Chapter Text
T —
It has been around three months since we first arrived in town, and there are many things that I am uncertain about.
I’m not sure how much longer I will travel with these new allies I have made. Yes, they have been invaluable in protecting myself and our youngest brother in times of trouble. However, they also seem to be a target for danger. We were able to reclaim the dungeon within the mountain from the slaads, but there is still a threat looming. One of my traveling companions has a bounty on his head. We suspect his hunters will show their faces soon and we must prepare. There’s an ancient relic that may aid us, but our self-proclaimed leader is still trying to decipher the map we found. Hopefully he figures it out soon—how difficult can it be to read a map? All this to say, once we defeat the oncoming dangers, I may retire from this spontaneous adventuring gig and lay low for a while.
I guess not everything is doom and gloom here. The “Fan Club” for our “leader” is bringing in some extra money, although not as much as pillaging a dungeon. Our brother has started his part-time job at the general store to help us earn more, but we’re slowly running out even with my frugal tendencies. I’m also still in debt to the merchant. Okay, so maybe I can’t quite shake off the doom and gloom. In the past, I would have simply disappeared without a trace, but my mentor told me to stay put so I am stuck here waiting until he arrives. Besides, the merchant sacrificed a leg to help me find a way to become immortal. I can’t possibly leave without repaying him. That is another thing I am uncertain about. Each day I grow more anxious. The longer I stay still, the stronger it grows.
Worst of all, I don’t know if you’re receiving my letters. I have requested that the merchant’s animal messengers bury these memoirs up in the knot of the oak tree outside our home, so only you will find them. Do you remember? It was where you always used to put your flag. I would pretend I didn’t know, allowing you time to scurry around the temple to find mine.
Are you still living at home, with mom and J? Are you still alive? That thought terrifies me. How am I to return home and clear my name if my sole supporter is gone?
Please send me a sign.
— E
Basile sighed and tapped the tip of his quill pen on the table, dotting the wood with ink. He could see the paranoia seeping into his words on the page, but he couldn’t bother himself to re-write it or scratch things out. Although he didn’t feel comfortable sharing details, it wasn’t fair to make Tomas read vague accounts of his experiences. He deserved to know that his fugitive brother was still human—-or as close to human as he could be.
Basile set down his supplies and rested his head in his hands. His humanity was the one thing he never spoke about. Not by mouth, telepathy, or in ink. With every passing moment, he could feel his infernal bloodline growing stronger like the oracle had warned all those years ago. His telepathy, which once used to only stretch for a few yards, could now cover half of the town. The magic in his veins came to him more naturally and he was able to summon his fell flight, invisibility, and eldritch fire without hesitation; and as much as he feared what this newfound strength meant, he couldn’t help but revel in it.
The biggest downside is that he was starting to develop other…traits. The most obvious was that his horns were growing longer, curling back slightly at the ends like meat hooks, and he worried that one day the hood of his cloak would no longer be able to conceal them. His canines were also growing sharper, which he discovered when he accidentally bit his lip while eating and pierced clean through. Basile ran his tongue over his teeth, frowning at how it felt.
“ Basile! Hurry!”
The tiefling jerked up as Ciaran’s voice rang in his head. What is it? What’s wrong?
“Marven is about to beat me at Rock-Paper-Scissors. I need you to read his mind and tell me what he’s going to do next.”
Basile groaned, rubbing his temples with annoyance. I thought you were in trouble.
“I am in trouble. He’s going to eat the last cookie if I don’t win!”
I’m sure you’ve had more than eno–AGH FUCK! He clutched his hand as he felt Ciaran slam his wrist down onto the table, sending a shockwave of pain up his arm. He cursed under his breath as his brother took advantage of the bond that made Basile a surrogate for his pain. Not wanting to bruise his wrist any further, he stretched out his thoughts to the Three Shepherds where most of the Associates were spending their afternoon. He parsed out the noise in the crowded tavern to focus on the soft-spoken dragon-gnome that sat across from Ciaran. Marven was always a difficult one to read. Basile furrowed his brow in concentration. He’s throwing paper next. If you tie, he plans to throw paper again to throw you off.
“Thank you! You’re the best!” Ciaran replied. Shortly after, he heard Marven curse in his head as Ciaran won the last cookie “fair and square.”
