Gathering the Tools
Nicodemus threw back his hood as his mud-encrusted boots climbed the wooden steps. The gutter over the porch poured a stream of water down his back as he passed under it, stinging his flesh with bitter cold. The gentle hiss of the storm died away in an instant, replaced by the thrumming against the shingles. He felt the warmth of the hearth and living bodies even before he passed the threshold.
The Wolf Warden Tavern was crowded tonight. There was even a gremlin merchant posted in the corner, with some sort of lizard creature tending the wares. Nicodemus made his way past many tables, and many sorts of travelers, before sitting at the far end of the bar. He hoped to buy a drink and collect his thoughts.
On the road, trying in vain to make it as far as Tremali Keep, he was waylaid by horrors of the Shadowrealm. Angry spirits, bent on revenge for that terrible deed only two nights past, had rent his flesh and broken his bones. The skirmish had been ugly but quick; Nicodemus was prepared for a dozen encounters, but in panic, exhausted almost all of his magic at once. The spirits were driven back, not vanquished, and he only had enough time and energy to seal his wounds. They would mend overnight, but the wandering souls Nicodemus was forced to consume left him dizzy with alien thoughts. One in particular was an overpowering desire for beer, which as far as Nicodemus could recall he had never tasted.
The barkeep was fat and rude, biting Nicodemus’s coin and doubting it even as he dropped it in the massive stein that served as his cashbox. “What’ll it be, pale one?”
“Uh…” he was at a loss and the noise of the crowd swam through his skull, “beer?”
“We have Lootsberg, Chavo, and Mortgurn Belly.”
At first Nicodemus was confused and frustrated, about to order water instead, but then recalled how bitter and salty Mortgurn Belly tasted. That’s what he thirsted for. “Mortgurn. Warm with a bit of head.”
“Warm wit a bit o’ head, eh? Haven’t had that particular request since Miller Brown past.” He tapped the keg. “You wouldn’t have known him. Dust before you were schooled.”
“Reckon not.” The beer slid in front of him and he quaffed it thirstily.
At the other end of the bar, Nicodemus noticed three dhampyl, armored in high quality mail. It did not bare any specific marks of Imperial office, only those common to House Vraash loyalists. Still, the sight of their “noble” blood worried Nicodemus; the last thing he needed was attention from the authorities. It wouldn’t be long before the dead were sequestered and his crime made known to the Sentries.
One of the dhampyl moved to a table occupied by three humans that Nicodemus recognized as practitioners of the arcane arts, although not walkers of the Silent Path like himself. Elementalists, he presumed. One was a man in black robes who appeared younger than his snow-white crew cut would betray. Another was a young woman in drab brown, smoking from a pipe in a most unwomanly manner. The last was a gray-robed thin man who wore his hood up, only revealing a nose and a chin, clutching his mug with both hands in front of his face. The dhampyl stood before them and hollered loudly at the white-haired man, “I heard what you spoke. You know nothing of dhampyl.”
The man ignored him.
“You have no right. I demand to know your names.”
In a language Nicodemus did not understand, but some patron behind him was glad to translate vocally to nearby friends, the human responded “I see no mark of prestige young man; I believe it is you who have no right.”
The woman relit her pipe with a tiny flame conjured at the tip of her finger. The gray cloaked man, facing the woman across the table, chilled his mug so that mist wisped off its brim and took another sip.
The dhampyl continued, matching the human’s foreign tongue (with Nicodemus getting a shouted translation from behind him) “I am Anthelis Eron Vraash, second custodian of the Naman-Imria here in Cankleton. If you’re going to speak of our holy order in my presence, you’d better show it some respect.”
Still not meeting the half-vampire’s gaze, the white-haired man politely said, “You may call me Reginald.”
The woman puffed smoke directly at Anthelis, “Chaseia Janiquin, mate.”
The hooded man, between sips, said “Mark Fleur.”
“Ha.” Chaseia scoffed as the lanterns around them flickered, “Liar.”
Mark shrugged, then muttered to his ale “Show off.”
Anthelis, with a sneer, laid his hand on the hilt at his hip, “Well Reginald, I assume by saying ‘Their folly nearly cost them the war,’ you meant something else?”
Reginald tapped his glass, “Not at all. Their folly nearly cost them the war. I suppose, second custodian, I should have said ‘Your folly.’ Does that suit you?”
