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.

[Zek]

Lots of good work Phil

[Zorander]

Night passed into day. Miarorra thought well of Orto’s deceased heir, but the body was now beyond tolerance despite Kenderson’s preservation spells. She almost hated herself for enjoying Kenderson’s failure. She assured Orto that she would oversee the final preparations so she would abide as needed. Two of Ivamaya’s temple servants assisted Kardeth—the poor bastard had spent nearly two weeks with the corpse—and two others helped move the body. The ceremonial carriage that would carry the young man held a thick bed of rosemary and lavender. She hoped the fragrant bed would be enough to mask the smell.
“You needn’t be here,” Kenderson’s voice came from behind her. No one ever surprised her, yet Kenderson was ever an annoying conundrum.
“The Baron has tasked me as his personal advisor in this ceremony. I indeed do need to be here.”
“As you wish.”
“Some of us serve those who do for the world, Kenderson. Doesn’t your god have something for you to do?”
“I go where the goddess sends me.”
“And right now, she’s sent you to keep a corpse from rotting, a task you seem unfit to complete.”
“Even the goddess can’t keep the dead from decay. It’s the natural order of things, though I’m not nearly as pragmatic about it as the death cults.”
“Do your job, cleric,” she said bluntly. “I won’t see Orto disappointed.”

The day hosted a blanket of clouds that hung over Everton Wells, shielding the somber event from what would have been an otherwise beautiful day. It seemed appropriate, Xandrakus thought. Were he able to conjure weather, this would have been the perfect spell result.
“Your wish may have come true,” Azakai said, pacing Xandrakus’s shoulders as a cat.
“What wish?”
“I sense magic. Elf magic.”
“I don’t see anyone.”
“I’m more attuned to these things, which is why you need me and should lavish praise and adulation upon me.”
“You’re tiresome,” Xandrakus said.
“Coming in from the west. Want me to take a look?”
“People are already on edge due to the rumors so a giant wasp suddenly leaping from my shoulders would incite a riot.”
“I’m okay with that; I can watch from a hundred feet up.”
“Why are you being like this?”
“I’m hungover. You gave me too much wine last night.”
“I’m not responsible for the irresponsibility of an older-than-me wasp.”
“I’m just the familiar. You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”

A fanfare of trumpets and a dozen stringed instruments rose up from the castle. Two stallions drew the funeral carriage, loaded down with burning incense and more flowers arranged atop the corpse. The wagon rolled slowly through the castle portcullis and onto the street. Kenderson led the procession of Ivamaya priests, all outfitted in their finest temple robes. After the carriage, Baron Orto rode a grey palfrey, its stride slow and somber. Miarorra walked beside him, as did Jae’akan. Xandrakus and Flindel were invited to join the procession, but had they been recognized, they would have been a distraction from the ceremony.

Nerund and T’ayend’anna stood together in the crowd, six persons deep along the street leading to the town square.
“It’s the death squad,” Tay pointed out to Nerund. The Warden Rhislock sat atop his horse, his acolytes fanned out about him. The rest of the crowd gave the party a wide berth.
“I hold no understanding of a religion that worships death,” Nerund said. “Death will come soon enough without worshiping it.”
“I don’t care a whit about the cult, but I should have slit that bastard’s throat years ago.”
“Not that I would have approved, T’ayend’anna, but I was confounded that you didn’t.”
“I was different then. Young and stupid. It happens again, I won’t hesitate.”

The carriage moved slowly down the soggy cobblestone street. Despite the booths set up for the festival, which was to start in the morning, the crowd was appropriately somber. The procession moved to the town square as those who turned out fell in behind Orto’s retinue.
The horses drew the carriage to the center of the square as more onlookers poured out of the Copper Cockatrice and the Spritely Spriggan. Orto mounted a dais, where the crowd could see him clearly. Kenderson joined him and Jae’akan flanked his other side. Miarorra stood behind the dais.
“My dear people,” Orto began.
“Orto is looking frail,” Flindel noted.
“He’s been in declining health, and this has added yet more years to him.”
“The honorable Haladar,” Orto continued, “was a beacon of light in otherwise often dreary days. His health was ever a challenge, yet his smile was as natural and ready as was a kind hand at all times. We all suffer loss when we lose such a caring and… beautiful soul. But the gods are rewarded by our loss. We can—”
Haladar suddenly sat upright, the piles of flowers and rosemary tumbling from his chest. His sunken eyes opened wide and he stretched out a withered hand toward Orto. “Father! Where is the Gate? Why has it been removed! Why can’t I rest?! Why?!”
Kenderson rushed from the dais toward the carriage as the crowd backed away or ran; others drew knives or swords. Haladar took one last look toward Orto before slumping back into the bed of rosemary, unmoving. Kenderson said prayers, his acolytes joining in. Some of the crowd invoked Ivamaya’s name on behalf of Haladar. Despite Kenderson’s pleading prayers, the Baron’s son remained very dead.