Basile took off his glove and massaged his wrist, checking for any damage. The area was slightly red from the impact, but not bruised. His eyes were drawn to mark on his palm and he rubbed his thumb along the symbol of Asmodeus: God of indulgence, oppression, and power. Basile knew that the Devil King wasn’t his true patron—his mentor, Pythos, refused to tell him who that was, saying it was better if he didn’t know. The mark that was tattooed onto his skin was meant to disguise the truth, but it also served as a reminder of the one god who bothered to answer him when he was being dragged away to his execution.
“ Basile, come join us,” Ciaran pleaded, his thoughts whining. “Everyone misses you.”
I doubt that. Basile slipped his glove back on and rolled up his letter to Tomas. He tucked it into his satchel, along with his writing supplies, and slung it across his body. How busy is it today?
“Super busy! There are so many new people here!”
Great, just what I need. Basile sighed and leaned back in his chair to survey the room around him. The Church of Neebs—aka the unofficial home base for the Associates—was a quiet haven on the outskirts of Dwarvenshire. After securing a plot of land on “the hairline” of the city, which was built upon a mountain carved to look like a giant dwarf, Neebs and Lorn had set up the ship they claimed from the Astral Sea. It needed some minor renovations after their battle against the Githyanki pirates, primarily to scrub away the blood stains and repair the burn marks from Marven’s fire breath. Outside of that, it was a perfect place for Basile to escape, at least for a short while.
“Basile, come on!”
I’m coming, I’m coming. He reached into himself toward his magic, which lay dormant and waiting. It rushed through his veins, making his skin tingle as the cool veil of invisibility covered him like a shroud. Sitting deeper in his chest was a darkness that he tried not to tap into too often, lest it come rushing out like a river breaking through a dam. The invocation washed over his back and spread out to create inky black wings only he could see. He left the cargo hold of the ship and climbed up onto the deck, feeling the midday sun hit his face. Although cooler than it was when he first arrived, the weather in Dwarvenshire was still warm even in the midst of autumn; he doubted snow would even fall on the southern town once winter was in full swing.
Basile secured the hood over his head and jumped off the edge of the bow of the ship, his infernal wings catching the air. He was much more comfortable with flying now and no longer feared that his invocation would fail mid-flight. As he glided into town, he could see the new buildings under construction, including Rhaegar’s home on the “shoulder” of Dwarvenshire, the upgrades to the Three Shepherds, and an official building for the Neebs Fan Club—which was now being run by a woman with frizzy brown hair and large, round glasses named Jennifer Forlan.
Turns out, the Neebs Fan Club was a good investment. As word of Neebs’ exploits spread, the club led to additional tourism into town and plenty of extra income. The Associates charged one gold for a meet and greet with Neebs, two gold for an autograph, and five gold for a custom portrait drawing from Lorn. Unfortunately, more tourism meant more visitors, which meant more voices in his head and more chances for someone to recognize him. Basile kept his distance from the club; in fact, Dwayne was the only one who really hung around, trying to bask in the limelight.
Basile circled around the Three Shepherds briefly, gauging the noise levels before landing. Even from twenty feet in the air, his mind was buzzing with a cacophony of voices. Tourism is a good thing, he tried to remind himself as he lowered himself to the ground, landing lightly to not disturb the dirt. He released his hold on his invocation and felt his spectral wings fade away. Lorn stood on the front porch, seemingly waiting for his arrival.
“Welcome to the party,” the elf said with a laid-back smile.
You’re getting too good at noticing my presence, Basile commented as he walked up the steps and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder—a rare gesture from the tiefling.
“It’s not so hard when you know what to look for.” Lorn opened up the door and let Basile step inside before following behind him. As he expected, the tavern was bustling. All of the tables were filled, forcing some patrons to stand in groups throughout the building. Lorn and Basile made their way over to their usual table, just barely navigating through the crowd without bumping into anyone. Basile’s temples immediately began to ache the deeper he went.
“Lorn’s back!” Rhaegar said as he raised a mug of ale into the air. “Which means Basile finally made it.” He slammed the mug back onto the table and slid it down toward the back corner where the tiefling usually hid away. “This one’s on me.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t drink,” Basile said, feeling relatively comfortable speaking up when the tavern was busy. He looked around briefly to note that one member of the Associates was missing from the table. “Where’s Ciaran?”
“He’s over there,” Dwayne said, gesturing toward a newly-installed section of the tavern that featured private booths.
