Andior Story

[Avo]

Fun story for sure. Enjoying the read.

[Zorander]

Nerund’s room at the Copper Cockatrice was adequate, of that he could say no better. A bath and a few nights’ sleep, and his restored cape, made him feel better. The Lady certainly graced him, he told himself. He had not yet heard from Flindel, or any of the others for that matter, nor had any appeared in the tavern. But he avoided the tavern except for meals; his discomfort at the decadence that passed for acceptable behavior in even so staid a community as Everton Wells disheartened him. He felt uneasy, and not for the loss of civil behavior. The Gate still haunted him nightly and in recent days featured prominently in vivid dreams. Why Flindel wanted to see him after all these years was a mystery he did not want to explore, but it was no doubt something unpropitious, impinging on his further studies.
A knock on his door startled him. He carried no weapon, so caution was unwarranted; what the goddess desired would happen. Nerund opened the door. T’ayend’anna stood against the wall, a smile on her face.
“I figured I’d find you here,” Tay said, giving Nerund a hug.
“I got a letter,” Nerund said, knowing that little bit of information filled the gaps.
“Flindel sent them to a bunch of us, I suspect. Wanna get a drink?”

Bandry Rocslayer pushed the doors to the Murky Mermaid open in grand fashion, announcing his arrival.
“Fak me and my royal pommel.”
“Oh fak,” Harwin drawled, leaning heavily on his half-full mug of ale. He was a dozen mugs in when he lost count and that was… well, it was a bunch of mugs ago. The big man quaffed the remainder, knowing what was to come.
“Harwin! Har! Win! Har-winner! My brother in arms, how are you doing!” Bandry sauntered over to the table. “Barkeep, two more ales for my friend!”
Harwin frowned.
“How have you been?” Bandry nearly shouted, ignorant of the looks of annoyance from the other bar patrons. He shoved Harwin’s sword aside from the center of the table.
“Please?” the sword said.
“No,” Harwin said.
“Five minutes. Make me happy.”
“We’re not killing him.”
“Do you still think your sword talks to you?” Bandry said, laughing in his braying way.
“Addarcan, Drinker of Blood, is a sentient sword,” Harwin slurred. “He talks.”
“He? I didn’t know swords had a sword and boulders!” Bandry laughed again.
“He is thirsty. Say one thing and I’ll let him…”
“See this,” Bandry said, dropping a heavy hammer onto the table with a thud. “This is magical. And it talks. I whack someone with it, and they scream. It’s magic.” He laughed again.
“You’re a mule with an arrow in its head,” Harwin said as if that would end the conversation.
He was wrong. Bandry launched into a litany of his more brilliant moves from the battlefield to the boudoir. The ales came and Bandry helped himself to one as Harwin could hardly drink two at a time. Bandry then ordered four more.

Baron Orto Brooksland stood with a wide smile as Jae’akan escorted Xandrakus into the dining hall. The Baron’s formerly gray-tinged hair had gone to white in recent years, and a pronounced limp had developed since Xandrakus had seen him last. Orto crossed the room to greet Xandrakus with a hug, never relinquishing the grin. “I am so pleased to see you, my dear friend. So very pleased.”
“My sincere condolences on Haladar, Orto. I got your message almost a year ago, and I owe you more than a single favor. My apology, but I was delayed by a mishap.”
“Damnation on favors!” Orto said with a correcting tone. “All debts are long paid. We’ve saved and helped each other enough that all scores no longer matter.”
“I accept your wisdom, Orto,” Xandrakus conceded with a smile. “What is it you need?”
“I’m being a frightful host. Please, sit and eat while the food is fresh upon the table and I’ll have my servants tend a bath for you at your leisure. The road is a dirty and uncomfortable mistress as we both know too well. We can talk of troubles this evening over a spot of spirits. Poor news is best washed down with rich drink.”
The two sat and ate, conversing about their time on the road.
“Haladar would have been a brilliant ruler,” Orto mused. “He was most certainly kinder than I, and his mind calmer. I should have never accepted the title.”
“No doubt,” Xandrakus laughed. “Your diplomacy began with a sword for many years. But you’ve been a good ruler for these last ten years.”
“Swords often lead when conversations break down. It’s always been that way.”
A woman entered with a fresh tray of ale spiced with apples. Xandrakus took a startled look at the woman and caught her eye. She winked as she set the ale before him.
“W’hi Do?” Xandrakus whispered in a language he knew she knew all too well.
“Uo’l,” she responded in a like whisper.