Anthelis grabbed the handle. Chaseia snapped her fingers and a blinding flash shut the eyes of all three dhampyl. Mark sent a tiny blue comet to Anthelis’s sword and encased it in a rime of ice. It would not budge as the warrior tugged at it. Anthelis staggered back, ready for combat. Reginald reached out with his hand, and as it moved through the air it transformed into solid stone. With a single firm grasp he shattered the dhampyl’s blade into metallic tinder that clattered to the floor.
Reginald, now staring directly at his accuser, said calmly “I am a scholar of such things and I do not speak with malice. It was your folly that almost lost us to Myra. I believe it was Mellul who said ‘The undying blood makes us as invulnerable as steel.’ As you see, steel is quite vulnerable. Mellul died, at the hands of humans, a hundred years before the Naman-Imria was ever formed, so it still eludes me why you quote him for anything.”
Anthelis’s men drew their weapons, and the barkeep shouted “None of that here.” When they did not withdraw, he added, “Take it outside if you must.”
A nin’ki ratling sprung from the shadows nearby and slammed a skillet across both drawn swords, knocking them to the ground. When they turned to him, he was gone as fast as he had come, melting into the floor.
Anthelis spat onto the mages’ table and stepped back. “I’ll be waiting for you,” and he and his men retrieved their weapons and stepped onto the porch outside, their forms darkening the misted glass windows near the entrance.
The crowd was shocked in silence and then began to shout in discord, giving Nicodemus a splitting headache. “You’ve got a rat-man in the kitchen?” Sounds of gagging. Plates being thrown to the ground. Many patrons left, shouting, “That’s disgusting.”
The bartender tried to assure the crowd that the nin’ki was relegated to the basement and was on strict orders never to come upstairs until after closing to clean. Still, many common folk could not stand the sight of it. Nicodemus overheard, from beyond the bar and in the pantry, the loud scolding from the bartender. Again, it was in another language, that of the ratling nin’ki, but the patron by the dagger-table was happy to translate this too for all who could hear. “You’ve really done it this time, you filthy little twerp,” followed by the sound of many beatings and lashings. After the back door slammed, the bartender came back to the bar and gave all present a round on the house.
At this, a woman who was so scantily clad that she should have had more eyes upon her moved out to leave to the privy. What kept all the horny hounds at bay was her abundance of tattoos that marked her as one of the wild folk, the tree-worshipping shaman. None of these ‘decent’ townies wanted any part in their voodoo. Nicodemus was curious, and mustered the last of his energies to peer through the walls of the tavern with his shadow-sight. Besides learning that a few ghosts frequented the bar out of habit, he saw the shaman lady sooth the wounds of the nin’ki with magic as it huddled frightened and bruised against the outhouse. Of all her tattoos, her elaborate rat tattoo was the most pronounced now, and glowed as she drew energy from it.
“Hey stranger,” a shapely woman in leather saddled-up to Nicodemus, “nice eyes.”
He withdrew from his trance, now remembering that while using shadow-sight, he left his eyes black as coal. “Sorry; don’t be alarmed. I just want a drink.”
“Why should I be? Your kind protects us from the worse things that linger in the land of the dead, right? I should feel comfortable with you around.”
“Heh. Right.” Her pulse, Nicodemus noticed, was even.
“Yeah, I could use a drink. Horrible what happened today, wasn’t it?”
“Pardon?” Nicodemus needed a second brew.
“The hangin’.”
“Oh yes.” Skully Joe was put to death for raping his sister and then maiming his mother with a forge-hammer when she barged into the scene. Skully claimed that it was all lies, part of a conspiracy to tarnish the name of his new fur-trade business. Skully was a local fixture for many years, amusing and disgusting folks with his various antics, like when he stood on the roof of the mayor’s house and listed all the times and occasions he saw the mayor engaging in activities Skully himself had been thrown in jail for. The sister rape/brutal matricide was a bit out of character for Skully, but everyone knew he was crazy and the Sentries had found him covered in blood at the scene.
“Skully was a good man,” she said and ordered two Mortgurns.
“I didn’t know him well.”
“Travelling then?”
“Yeah,” against all logic, Nicodemus found himself admitting “trying to head up to Tremali Keep.”
“Whoah,” giving him the other beer, “Trying to get in and muck about?”
Abashed now, “A bit.”
“Well, I’m actually heading that way but won’t brave the road by myself. I’d take kindly to a man of your trade backing me.”
Nicodemus was shocked, but the beer tasted very good. “Is that so?”
“As long as we head out soon.”
“Fair enough.”
“But, we probably won’t make it by ourselves.”
“Reckon not.”