“And no one thought to stay with him?” Basile snapped with annoyance.
“He’s within earshot—” Loud cheers erupted as two men began to arm wrestle at the bar. The gnome shrugged his shoulders. “Well, he still has his whistle, doesn’t he? We’ll be able to help if anyone starts to bother him.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” With a huff, Basile pushed past Lorn and made his way to the private booths, looking for his troublemaking brother. He eventually found him sitting at a table, toying with a puzzle box. Across from him with a halfling man with a mess of dark curly hair. His clothes indicated wealth: a fancy, sleeveless tabard with a long sleeve shirt underneath; a belt with a large, gold buckle in the center; a velvet cloak with an ornate brooch that shimmered with magic. However, the tell-tale hook in his nose and scar on his cheek made Basile suspect that this man was no stranger to trouble.
Ciaran, what are you doing? Who is this man? Basile thought as he sidled up next to Ciaran, eyeing down the halfling. He tried to slip into his thoughts, but found himself hitting a mental wall. Only people with something to hide go as far as protecting their mind.
“His name is Regis. He says he plays games for a living and he’s looking for someone who is good at puzzles,” Ciaran replied as he fiddled with the toy. “I told him I’m good with puzzles! Traps, too!”
We don’t associate with gamblers unless we know we can win.
With a soft click, Ciaran unlocked the hidden compartment and retrieved the small ball that was locked inside. He ginned and handed Regis the toy. “We can.”
Basile watched Regis’ face closely, relying on the smallest of movements to get an idea of what he was thinking. The slight quirk of the brow and a twitch in his lips. He was impressed.
“Not bad, kiddo,” Regis said in a smooth tone. He reset the puzzle and slid it into the inner pocket of his cloak. “Though I didn’t doubt your talent, not even for a second. I can spot someone with a knack for lock-picking from a mile away.”
“Thank you! I’ve had a lot of practice with adventuring,” Ciaran said happily. He reached for the glass in front of him, but Basile tapped the back of his hand. “I know it’s not a fruit punch,” Ciaran assured. “It smells bad.” He took the glass and set it off to the side, politely declining the drink.
“Say, how do you feel about earning a little bit of money?” Regis asked quickly, leaning back in his seat.
“I already have a job at the general store,” Ciaran explained, but Regis merely let out a haughty laugh. He reached into another pocket of his cloak and pulled out a piece of platinum. He spun it between his fingers, showing it off briefly before slipping it back in its pocket. Basile disliked how quickly the halfling spoke and moved.
“I’m sure they’re not paying ya as good as I’m willing to,” the gambler said with a smirk. “So, interested in hearing more about this lil’ job I have for ya?”
Careful, Ciaran. I don’t trust him.
Ciaran nodded and Regis smiled widely. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on his knuckles. “All you gotta do is pick a lock.”
What’s the catch? Basile wondered, with Ciaran parroting his thoughts aloud for Regis.
“No catch, unless you get caught,” Regis joked with a wink. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Fang Reserve.”
The young elf nodded excitedly. “We’re members!”
“Even better! Means you’ll be able to get in without any trouble,” Regis said in a low whisper. There was a change in his demeanor, so slight that Basile wasn’t sure Ciaran noticed. The jovial guise was lifted to reveal a con-man such as themselves. “There’s a chest located in Alveron’s office. All you gotta do is unlock it and walk away.”
“You don’t need me to steal whatever’s inside?” Ciaran asked skeptically.
Regis placed a hand over his heart and tutted under his breath. “Theft is a crime. I’m not a thief, and I’d never ask a child like yourself to do such a thing for me.”
I’m sure he has someone else to do his dirty work for him, Basile thought with a sneer. No wonder he disliked Regis. He reminded him of Krause—dragging others through the mud just so he could walk over them and keep his boots clean.
“I dunno…I like the Fang Reserve, and it seems like a lot of trouble for one piece of platinum,” the boy said warily.
“How does 500 platinum sound?”
Basile felt his heart stop for a moment at the price. That was the same as a sack of 5,000 gold. Ciaran sat up straighter, not fully understanding just how much was being offered, but knowing 500 was a lot more than 1.
“So, what do ya say?” Regis held out his hand toward Ciaran. The boy hesitated, waiting for Basile’s direction.
A cunning grin spread across the tiefling’s face. We accept.