Baron Orto’s hospitality was nothing short of spectacular, providing the best the realm had to offer. The meal concluded and the woman was called to escort Xandrakus to his chamber. His room spanned fifteen feet to the side. Despite the stone corridor leading to the door, the interior was resplendent in soft cloths, paintings, a wide feather bed, and a fresh bath in a tiled pool in the floor. The woman dismissed the two bath servants and turned to Xandrakus as they exited the room.
“How are you, Xan?” Miarorra said.
“Orto is a dear friend. What are you doing here, Mia?”
“Doing? Right now,” Miarorra said, unclasping her bodice, “I’m giving you a bath per castle protocol.”
“No. Not until you—”
“Tell you why I’m here? Once you get in the bath. I promise not to bite.”
“The biting was never the problem, the daggers were.”
She pulled a pair of daggers from her dress and dropped them to the floor. “Never without.”
“We’re not going to be a thing again.”
“No commitment. Just a bath. Maybe a massage.”
Xandrakus shook his head. “I’d have to count my balls after bathing with you.”
“Two if I recall. I promise to be good.”
“I’m not sure what that means coming from you.”
She shrugged. “It means there’s something going on in Everton Wells.” She dropped the last of her clothes and stretched before stepping slowly into the warm bath.
“Why are you here, Mia?”
“Not another word, Xan, until you’re in the bath. It’s called blackmail. It’s the least of my talents and you know how talented I can be.”
Xandrakus acquiesced as a black cat slinked into the room.
“Really? Mia?”
“Not another word,” Xandrakus responded.
“She’s not good for you. We went through this two years ago.”
“Three.”
“Like it matters. She’ll steal anything she can lay her hands on.”
“I’m watching. She’s naked, so there aren’t many places she can hide anything.”
“I told you so.”
“Told me what?”
“Just dropping it out there. Pick it up when it applies.” Azakai slinked out as quietly as he came in.
“Flindel sent me,” Miarorra said. “I’m watching over Orto. His mind is sharp, but his body is failing. He fell last winter and his hip hasn’t been the same since.”
“You’re playing nursemaid? Why do I find that hard to believe?”
Miarorra took a large sponge and gently rubbed Xandrakus’ back with it. “Well, that and breaking up an assassination plot here and there. Gutted two would-be baron-slayers in the past three months.”
“I didn’t realize Orto was so unpopular.”
“He’s not, but he is a baron, so the malcontents come with the job.”

[Avo]

Two thumbs up!

[Zorander]

Dalia Sunsong sang.
A time ago in township fare
A tower tall that wasn’t there
Into the ground it sank its spire
Sidrigan did thus retire

The mage left his spired home
To travel far and all alone
The tower tis we know not where
‘Cept hidden ‘mongst this humble fair