[Zorander]

Orto, visibly shaken, slowly descended from the dais. The steward, Dorlan, issued quick orders and the horses drawing the carriage started, heading toward the tombs outside town. Miarorra and Jae’akan guided Orto, whose face was the color of ash, his eyes blank.
“I’m heading to Omphalos,” Flindel said as the crowd dispersed. “I’ll check a few other sources for Tari and meet you back here in two days. If you can find Sid, that would help. And I see Rhislock showed up. See what he knows.”
“Can we slap the smug look off his face while we’re talking to him?” Azakai asked.
“It wouldn’t hurt my heart to see that,” Flindel said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a circlet of brass and tin.
“That’s likely to cause a stir,” Xandrakus said.
“A corpse just sat up and screamed. I don’t think the crowd will be any more distraught than they already are by a portal. See you in two days.” The circlet expanded though this time to only three feet, and Flindel took off his hat and ducked through. The portal shrank and disappeared behind him.
Xandrakus looked toward Rhislock’s party. The cleric remained stoic, though his mask would allow nothing less. “Let’s go talk to him,” he said to Azakai.
Rhislock, unmoving, watched Xandrakus approach. A man, one of the entourage, stepped up to greet Xandrakus.
“I am Kabrin, M’lord. How may His Grace serve you?”
“I need to speak with Rhislock,” Xandrakus said without slowing his gait.
“Of course, m’lord—”
Xandrakus pushed past Kabrin and approached Rhislock. “What do you know of this?”
“Fair of fortune to see you again, mage,” Rhislock said.
“You’re here so you know something.”
“Her Grace led me here. Though I know not the full scope of Her plan, I answer as She calls.”
“What happened here?” Xandrakus demanded.
“The dead are unsettled, Xandrakus.”
“Really?” Azakai said. “Is he sure? What was his first suspicion?”
“The cause?”
“I suspect the same as I’m sure you do. Whatever the cause, Her Grace directed me here, so here is where the path likely begins.”
“Where are you staying?” Xandrakus asked.
“The Spritely Spriggan,” Rhislock said.
“Perfect match!” Azakai said. “When I think of a crazed death cult, sprightly is the first thing that comes to mind.”
“With this unnecessary festival, there were no proper rooms at the Copper Cockatrice.”
“I’ll follow up with you in a few hours.”
“As you wish,” Rhislock said. “I am at Her disposal, so will remain until otherwise instructed.”

“I’ve seen Astral dragons, yet he still sends the creepy-crawlies up my wings,” Azakai said.
“He’s served his purpose,” Xandrakus responded.
“We seem to be walking toward the delegation from the Wild Chantry.”
“Your observation skills remain impeccable.”
“I’m not sensing Bezregelidin among them. Sorry.”
“I wasn’t confident Shen-Shiel would make the journey,” Xandrakus said, switching to magespeak. “The trips outside the Chantry are wearying for them.”
“We could still visit the Chantry.”
“Likely another time.”
The emissaries from the Wild Chantry were setting up tents just beyond the wall, eschewing the comfort of the city. Xandrakus recognized the elven lord in charge. “Well met, Lord Adrie’m’nondas.”
“Lord Xandrakus,” the elf responded with a nod. “Sad events seem to bring us together more than those of better fortune.”
“Aye, they do. We must make more time for pleasantries when the dead are settled again.”
Adrie’m’nondas gripped Xandrakus’ arm in greeting, a sad smile on his face. “Lady Shen-Shiel wishes me to convey her regrets to Baron Orto, yet his attentions have been understandably occupied these hours.”
“I’m sure he’ll make time as he can. How is Shen-Shiel?”
“She also asked me, should our paths cross, to convey a warm greeting to you. Your invitation to visit the Wild Chantry is ever open.”
“There are clearly some pressing questions in need of answers, but as soon as we have seen to such matters, I will make it a priority.”
Xandrakus walked back to the castle while Azakai stretched his wings overhead; at least he wasn’t bitching about being a cat. Jae’akan was at the gate as people lined up to gain entrance in case Baron Orto was receiving people. Xandrakus passed the line to get to the Captain of the Guard.
“Strange times,” Jae’akan said as Xandrakus approached.
“Indeed. Has Orto returned?”
“He did within the past hour.”
“I’ll not bother him yet,” Xandrakus said. “He’s likely needing more contemplative time than counsel right now.”
“If my dead son just sat up on his funeral cart, I would need time, counsel, and strong drink.”
“I need to check on Sidrigan and then I’ll check on Orto.”
“I expect to visit the Copper Cock this evening if you’re for a draught and conversation of a less that world-ending import.”
“I may take you up on that.”
Xandrakus snuck off to his room. Azakai, in full wasp form, lounged on the bed. He stretched his wings to full form before folding them against his back.
“Ready to solve the world’s problems?”
“Hardly,” Xandrakus said. “I need to locate Sid. I need to do an augury.”
“I’d rather not. We just put up with the condescension of the death cult and now we have to deal with dead mages?”
“The world isn’t a fair place, but we do as we must.”
“And you need my help, I assume?”
“It’s this sort of thing I keep you around for. It does make it easier.”
“And I suppose you believe my sole purpose in life is to make things easier for you?”
“I wish that were so.” Xandrakus conjured a box from nowhere. Nothing ostentatious, just a common chest a few feet by a foot. He opened the box and pulled three items from it: chalk, silver dust, and a heavy robe.
“Just keep the buzzards off me,” Xandrakus said, pulling on the robe.
“You call them buzzards, but we both know they’re mindless and angry failed mages venting their frustrations on the rest of us.”
“As they are,” Xandrakus said absently as he drew a simple circle with the chalk. He sprinkled the silver dust within the boundary of the circle before stepping into it.
“I really hate this,” Azakai said, settling on Xandrakus’ shoulder. “It’s not natural.”
“Nothing we do is natural, but we need information.”

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