Surprised by his brother’s decision, Ciaran took Regis’ hand and shook it. He gave him a big, naive grin. “Well, a kid like me can’t say no to that! You have a deal, Mr. Regis!”
“Excellent! I’m sure you’re going to do great. No rush, either. Just meet me back here when you’ve done the job and the prize is yours.”
With the deal set in stone, Ciaran slid out of the booth and skipped back toward the Associates with Basile close behind. “What’s your plan?”
Not here. We’ll discuss how we’ll complete this job once we’re alone, Basile said, not wanting to risk the privacy of his thoughts. For now, let’s just keep this between us and—
“The Associates!” a man called out loudly from behind them, startling Basile. The tiefling turned and found himself face to face with a dragon.
Basile grabbed Ciaran and yanked him out of the way, not caring if anyone saw as the green dragon walked briskly with two others of his kind. Basile forgot how to breathe as the silver dragon’s maw widened to reveal glittering teeth. Meanwhile, the copper dragon’s gaze swept over the room and Basile feared he saw right through his invisibility.
“Whoa…and I thought Marven looked like a dragon,” Ciaran whispered in awe as the three approached the Associates table. Basile let out a breath and released his tight grip on Ciaran as he finally registered that dragons hadn’t casually invaded Dwarvenshire. Rather, the three men were dragonborn—descendants of dragons, but not nearly as deadly. Even still, Basile was terrified of their presence.
“Greetings! I am Ameryck, and these are my brothers, Lejick and Toxil,” the green dragonborn said as he bowed his head. He had a strange accent that Basile couldn’t quite place, but it certainly wasn’t northern.
“Please do not mind Lejick. He is unable to speak, but we will be able to translate for him,” Toxil, the copper dragon added. At that, Lejick let out a wheezing hiss. “He is very excited to meet you all.”
“You see, we have heard of your success in conquering Goblin Peak and knew we had to come to Dwarvenshire for the chance to meet you in the flesh,” Ameryck explained.
“Oh, so you’ve heard of The Associates featuring Dwayne, the Rock Gnome, Johnson,” Dwayne said as he carried a tray of food to the table. He waggled his eyebrows for emphasis since his hands were full.
“Ah, we have heard of the first part,” Toxil said awkwardly. “The second part about the gnome is new to us.”
With Dwayne crestfallen, Neebs got to his feet and shook Ameryck’s hand. “The pleasure is ours. Please, have a seat and join us. Dwayne is an excellent cook and we have more than enough to share.”
“Not enough for three extra mouths,” Maven reminded Neebs.
“We’ll have plenty if you’re able to show any restraint,” the raptoran countered, making the gnome glare at him with annoyance.
As the dragonborn brothers sat down, Toxil looked around curiously. “We’ve heard that you have a young child that travels with you. Is that not correct?”
“Oh, that’s me!” Ciaran said as he pulled away from Basile and ran up to them. The tiefling scrambled to catch up, but froze once more as the three dragonborn turned to face Ciaran. Basile could now see that Ameryck wore a full set of freshly polished armor which bore the symbol of Pelor, God of the Sun, on the breastplate. To his left was Toxil, whose copper scales were tinged with turquoise oxidation. Of the three, he wore the finest robes and radiated with magic. The last brother, Legick, was dressed in fur-lined armor similar to Alkaid’s. He was covered in pale scars and a mohawk-like crest atop his head. When he smiled, he opened his mouth to reveal that he lacked a tongue.
“My, you are quite small,” Toxil said with a friendly laugh. “But the smallest are often the mightiest.”
“I am pretty mighty!” Ciaran said proudly as he put his hands on his waist.
“Come on over here, Ciaran,” Rhaegar said as he patted the small space on the bench between himself and Alkaid. “You can sit here, though not sure where Ba—”
QUIET! Basile shouted in a panic, his voice causing all the Associates to flinch.
“Ba—aklava!” Dwayne shouted, his voice wavering slightly. “That’s right, thank you for the reminder, Rhaegar! How could I forget about the baklava? Let me check to see if we have any!” The gnome quickly finished serving the table and rushed to the back of the kitchen. Basile silently thanked him for the save as he settled against the wall nearby Ciaran and Rhaegar.
“So, I’m sure you’d like to hear all about our adventures,” Neebs said, leading the conversation in a different direction. “After all, some details were lost by word of mouth.”
