand after Duarph released him. “It was the least we could do.”
“Are you enjoying your visit?” Duarph asked as he hopped up onto one of the barstools. The flail hanging at his side knocked loudly against the metal seat. Despite his short stature, he had a large presence in the tavern. “You’ve come to a mighty fine establishment. The Last Call is the cornerstone of Dwarvenshire; after all, a dwarven town must feature a tavern!” He let out a loud belly laugh and slammed his fist on the bar. “Shale gives out the best ales for the best price.”
“You flatter me, Duarph,” Shale said as she arrived from the back, balancing a plate of grilled meat and a bubbling tankard on a tray. She slid Rhaegar his meal and handed Lorn the mug. The elf looked at his drink skeptically, then forced a smile to Shale and took a swig. His face screwed up in disgust for a moment, but he didn’t spit out his drink until Shale looked away to talk to Duarph. Rhaegar grabbed the mug and sniffed the top.
“What the hell is this?” the man scoffed. “You didn’t order this!”
“What was that?” Duarph asked loudly, turning to face them again.
Attempting to save face, Lorn cleared his throat. “It’s quite alright. Shale served me what I asked for, a stiff drink — ”
“No she didn’t,” Rhaegar insisted. “This is a glass of dirty dishwater. He should get his money back.”
The mayor of the town frowned and looked at Shale, who shrugged ambivalently. He then hopped off his barstool and walked up to Rhaegar.
“You shouldn’t be disrespecting the owner like that,” he said gruffly.
“She shouldn’t be serving dirty dishwater!” Rhaegar argued. Lorn reached over to rest a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to diffuse the situation, but Duarph beat him to it and unhooked his flail. In a split second, he whipped the head of the flail around and struck Rhaegar in the stomach. The warrior doubled over and fell to a knee as the wind was knocked out of him.
“Sounds like you should have asked what her stiffest drink was,” Duarph stated.
“Wow! That’s so cool!” Ciaran said, catching all of their attention. He scooted out of his seat and ran over. “I’ve never seen a weapon like that before.”
“Ah, this?” Duarph hooked the flail back onto his belt. “She’s my pride and joy. Been with me ever since I started adventurin’ myself, and she’ll stay with me till the day I die.”
“I wish I had a cool weapon. Then I could be a strong adventurer and protect everyone.”
“Mighty fine aspirations you have, little one! Here, let me help you get started.” Duarph pulled out a bag of coins and handed Ciaran a handful of gold. “Buy yourself somethin’ nice!”
Ciaran counted the gold in awe. “Ten gold! That’s more money than I’ve ever seen in my whole life! Thank you so much!”
Basile’s jaw dropped when he heard the amount. He immediately got to his feet and headed over to Ciaran, silently placing his hand beside the boy’s waist so he could discreetly slip the coins into his brother’s palm.
Meanwhile, Rhaegar grit his teeth and got back to his feet. “Buy a sword and maybe I’ll be able to teach ya how to fight back,” he grunted to Ciaran, all while glaring at the mayor.
Duarph looked back at him with a gleam in his eye. “So long as there’s no killin’, you’re welcome to challenge whoever you like.”
“Then fight me right now! No sneak attacks, no tricks!”
“Gonna have to take a rain check,” the mayor said. “I’m here to make sure Shale got everything she needed from Delvin’s shipment, and then I need to run to The Fang Reserve to meet with Linderal. I’ll come find you when I’m ready.” With that, he hopped over the bar and landed heavily next to Shale. He dusted himself off and headed to the back, the bar owner following behind.
“He’s not that tough,” Rhaegar grumbled. “Probably realized that I’d kick his ass.”
He wasn’t intimidated at all, Basile whispered to Ciaran. In fact, he’s pretty confident that he can beat Rhaegar in hand to hand combat.
“What’s so funny?” Rhaegar asked as Ciaran giggled to himself.
“Basile said that Duarph wasn’t scared of you,” he said cheekily. “He said that Duarph could beat you in hand to hand combat.”
“Oh yeah? You tell Basile to mind his damn business!”
I would love to, believe me, Basile thought to himself.
Lorn patted Rhaegar’s back lightly. “Now, now…no need to threaten the imaginary friend. Just enjoy your freshly cooked meal.”
“Not going to finish your drink?” the warrior asked as Lorn set the mug on the counter.
“Of course not,” Lorn whispered. “It’s dishwater.” He winked and headed for the door, with Ciaran and his invisible friend trailing behind.
