Chapter Text
Kairon swallowed dryly as he peered over the edge of the basalt spire on which he and his friends now stood. Hundreds of feet below, a churning sea of white-hot oil threatened to obliterate them entirely should they fall into it.
And with how narrow the tip of the spire was, he didn’t feel comfortable moving beyond the portal they’d used to enter the Voidweave.
The quest for their missing memories had taken them on as convoluted of a path as he’d been expecting. After the killing game had ended and Erler had explained the trouble still being caused by the Voidwalker, the survivors had single-mindedly pursued the task of retrieving the memories Gawinne and the Voidwalker had removed from their minds.
And now, after using the blood of one of the Voidwalker’s Star Spawn (whom Dalkhaust’s parents had made a bad deal with), they were standing on the precipice of the Voidwalker’s own realm.
“This sure is… something,” Canton said, raising his voice slightly over the sounds of the roiling sea. “Where to?”
Caerwyn reached into her Bag of Holding, producing the Carpet of Flying that Kelros had apparently once owned.
Though Kairon could think of nothing he wanted to do less than fly above an endless ocean of boiling oil, supported by nothing but a flimsy rug, he mounted the carpet with the rest of the group.
“I suspect we’ll sense the destination,” Ferhume said as Caerwyn lifted up on the carpet’s edges, lifting them off the ground and slowly away from the only stable terrain for miles. “For now, just pick a direction.”
Kairon glanced back longingly at the spire, the swirling purple portal calling out to him— insisting he turn around and return to the safety of the Material Plane.
He shook his head. This was the end of their quest. The quest 11 of their closest friends had died for. He would not turn back now. Besides— he had a perfect sense of direction. He could navigate them back.
They flew in silence. Kairon sensed the apprehension in all of them: Michael’s shoulders were tensed nearly up to his ears, Ferhume was clearly forcing himself to take measured breaths, Canton was anxiously drumming his gloved fingers on his knee, and Caerwyn was whispering to herself.
Despite that, he felt as though they were on the right path. It was hard to distinguish the feeling between gut instinct and supernatural guidance, but it provided some level of comfort regardless.
Then, Caerwyn’s eyes narrowed. She angled the carpet down; Kairon involuntarily clenched all his muscles in the slight change in direction. An image flashed through his mind of the carpet’s angle growing too steep, sending them all tumbling into the oil below.
But his overactive imagination was sent into overdrive when he spotted what Caerwyn was directing them towards. A single building was hovering in the distance, its base just above the white ocean. He blinked several times to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating.
If he was, it was a very salient hallucination. The building looked entirely normal, which was what made it so out-of-place. It resembled any other tavern he’d seen: a sturdy, weathered building with thick wooden beams and a slanted, shingled roof. Its stone foundation was entirely visible above the ocean, showing signs of weathering.
“What is that?” Michael asked hesitantly.
“A trap, or maybe an illusion,” Canton answered.
Caerwyn shot him a glare. “It could be what we’re looking for, too.”
“Or that.”
The carpet lowered further, growing level with the front door. A wooden sign hung above the entrance, swaying gently.
“Dairy Queen,” Ferhume read the inscription aloud, frowning thoughtfully.
Kairon tilted his head. “This doesn’t seem like the Voidwalker’s style.”
Caerwyn brought the carpet to the front door. “There may be other forces at play here.”
As if on cue, the heavy wooden door swung open, revealing…
A bakery.
The smell of fresh dough wafted from the door, filling Kairon’s nostrils with a comforting scent. Though Kairon saw no customers or employees, he glimpsed ornately carved wooden tables and display cases full of pastries.
This had to be a trick.
But Caerwyn swung her legs over the edge of the carpet, testing the stone foundation before tentatively stepping down.
The others exchanged tepid glances before following suit. Kairon’s mind again began picturing the entire structure disappearing with a comical “pop,” with no time for Canton or Ferhume to cast a spell and save them before they fell into the oil.
But as he stepped into the bakery, the roaring ocean and ambient anxiety that permeated the Voidweave seemed to fade away, replaced with calm.
A bell jingled lightly as the door closed behind them. Kairon craned his neck to search for windows, but the bakery was closed to outside light. Candles and magical flames cast a warm glow over the wooden floor.
He wished he could experience any sort of clairvoyant indication as to what they were getting themselves into, but Erler’s power was already diminished with Correlon being weakened, and even if it wasn’t, Kairon doubted it extended into the Outer Planes.