“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind,” Ameryck said eagerly. “My brothers and I are new to adventuring and we would love to know how you defeated all of the beasts within Goblin Peak.”
“Oh, if I may?” Kass said as he swung the ukulele from behind his back. The young raptoran began to strum the instrument, singing the tales of their adventures. Dwayne soon returned from the kitchen—sans baklava—and joined in, drumming his palms on the table. The two of them recalled each floor of the Tinkerer’s lair and the perils they faced, how each of them rose up to strike a killing blow, or how they saved an ally from certain death. Their song ended with applause from the dragonborn brothers and some other patrons who had tuned in to listen. The two performers bowed, with Kass a bit more bashful than his singing partner.
With the tale over, H’rathen blessed their meal and everyone dug in. Basile watched with his arms crossed over his stomach to try and quiet the grumblings; he’d eat later when they were alone. The tongue-less dragonborn let out a throaty trill that made Basile’s skin crawl, and Toxil laughed. “Lejick thinks this food is magnificent! Much better than the swill we had back home.”
“Why, thank you!” Dwayne said with a swell of pride. “When I left home, I made a vow to make a name for myself, either through sword or spatula. I think I’m doing a bang-up job on both fronts.”
“But you don’t fight with a sword,” Ciaran noted.
“It’s a metaphor,” Kass explained.
“What’s a metaphor?”
As Kass began explaining the differences between literary devices, Ameryck turned toward the other Associates. “It is incredible the things you’ve done to help these people. My brothers and I hope that we, too, are able to do good for others.”
At that, Basile felt the mood shift. He noticed how Toxil’s eyes dropped down to his hands, and Lejick stopped eating for a moment. The tiefling cautiously pried into their thoughts, daring to manage all three of them at once. At first, he heard whispers of screaming and begging. Then he saw blurry visions of shaded forests covered in a thick, green smog. Lastly were the vivid memories of the dragonborn brothers in bloodstained armor standing among shackled slaves, beaten down into submission; in the shadows of the trees, the glowing eyes of a green dragon watched. Basile let out a shuddered gasp and released his focus on them, instead anchoring his mind into Lorn’s. They serve a green dragon.
The quick twitch of the brow was the only hint that Lorn heard Basile. The elf leaned forward slightly toward Ameryck. “I hope I’m not coming across too strong, but I get the feeling that you and your brothers have gone through some…hardships.”
Ameryck nodded and let out a weak laugh. “I see we are still easy to read.”
“I certainly won’t ask you to elaborate, but know that none of us are unscathed by our past. We certainly wouldn’t judge you.”
Depends, Basile told him. People who work for dragons can’t be trusted.
“You sound certain about that,” Lorn countered. Basile refused to elaborate further.
Unaware of the multiple conversations happening, Ameryck chugged the rest of his ale and set the mug onto the table. “I won’t burden you all with the details, but we were unfortunate enough to be enlisted as mercenaries for Sethricar the Poisoned Tongue.”
“That sure as hell sounds like a dragon’s name,” Rhaegar whispered not so subtly to Marven. The dragon-gnome nodded in quiet agreement.
“You’d be correct,” Toxil said bitterly. Magic sparked in the sorcerer’s palms and he clenched his fists with anger. “He was a conniving menace who forced us all into worshiping him. Made us do the nastiest of things in his name.”
“Only Lejick was brave enough to speak out against him,” Ameryck explained, glancing toward his brother. The mute dragonborn growled deeply, ice crystallizing on his teeth. “You can guess how the Poisoned Tongue made sure that never happened again.”
The Associates winced at the thought, which Basile begrudgingly saw in his mind’s eye. It made him think of how quickly the people of Modelheim were willing to throw an innocent child into Ivuram’s maw. Lejick was lucky only his tongue was seized.
“I hope you three being here means you were able to escape from his tyranny,” Lorn said gently, hoping to lighten the mood. It seemed to work as Ameryck perked up and pressed his hand against the sigil on his breastplate.
“Yes, by the grace of Pelor, a group of heroes such as yourselves were able to slay him and free us mercenaries from his demands. It was what inspired me to take an Oath of Redemption under Pelor’s guidance.”
“We want to right the wrongs from our past and stop others from being forced into doing things they didn’t want to do,” Toxil added.