She sang three more verses before bowing graciously, collecting the bouncing and rolling coins that littered the stage.
Uriel nodded to Dalia as he replaced her on the stage in the center of the Copper Cockatrice’s main room. She always commanded adoration from the crowd, so following her on the stage made it more work for him. Dalia was lovely, with a voice borrowed from the gods. Uriel, on the other hand, was more a storyteller with a trace of melody and an almost imperceptible amount of poetry thrown in. But he was nimble of mind and could remember details most others long forgot; or maybe he was just a practiced storyteller. It wasn’t for him to make that determination.
“Ale, Uriel?” Aeden asked. She was difficult not to look at, but as one of twin daughters of Hengar, the owner of the Copper Cock as Uriel called it, she was ever beyond his reach.
“If you can spare a cup to keep me from losing my voice,” he said with a smile. He strummed a chord on his lyre—he was adept at only a few chosen chords—then launched into his tale, always popular with the common folk.
“Years gone beyond, a band of heroes confronted the angry god Alduaine!” It was a long tale and the other songmasters awaiting their turn at the stage groaned as the crowd cheered. “Aye, dear friends, the tale is of strong men, loyal women, and heartbreaking loss in pursuit of salvation! Not just salvation for these noble souls, but for the very existence of all good men and fair women. The wind was cold those dreary days; frost gnawed at one’s bones. Yes, cold; but the world got colder still. The home hearths grew hoarfrost and fire itself flickered and cried out for fuel as it died beneath the fr ost that came from the gate of hell itself.”
“Do you remember it being that cold?” T’ayend’anna asked quietly of Nerund where the pair sat at a back table.
“Abadon was chilly,” he said. “But that was due to the death mirage.”
“Aye,” Uriel continued, “cold unlike any felt or heard of before blanketed the land. Yet the mages Flindel, Xandrakus, and Taurturian, ancient men who wore their white beards as badges of their station, lords of the mystic, true royalty among those of magical bent, found the cause!”
“Not even half right about the beards,” Nerund noted.
“And less than half right on everything else as well,” Tay agreed.
Uriel continued, unaware of the critique in the back. “The great, though now dead, god Alduaine struck out to gain power over the other gods. But even gods can commit acts of folly! Alduaine opened the gate between the infernal planes and the rest, threatening our very existence. The cold—the frigid fingers of damnation themselves—crept from the depths, dragging the dead with it in a screaming torrent of pain. A dozen companions, including our beloved Baron Orto, plodded through merciless encounters; the maddening Sisters of Mercy pursued them in their waking hours, and the Shades of Torture haunted their sleep. Monstrous creations summoned from the pits assaulted them, taking health and peace of mind.”
Uriel went on to describe a multitude of beasts from a dragon bursting with lightning to a horde of a thousand demonic groundlings, each with murder in both mind and mission. He mentioned AddaLee, the half-Heggan woman, who lost her fight with the dragon. He spoke of the healing of “several holy clerics,” though he failed to mention names.
He continued. “Despite these terrors, the party’s resolve never weakened, buoyed by the indomitable spirit of Orozane, the holy cavalier of Ivamaya.”
“Oh, fuck all,” Tay said to Nerund. “If he only knew what an insufferable prick Oro was.”
“He was… sometimes difficult,” Nerund said.
“The gallant party trekked into unknown lands,” Uriel continued. “Planes traversed by only the most powerful of beings. Guided by the mages, they made their way to the Gate, the true portal between all that is sacred and all that is foul! The mages kept the worst of the beasts and demons at bay while the rest assaulted the Gate, clearing the way.”
Uriel went on to describe the battle, focusing on the spells—mostly inaccurate in description—and the swordsmanship of the warriors. He shouted out each blow that felled a Gate guardian and went into details no one else remembered about how the heroes restored the Gate. “The losses were great but the heroics greater still! The bravery of the good paladin Orozane was the salvation of the entire party! That selfless sacrifice cost him his very life, but allowed the mage Flindel to use his machinations to close and lock the Gate for all time!”
The crowd responded with hooting and cheers and coins began dotting the stage. Uriel took a bow, never taking his eyes off the coins as they rolled about his feet.
“Bullshit, horseshit, and all the other shits,” Tay said aloud, not caring who might hear. That stupid tale always left out the details to her consternation and, more importantly, the people. No mention ever of Draven. Or Erifren. Or Nerund. And never T’ayend’anna; too difficult to pronounce, remember, or rhyme. Instead, they always focused on the mages and Orozane, who was every bit as good and chivalrous as he was cloying and obnoxious about his piety. She drained the mug. “I’m done with this. You coming?”
Nerund nodded. “I’m not the type to sit alone in a tavern.”
“That you came out of your room was a big step.”
The pair stepped onto the street as another songstress took the stage behind Uriel. Tay didn’t care how talented she might be, the evening was now a dour ruin.
“Gems and more?” a portly dwarf with a graying beard said from a street cart as they exited the inn. He waved his pudgy hand, highlighting a particularly large sapphire.
“I see the lady has a keen eye,” a second dwarf purred, this one with a gold tooth.
“How much?”
“A meager six gold for such a stone,” the first dwarf said.
“I’m not a palace princess, gadfly.” She carefully examined the gem. “You’re over by half,” she said.
“Ah, but this gem is glamoured! Should you ever find yourself in need, it can grant healing.”
“How do I know that’s true?” She closed her eyes a moment, and though she was not a mage by any common definition, she could tell it was indeed magic.
“My dear lady, we’ve been mining gems and selling them at this very fair since your grandsire was a boy.”
“But you’re trying to sell to me, not my grandsire, asshole that he was. I’ll give you two, and this silver spoon,” she said, producing the recently procured spoon.
The dwarf studied the spoon for a moment. “Two and a half, and the spoon, and it is yours.”

[Zorander]