A shuffling sound came from the back room. After a moment, a man emerged. He wore a brown leather coat with a fur hood, and each of his fingers were decorated with a golden ring that seemed to glow with power.
Upon seeing them, his face lit up.
“What’s up, guys?! Long time no see!”
No one in their group spoke, all of them assessing this stranger to determine how he knew them. Kairon sensed some familiarity with the man, but knew it would be impossible to place.
After a moment, the owner’s face fell. “Oh, right. Aiged told me you all were short a few memories. Guess that includes me.”
At this, Kairon perked up. Aiged was a gold dragon who ran the city of Avalua, where Alex originally hailed from. He’d been instrumental in getting them up to speed with the state of the world and setting them on the path towards retrieving their memories.
But while that served as a point towards the man’s allegiances, it didn’t explain what he and his bakery were doing here.
“I guess re-introductions are in order,” he said, leaping over the counter and sauntering casually towards them, his hand outstretched. “Tyrael Fiddlesworth, formerly the immortal bard of the Crimson Knights. Now… the humble owner of Dairy Queen.”
Michael was first to shake Tyrael’s hand. “Michael—”
“Oakhardt,” he interrupted. “I know. I’ve met all of you before.”
Tyrael moved down the line, saying each of their names before they could. Though Kairon no longer suspected Tyrael had any ill intentions, he still had no clue what was happening.
“So what brings you to my neck of the woods?” Tyrael asked after he’d shaken everyone’s hands.
“You tell us,” Caerwyn said coldly. “How’d your little bakery end up in the Outer Reaches?”
Tyrael furrowed his brow. “Come again?”
“We saw this building floating above the sea of oil in the Voidweave,” Canton elaborated. “And now we’re here.”
Tyrael sighed dramatically, turning his head over his shoulder and yelling: “Ponty! Are you bringing people from outer planes here again?”
Again? Kairon thought.
At this, a woman stepped out from the back room. Kairon’s first instinct was to think she had once been a normal person who had somehow been stretched vertically— her head nearly scraped against the door frame, while her ornate bronze dress draped against the floor. Her silver spectacles were framed by black hair which fell to her waist, and in her hand was a scepter topped with a large, iridescent glass sphere.
“Yes,” the woman replied evenly.
Tyrael pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do you always insist on… You know what? Never mind. Let’s get them our best, yeah?”
The woman smiled gently. “Of course.”
“One moment.” Tyrael hopped back over the counter and disappeared into the back room.
“Well…” Canton looked around pointedly, shrugging exaggeratedly. “Guess we should sit?”
“Let’s just leave,” Caerwyn huffed, turning for the door.
But Michael and Ferhume had already joined Canton at one of the tables. She scowled back at them, but didn’t protest when a chair scooped her up and floated to the table, manipulated by Canton’s mind.
Kairon was the last to join them, his legs bouncing anxiously as concerning noises began emanating from the kitchen. Following the sound of broken plateware Tyrael shouted a string of curses at someone called “Terry” before poking his head back out.
“Just a second,” he called.
They waited.
Canton absentmindedly tapped the table. “So… who do we think this ‘Ponty’ is? Must be someone powerful.”
“We could just ask,” Michael suggested.
Canton pushed up his mask like it was a pair of glasses. “No way. It’s time for some good-old-fashioned deduction!”
Kairon grimaced, bracing himself for an insane tangent, but Tyrael mercifully re-emerged at that moment, carrying a tray of plates.
“Sorry for the wait,” he said. “Terry tripped and dropped a dish. And then died from the cut he got.”
Kairon started, staring at the chef in disbelief.
“But it’s fine,” Tyrael waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll just re-summon him.”
All five of them began eyeing Tyrael with suspicion. That blasé language was quite similar to how Gawinne had treated her familiar.
“Is Terry a familiar?” Ferhume asked, voicing the question they all had.
Tyrael chuckled. “Oh, no. He’s my Unseen Servant. Anyways—” he set the tray in the middle of the table and began passing out dishes. “Jam and toast for Caerwyn, pancakes for Canton, a berry tart for Ferhume, biscotti for Kairon, and some black coffee and crumpets for Michael.”
Kairon stared down at the plate before him. Three sticks of what appeared to be almond biscotti— a favorite of his— were on his plate.
It shouldn’t have been surprising that Tyrael knew their favorites, but it still caught him off-guard.