***
Night fell over Dwarvenshire, the surrounding forest casting the village in shadows. Basile found himself sitting outside of a neatly pitched tent near the stables. He stared up at the sky, watching as stars began to fade into existence. Soon enough, he’d have a clear view of the galaxy; his father called them the heavens, but years of doubt had ruined that sentiment.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Ciaran wondered as he fed Stormageddon some sugarcubes from Lorn’s pack.
Clear skies tonight. I think we’re finally done with the rain for a while, Basile replied.
Ciaran gave Stormageddon one last pat on the nose before bounding back over to Basile. He stood in front of his older brother, staring down at him. “You look upset.”
I’m fine.
“No you’re not. You’re not happy. Are you mad that we’re not staying at one of the inns? Mr. Dwarfson gave us money so we can afford it now!”
I’d rather save our money for food and supplies. We’ve camped before without trouble.
“Then what’s the matter?”
Basile looked over his shoulder toward the tent, where Lorn had retreated after hammering the final spike into the ground. I’m just not sure if we should be trusting anyone so easily. We just met them, and we know they can be dangerous.
Ciaran crossed his arms and pouted. “Well, I like Lorn, and he offered to let us camp with him.”
For what reason? The tiefling wondered as he pried into Lorn’s mind. The elf’s thoughts didn’t suggest any malicious intent in his invitation, but he doubted there wasn’t some underlying reason for his offer.
“Besides, you’re the one who says we should take advantage of people who fall for my poor orphan act.”
It’s not entirely an act.
“Whatever. If you’re not going to stay in the tent with us, I’m going to give you my bedroll.” Ciaran stepped through the tent flaps and grabbed his backpack. He pulled out their faded sleeping bag and laid it out on the ground beside Basile.
“What are you doing?” Lorn asked curiously, looking up from his leatherbound notebook.
“Basile doesn’t want to sleep in the tent and he needs a full night's rest. I don’t want him sleeping on the dirt,” Ciaran explained.
“Is that so? Is Basile not an elf like yourself?”
The tiefling felt panic coiling in his gut at the question. So that’s why he offered to share his tent. He wants to pick Ciaran’s brain, just like everyone else…
“Of course not, silly,” Ciaran laughed in response to Lorn’s question. “He’s imaginary. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get sleepy.”
Basile let out a sigh. Ciaran was a pro at dodging questions with childish answers, but it didn’t completely relieve his anxiety. Instead, the boy redirected the conversation.
“Is it okay if I sleep on your mat when you’re meditating? Then when it’s my turn, you can sleep!”
Lorn closed his notebook and slipped it back into his satchel. “I think that’s a very smart solution,” he praised, earning a big grin from the boy. “Be sure to tell Basile that I’ll make sure you’re safe and sound.”
“He already knows,” Ciaran explained as he took a seat, knocking his feet together. “Basile hears everything.”
Don’t say too much, Basile warned as he laid down on the bedroll outside. He resisted the urge to unclasp his father’s cloak, not wanting to risk it slipping off and becoming visible to the naked eye. He’d just deal with the clammy weather.
“Your friend sure sounds interesting,” Lorn said. He crossed his legs and leaned back on his hands. “He was the one who attacked that goblin, wasn’t he?”
“Yep!” Ciaran said proudly. “He’s super strong and brave! I want to be like him one day, so I can protect him like how he protects me.”
Lorn’s thoughts crept into Basile’s mind: “There is a chance he is spellcasting intuitively, and his “imaginary friend” is a way to emotionally reconcile with that. But what type of magic is it?” Lorn cocked his head to the side and stared at the slit between the tent flaps. “Has he always been traveling with you?”
“Since forever. He’s the only family I have left,” Ciaran admitted.
“That’s right, you mentioned you didn’t have a father. You don’t have a mother either?”
“Nope. It’s just me and Basile.”
“It must be incredibly difficult to have no parents at such a young age.” Lorn’s pity was deep, rolling into Basile like rumbling thunder. Ciaran was oblivious to how the older elf was thinking, grinning happily and swelling with pride.
“It’s okay, cause I have Basile! He’s my big brother and my best friend!”
There was a moment of silence within the tent, with only the sound of crickets and the occasional rustle of wind in the trees to fill the air. Basile laid with his eyes closed, his mind buzzing with the murmurs of a dozen voices; how strange that everyone’s thoughts seemed to harmonize like a lullaby. He almost didn’t hear Lorn’s final words before drifting away into a dreamless sleep: “If Basile allows it, you have me as well.”