At that, a fleeting glimpse of a memory sparked in Lorn’s mind—a quiet forest in midsummer—and it left Basile wondering why Lorn was reminded of that place.
“Well, you aren’t the only one with a tragic history,” Neebs said. “I come from a family of cultists.”
All of the associates whipped their heads around to look at Neebs in shock. “You, what?” Marven asked in confusion.
The raptoran nodded woefully. “It’s true. Although I may not look like it, I come from a family of elves who worshiped an ancient bird god. Through horrific experiments, they were able to imbue me with the magic of their god to grant me these wings you see.” The dragonborn brothers gasped in awe, while everyone else groaned in realization. Marven—who had started wearing a cloak again to hide his dragon wings—seethed with annoyance. He continued to eat as Neebs spun his stolen tale. “But before they could sacrifice me to their god, I escaped and I found myself here in Dwarvenshire.”
“That is incredible!” Ameryck said, looking toward the other Associates. “Do the rest of you have such interesting stories to tell?”
Most of the group muttered in a unanimous, unintelligible manner, not wanting to dive into their own reasons for traveling. H’rathen, however, loftily explained that he was called to spread Kord’s greatness, which led to him and Ameryck to start debating which of their patrons were mightier.
Meanwhile, Toxil kept his focus on Neebs. “I must say, we have never met anyone quite as interesting as you and your friends.”
“We’re not that special. After all, we’re all elves here,” Neebs said dismissively.
“What the hell does that mean?” Marven asked irritably.
“I think I understand!” Toxil said with a wide, tooth-filled grin. “Despite all of our differences and the hardships we have faced, we are all the same at the end of the day: people who are trying to do the right thing.”
Neebs grinned at Marven and winked. “Yeah, what he said.”
***
Frantic screaming startled Basile out of a deep sleep. He scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly as the blood drained from his head and his vision went dark around the edges. Around him, he could hear Lorn and Ciaran gathering their weapons. Ciaran grabbed Basile’s arm and yanked him out of the tent as the three of them rushed toward the shouting coming from The Three Shepherds.
Neebs was standing on top of the tavern, his wings outstretched for balance. The raptoran held his hands near his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs, “People of Dwarvenshire! Gather round! I have had a vision!”
“How much do you want to bet it’s bullshit?” Lorn thought dully, earning a tired laugh from Basile.
I don’t have any extra money to bet.
Thankful that there was no immediate threat, the three Associates mingled into the crowd that was starting to form outside. They found the other Associates near the front, having come straight from their rooms at The Three Shepherds. Kass’s orange and blue dyed hair was a ratted bird's nest and H’rathen had a thin layer of stubble on his face, not yet completing his shaving ritual. Marven’s clothes were still wrinkly after having been hastily thrown on. Meanwhile, Rhaegar was shirtless and wearing only his sleeping shorts, showing off the many battle scars he had accumulated over the years. Alkaid and Dwayne were both fully dressed and wide awake, having been up since early dawn.
“What nonsense is he spewing now?” Rhaegar grumbled. “Doesn’t he know it’s too early for his charades?”
“The early bird gets the worm, Rhae,” Dwayne said cheerily.
“Don’t call me that.” Someone in the crowd behind them hushed them. The warblade whipped around and sneered at them.
“ Someone isn’t a morning person,” Ciaran thought. Basile grinned and casually ruffled his hair. Above them, Neebs walked closer to the edge of the roof and stretched out his arms. The crowd around them fell into a hush and looked up at him with anticipation.
“Lend me your ears! I have had a vision! A prophecy, if you will, and I would like to share it with you all,” Neebs declared. He then cleared his throat and reached up toward the sky dramatically. “In my dream, I was standing in the middle of a grove with the sun shining down upon me. The wind was blowing through my hair. I was entirely nude.”
“Why is that not surprising?” Marven whispered. Ciaran giggled maniacally, covering his mouth with his hands.
“And although I was alone, I could feel something—nay, someone— calling to me in the breeze. With my bow in hand, I followed the voice through the forest trail until I came upon a lake. It was a vast lake, with waters so murky you couldn’t see the bottom; and out in the center of the lake…” Neebs paused for dramatic effect. “...the Zephyr Blade.”
“The what?” someone shouted from the crowd.