Baron Orto Brooksland sat in a high-backed cushioned chair in his study. Shelves of scrolls and yellowed tomes covered the walls. A pair of sconces threw off enough light to create a soft glow, perfect for an evening of comfort and drink. Blue liquor swirled gently in a wide glass in his hand as Xandrakus, freshly bathed, entered. Orto dismissed the valet and motioned Xandrakus to the seat across from him. “Belingdon wine from the elven woods outside Ruenwood,” he said, pouring a second glass of the blue liquor and handing it to Xandrakus. “It’s a flower wine infused with the sweetest of molasses spirits.”
“I recall you being a man of meads and ales. What brought you to more exotic drink?”
Orto chuckled. “Oh, I still enjoy a stout ale when I sneak out to the Copper Cock. But here, I enjoy spirits and fine wines. When I became baron, I received the castle and the lands. In a dark cellar, we discovered hundreds of bottles of rare wines and liquors. The previous baron went to his grave without having tasted so much of his fine collection. I decided not to repeat that folly, and I’ve been sampling ever since.”
“Sounds like a collection worthy of both story and gold.” Xandrakus sipped the drink. “Very good, Orto. I hope it will be up to the challenge of offsetting the poor news?”
Orto’s mood faded and he shook his head slightly, holding his glass in front of him like a shield against what was to come. “We did a remarkable thing those years ago, Xan. We killed a god. Minor and mad, but Alduaine was a god! Unbelievable power, but so wildly insane that the die was cast before we even found him.”
“Cordan has answered no summons or prayer since.”
“We killed his son,” Orto said plaintively. “That is a sin unforgivable to any father.”
“We saved him the heartbreak of having to do it himself.”
“We and Cordan know that. It changes nothing.”
“Is this about Cordan?”
“No. I wish it were, as Cordan is a just god and more likely to ignore us. Kenderson has been divining portents for Haladar’s service and the festival. He’s always been a servant to the greater good, imploring the gods for everything from kind weather and safe travel to robust ales and fair competitions.”
“Sounds like him,” Xandrakus admitted as a black cat wandered into the room.
“Hello Azakai,” Orto said.
“Tell him his street cats are scrawny, and it takes two of them to make a decent meal.”
“He says hello.”
“The hell I did.” Azakai jumped into Xandrakus’ lap. “Wine, please.”
“If you get drunk, I’m putting a freeze spell on you.”
“It probably won’t work, but you give it your best.”
Xandrakus poured some of the wine into the serving tray and the cat went to work, lapping it up.
“Kenderson,” Orto continued, “feels something quite untoward is coming this way. He is not sure what exactly, but he is certain that fair weather and fair contests will be the least of our concerns.”
Xandrakus nodded. “Something is amiss, of that I am certain. I can feel it.”
“When is Flindel arriving?”
“He said he’d be here for the service. He wouldn’t miss that.”
“I expected him by now.”
“As was I.”
“Xan, I’d like you to stay with me through the festival. If something is amiss, I’d like some help in facing whatever it might be.”
“I cannot say no to you, Orto. Just do me a favor and change the bathing servant if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Was she not pleasing? You want younger, older, plumper, bigger bosoms, twins? Name it.”
“No, her bosoms are fine, but we have a history.”
“First smart thing you’ve done this week.”
Xandrakus ignored Azakai. “Let’s just say she is a girlfriend from some years ago. Better yet, ask them to fill the bath and go.”
“It shall be done.”

Flindel arrived shortly before midnight. Orto insisted on a meal, again limiting conversation to pleasant things as they ate. After enjoying the meal, Xandrakus and Flindel retired to Orto’s study. The trio sat in three high-backed chairs, sampling a new bottle of berry wine with flecks of gold in it. Flindel suddenly extinguished the sconces, after which they began to glow with a soft mystic light.
“I hate candles,” Flindel said. “They’re depressing. Always better to use magic.”
“I always liked the quiet ambiance of a campfire,” Orto mused. “At this stage of life, any fire is welcome, especially if enjoyed from the comfort of a soft chair.”
“Did you find Tari?” Xandrakus asked.
“He seems to be missing,” Flindel said. “I checked with a few mutual acquaintances, and despite a few fine ales and conversations shared, no one has seen him in half a year.”
“He was checking on the Gate and then heading to the Athenaeum.”
“He never arrived at the Athenaeum,” Flindel said. “I checked with Sueresan. She’d know if he came through the doors.”
“Aye,” Xandrakus said. “So, what did you find?”
“The Gate is unstable, though no one seems to have true information, just rumors, which grow with each telling and spread like a plague.”
“We have to go back?” Orto asked.
“I would suggest some of us do,” Flindel said. “I was getting some unsettling omens, so I summoned the others a week ago. They should be here or arriving shortly. None would want to miss Haladar’s memorial anyway.”
“If we must close the Gate again,” Orto said, “I will accompany you.”
“I know you would, Orto,” Flindel said. “But this time we’ll need some younger swords. You did your duty and can rest on this one.”
“I never should have become baron,” Orto said with a touch of anger.
“Better to rule from the comfort of a chair than fight a new battle each day,” Xandrakus said.
“Even thrones have their daily battles, but not the kind I can solve with a sword. I so miss those days.”
“It’s not just the Gate,” Flindel said. “There was a definite sense of unease in the Planes. The Redcaps suddenly doubled their prices and the Fetchlings have all disappeared.”
“I’m a fan of neither,” Xandrakus said.
“Few are. I was also being watched. I slipped through a few short gates, but I know I was still being watched.”

The funeral and memorial service were to be the next day. Kenderson stood with Miarorra looking at Haladar’s body. The decay was barely contained beneath a veneer of calm.
“Ivamaya has done what work she can,” Kenderson said. “We either bury him tomorrow or he’ll rot before the day after.”
“You did good work,” Miarorra said.
Kenderson looked at her, though his expression was not kind. “Don’t insult me. Ivamaya does the work.”
“Ivamaya did good work. You made a good babysitter for a corpse.”
“Your kindness is ever noted,” Kenderson said, leaving Miarorra and the corpse as he exited the room.

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