Soon, though… they’d have it all back. They’d remember their previous trips to Tyrael’s bakery. They wouldn’t be caught off-guard by swaths of individuals claiming to recognize them.
A brief pulse of magical energy distracted him from his train of thought.
“It’s not poisoned,” Michael announced, having used his divine magic to scan for anything wrong with the food. The half-elf took a long sip of his coffee, the tension in his shoulders instantly melting away.
As Canton eagerly dove into the pancakes and Ferhume began cutting into his tart, Kairon gingerly picked up one of the biscuits and took a small bite.
It was excellent.
He quickly tore into the rest of the pastries, the stress from the past year of his life momentarily forgotten as the food restored his vitality, bolstering him more than any meal he could remember.
Tyrael watched with satisfaction as the group devoured his work. Though Kairon hadn’t noticed it at first, the gentle sound of a harp seemed to be emanating from his form, despite no instrument being visible on his person. The music only served to further soothe them.
“You need to teach me this recipe,” Canton said, breaking the quiet sounds of eating.
“I already have,” the bard said. “But come back once you’ve returned from… wherever you are, and I can teach you again.”
Canton saluted with two fingers, finishing the rest of his plate. As Tyrael began bussing their table, Caerwyn noted: “You seem oddly at ease with serving people who came from beyond the outer planes. Is your restaurant extraplanar?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s in Damthorne in West Lordorin. But Ponty is a regular, and she sometimes… messes with its location in the planescape. But, hey— more customers, right?”
Tyrael passed the tray off to, seemingly, empty air, but it began moving towards the back all the same. Kairon suspected this was “Terry”’s doing.
After a moment, Tyrael smirked. “By the way, that’ll be 8 silver.”
Michael grimaced— despite Kairon’s limited experience with the economy, he knew that was extremely pricey for a few pastries— but the paladin began reaching for his coin bag anyways.
“Kidding!” Tyrael said, pushing Michael’s hand back down. “It’s on the house. You seemed like you needed this.”
Michael breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
Tyrael smiled. “No problem, but don’t get used to it. I’m running a business here, after all.”
“We look forward to returning here with our memories,” Ferhume said, standing up. The rest of the party did the same.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Tyrael said, shaking each of their hands again.
Another crashing sound echoed from the kitchen, and Tyrael smacked his forehead.
“Have fun dealing with that,” Canton said teasingly.
Tyrael snorted. “Sure. See you all later.”
He bade the group farewell, walking towards the back. When Caerwyn opened the door, Kairon half-expected to see a bustling town, but the anxiety returned to his being once he saw the turbulent sea outside.
Tyrael waved cheerfully as they stepped outside— Kairon wondered what he saw beyond the entrance— but when they shut the door, the woman Tyrael had referred to as “Ponty” was suddenly standing in front of them. Kairon awkwardly craned his neck to meet her gaze— even Canton, who was much taller than normal, had to tilt his head to make eye contact.
Caerwyn’s hands retreated into her sleeves, ready to produce her daggers at a moment’s notice. But the woman merely smiled gently at them. The globe at the end of her staff seemed to shimmer gently, images of unfamiliar landscapes reflected within it.
“I hope you found some respite here,” she said without preamble. “I’ve been watching your journeys for some time now… you may be the first group to successfully return from the Voidweave in centuries.”
“And just who are you? ” Caerwyn demanded.
“My title is The Pontiff,” she answered. “I watch over events in the outer planes. After seeing what you five have gone through… I figured you could use a chance to relax before the end.”
The group exchanged uncertain glances.
“...We appreciate it,” Michael said slowly, “but why go about it this way?”
The Pontiff simply smiled, tapping her globe and turning in place, vanishing before their eyes.
“Huh,” Canton said, stepping forward, his expression bemused.
“Something tells me we’ll be seeing her again,” Ferhume said.
“I hope we don’t,” Caerwyn said. She unfurled the Carpet of Flying, motioning urgently for them all to board. “She wasted too much of our time.”
Though Kairon considered agreeing, concerned that this whole affair had just been a clever distraction, he couldn’t find it in himself to honestly complain. He stared back at the bakery as they flew back up, the building quickly becoming a speck in the distance before vanishing completely.
It had been nice. There had been so few chances to just sit and enjoy the company of the people he’d gone through so much with. Perhaps it was fitting that it took going to the edge of the universe to finally find the time.