Neebs swung his arm across as though he were brandishing an invisible blade. “My fellow man, the Zephyr Blade is a sword once lost to time. It was unlike any sword I had ever seen, and in my soul I knew it was the answer to the struggles this town has suffered.”
“Um…Dwarvenshire has been doing pretty good,” a man called out. “We’ve had more tourism and commerce in the past month than we have all year.”
“And other than some of our farmers being captured by the goblins in the mountain, we haven’t faced any other dangers,” another woman shouted.
“It is true that Dwarvenshire has been prosperous,” Neebs continued, “but there is always a calm before the storm—and a storm is coming!”
“Like Krissa,” Marven thought grimly. As the crowd began to murmur and shuffle about, Basile watched Neebs’ gaze scan over the crowd before landing on his fellow raptoran. “Basile, tell Kass to help me out.” Basile rolled his eyes and nudged Kass softly, leaning down to relay the message to him. The young bard grinned and began to whistle a tune. It wasn’t much, but the tiefling felt the effects of the magic almost instantly: a sense of calm and positivity rested on his shoulders and made him feel less skeptical of Neebs’ antics. Basile looked back up and saw Neebs smiling with satisfaction.
“I believe that I was shown this prophecy to ensure the ongoing safety of this town.” At that, he pulled out a scroll of paper—Basile didn’t want to know from where—and displayed it to the crowd. It was the map they had ripped out of the Tinkerer’s journal. “This is the map the gods showed me just before I woke up. I was quick to scrawl it down, lest I forget the destination. My allies and I will take it upon ourselves to go and retrieve this legendary sword.”
A short, portly man stepped forward from the crowd. Beside him was a tall and muscular half-orc woman. It was Ellerd and Torg, the two newest visitors to the town. “And which god showed you this vision?” he asked, his symbol of Avandra, Goddess of Travel, hanging from around his neck.
“Ioun,” Neebs said without hesitation. Basile huffed under his breath. He didn’t want to hear Neebs praise the goddess that had abandoned the Addler family, even if he was making the whole thing up. So, Basile left the crowd, pushing past the other Associates, and made a bee-line to the forests on the edge of town to find solace in the trees. However, he soon found that he was not alone. Ciaran trailed behind him, a look of worry on his face.
“I’m fine,” Basile said stiffly.
“You don’t look fine,” the boy replied stubbornly. “Is it ‘cause Neebs talked about you know who?”
The tiefling growled threateningly—a noise he normally kept to himself. “Drop it, Ciaran.” For once, his youngest brother listened and didn’t continue to pry. He knew of Basile’s dislike for the Goddess of Knowledge, though he was never told explicitly why. Basile simply said they were watched over by another god, which wasn’t a total lie. He just didn’t know which god claimed his soul before he was even born.
“Are you going to the creek?” Ciaran asked instead.
Despite the cooler weather that morning, a dip in the creek actually didn’t sound too bad. “Yeah, I think I might. You should head on back so the others don’t worry about you vanishing, and shout if you need anything.”
“Okay.” Ciaran paused for a moment, then rushed forward to give Basile a hug around the waist, causing the tiefling to stumble briefly. “Love you! Enjoy the water and don’t die!”
Basile didn’t reply. He simply watched Ciaran hurry back into town until he was left alone in the woods. He was just far enough outside to no longer hear the ambient noise of the townsfolk in his mind, but Neebs’ words tumbled around in his mind. If only the answer to his problems was as simple as finding a rusted sword in a lake.
***
“ Please, Basile! I promise I’ll take good care of her!” Ciaran begged, his hands laced in front of his chest as he dropped dramatically to his knees. The boy didn’t seem to care that he was kneeling in hay and dirt—and nothing else if he was lucky.
Basile scowled at the display. “Stop making a scene.”
“But just look at her! She’s perfect.” Behind Ciaran was a small brown and white piebald pony in a stable pen. She whinnied with unease at the tiefling’s presence, even though she couldn’t see him. Yet another reminder of his infernal roots. Just what he needed.
“First, we can’t afford to buy a horse.” Ciaran opened his mouth to speak, but Basile interrupted him. “And even if we did have the money, we don’t have the time to take care of a horse. Besides, you don’t need a horse. You can ride on someone else’s horse when we go to find the Zephyr Blade.”
Ciaran huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not fair.”
“Tough. Now get up off the floor and dust yourself off. We’re going to be heading out soon.” Basile turned and rejoined the rest of the Associates, who were speaking with Stormageddon about their purchases. According to the Tinkerer’s map, the lake where the legendary blade was supposedly located was a much further distance than Goblin Peak, which led to the group's decision to purchase a few horses from the stable. Rhaegar was feeding sugar cubes and carrots to a white clydesdale that made the warblade look small in comparison. Meanwhile, Marven was standing beside a sleek black horse who’s velvety hide seemed to glisten. Why he needed one, Basile wasn’t sure. The gnome was capable of flying with his dragon-like wings, but he supposed that he didn’t want to be so obvious with his unnatural features. Dwayne purchased the last of Stormageddon’s horses, a chestnut stallion with black stockings which he promptly named Buckeye.
“That should be enough for everyone if we group up,” Lorn said to Stormageddon after doing a headcount.
“See? We can hitch a ride with one of the others,” Basile said, looking over his shoulder at Ciaran. The boy blew him a raspberry in annoyance.
“What’s the matter, Ciaran?” Kass asked, walking over to the boy and resting a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve wanted a pony for as long as I can remember,” Ciaran lamented dramatically, heavily playing to Kass’ natural empathy. “I asked for one for my seventh birthday, but Basile said no. So, I punched myself in the face to punish him.”
Everyone stared at Ciaran oddly, not quite understanding what he meant. However, H’rathen—who was there to see the group off—clutched his symbol of Kord and gasped with equal drama. “Basile, how could you?!”
“Easy. We were broke,” Basile defended plainly.
“But we’re rich now—” Ciaran bemoaned.
“We most certainly are not rich.”
“—and he still won’t let me get a pony! Even though it’s my dream!”
Despite Kass being a bard, Ciaran played on his emotions like a fiddle. The raptoran gave him a big squeeze, pressing his cheek against the top of the elf’s head. “Aww, I’m sorry.”
“Come on, Basile, get the boy a pony. Don’t be a monster,” The cleric teased, but Basile immediately flinched at the word choice. Ciaran took notice and dropped his act instantly.
“He’s not a monster!” Ciaran blurted, hoping to make Basile feel better, but it only made some of the Associates question why the sudden change in tone. “I’m really not that upset. I know he’s just worried about the money.”
“I mean, if it’s just the money stopping you, I don’t mind buying the pony for him,” Rhaegar said to Basile, reaching into his coin pouch to count his gold.
“You really don’t have to do that,” Basile said cautiously, seeing the spark of joy cross Ciaran’s face. “It’s also taking care of the pony that’s a problem.”
Stormageddon cleared his throat quietly, not wanting to interrupt. “I can take care of her when you are all busy,” he suggested kindly. “It’s the least I can do to care for your mounts, considering Lorn went out of his way to help me.”
“Please, Basile?” Ciaran asked again privately. Basile looked between his brother and the other associates, then looked toward the stable. The piebald pony flicked her ears and munched on some hay, content with the noise around her.
The tiefling sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Fine.”
“Yay!” Ciaran bounded out of Kass’s embrace and hopped up onto the wooden fence to start petting his new pet. “I’m going to name her Debbie!”
After Rhaegar paid Stormageddon for the pony, she and the rest of the horses were led out of the stables to join Ragnarok in the pasture. Neebs and Kass took to the air, while the rest of the group saddled their steeds. Marven struggled to get his horse, whom he named Morsel, to settle down. Rhaegar and Dwayne mounted their horses with ease, clearly familiar with horseback riding. Meanwhile, Lorn tied a lead to Debbie and attached it to Rocky’s harness to ensure Ciaran couldn’t wander off on his own. He then climbed up onto Ragnarok, with Alkaid following behind. Basile summoned his fell flight and hovered in the air.
“Are you going to fly with Neebs and Kass?” Ciaran asked mentally as he guided Debbie closer toward Basile’s invisible form; the warlock noted how easily the boy adjusted to being on horseback.
I made a deal to be Neebs’ bodyguard, remember? I should stick close to him. He didn’t admit that he also wanted to avoid sitting next to Alkaid, who would likely shove him off the first chance they had. Besides, Lorn will be close by to help you should you get bucked off.
Ciaran laughed and patted his pony on the neck. “Debbie won’t buck me off! She’s a good girl!” She whinnied in agreement. With that, the group was ready and they headed off into the woods toward the mysterious lake.