Chapter 1: Visions

Trent stood upon a cliff’s edge, the wind around him cold, and gazed into an endless void. Black as pitch, the darkness pressed upon his heart with a weight that he could neither name nor measure. Behind him lay no road, no stone, no shadow, only the absence of all things, as if the world had been carved away, past, present, and all the days yet to come. Before him the void stirred, its depths knotting in strange patterns, as though some vast hand sought to write its secrets upon the air. Amid the swell of insignificance that threatened to swallow him, an image burned itself into his sight. A humble hut of mud, standing proud in the midst of bountiful farmland heavy with grain. A red moon splattered light like fresh blood across the sky.

The words “Find me!” in a young girls voice scraped across his mind like a knife across glass, as he was thrust out of his restless sleep. With a spluttering cough Trent shot up, his hand instinctively reaching out for the blunt knife by his side. Pale sunlight stretched across the dimly lit alleyway that he had called his bedroom for the night, revealing no enemy in sight. He rummaged through his bed of empty bottles, the liquid they once contained now bearing the fruits of a splitting headache. His short unwashed copper length hair fell awkwardly in his face, pushed aside only by his subtly pointed ears, a mark of his half forgotten elven lineage. Trent was adorned in a long brown leather overcoat, lined with the shaggy grey fur of a wolf. Strips of blood speckled cloth wound around his hands, serving as relics of battles now passed.

“Certainly not a dream…” Trent muttered, pulling out a small beaded pink bracelet from the pile.

“Still here!” he paused, staring down at the bracelet with a longing expression.

Climbing to his feet and stumbling to the edge of the alley, he placed a hand on a nearby wall. His eyes squinted at the morning light, as the first tepid signs of life began to breathe into the sleepy town of Glimmerfall. Or at least, usually sleepy. As of lately things seemed to have gotten rather out of hand. Tired villagers trudged through muddy streets, but where there would normally be crowds of carts pulled by farmers and merchants, with children dancing between, it seemed that on this day nobody was in a working mood. The churning liquid in Trent’s stomach settled at last, and he stepped out into the threshold of the street. A gust caught his cloak, tugging him toward a wall layered thick with curling sheets of fresh parchment. On every sheet, one face stared back at him. A girl, no more than thirteen, with stringy black hair spilling to her shoulders, veiling much of her face. The artist’s hand had lingered too long at the eyes and mouth, lending her a slyness that seemed almost devil-born. Whether truth or malice, Trent could not say, but the smile on the page was one he could not shake.

A lone shadow clung to the side of the narrow alleys entrance, still, as if were a statue. It seemed unaware that it had already been marked. Trent turned his head subtly, so as to not make eye contact with the figure. It called out “You’d do well to sheathe that blade while you walk these streets, Mr Oswyn” the figure called, the words carrying the weight of a warning rather than courtesy.

Trent steadily shifted the dagger he had hastily retrieved moments ago, and sheathed it on his side. He called back “And a good morning to you too Alexander!”.

“Not much good about it” Alexander said solemnly; “Whole kingdoms on the edge of war. Four townsfolk dead in three days, and the suspect runs free. And when the families of the dead come calling, who do you think they blame?”

“Glimmerfall’s finest protector?” Trent mocked; one hand nervously shifting the bracelet he had collected earlier around his palm.

Alexander stepped out of the shadows. He was a squat, thick-bodied dwarven man, with a patchy beard the color of old straw and hair retreating from his forehead. His eyes were red-rimmed, sunk deep above cheeks heavy with wear, and the stink of unwashed leather clung to the filthy armor upon his back. He leaned in close, his breath warm and sour. “Best mind your step, Mr Oswyn,” he murmured, low enough for only one man to hear. “These are unkind days for our town, and folk are hungry for a victory. Strangers with sly eyes and loud mouths often find themselves staring at the world through iron bars.”

Voice cold, Trent replied “Three townsfolk dead in three days…I’m no betting man, but given you’re prowling alleys on the outskirts of town, I’d wager that you’re fresh out of leads already. The mud on your boots is the kind you’d find from the outer woods just beyond the towns farmlands, so you likely tracked her as far as there before losing the trail. If it’s hexcraft she’s using then I’d look for any signs of the surrounding nature changing. Witches spells have a way of twisting their surroundings to their will.”

Alexander held his tongue a moment, the lines about his eyes tightening as some unspoken thought worked its way through him. After a pause, he took a slow step back, then another, his gaze never leaving Trent’s face.

“I suppose you could be on to something” he said at last, the words grudging. “Be on your way… before I think the better of it.”

Trent lingered for a moment, contemplating whether or not to tempt fate, a force which has never been kind to him. He pocketed his bracelet, turning away from Alexander, and moved quickly away among shadowy side streets, thinking it best not to give him another reason to pursue. In the wake of the recent murders, the streets were empty and cold. Charming brick houses and thatched roofs now sheltered the woefully under-defended populace of this tragedy stricken place. The waterfalls just north of Glimmerfall had once been laced with gold, making home to a booming populace dedicated to collecting it for a time. However it has since been stripped of all its resources, and left underserved by the ruling Yisha Dynasty. Trent had lived on the streets of this dying town for long enough to know his way around. Try as he may, he couldn’t get the images from his dreams out of his mind. That feeling he was left with, the feeling of insignificance in the face of something greater. It spelled the beginning of something that Trent knew he could not escape.

As sunlight forced its light upon the villages darkened mood, he found himself on its frayed outskirts. There stood a scattering of humble mud huts and livestock pens, packed to the brim with oxen too lazy to stir. One hut in particular seemed to be in disarray, its outer walls scarred and crumbled, the mud bricks on one side like brittle chalk. Trent was certain of it, this was the hut from his dream. The surrounding grass was dried and black, lifeless in the morning breeze. Against the partially destroyed wall lay a bundle of orchids; carefully bound with a pink ribbon.

Trent stood amongst the scene, stopping to take in the every detail. When the first murder happened it was all anyone could talk about. Now no one besides to victims family dared set foot on the grounds. Until today. He was certain, this was the hut that had seized his dream.

A broad shouldered boy, no older than twenty, leered at Trent from nearby amongst a heaped pile of chopped firewood. The wood itself was splintered, carelessly destroyed. The boy had densely wound muscles comparable to a thoroughbred, wearing the garments of a simple farmhand. One hand held a rusted axe, its metal marked from many seasons passed. His other hand was covered with a loose dirty cloth bandage. Blood seeped through, and while his gaze was steeled, his wincing movements betrayed the pain that he was really feeling.

Trent caught his gaze, and approached. “I’d say no one would blame you if took the day from working my friend.” His eyes wandered to the piles of firewood, far more than any one man would need.

“There’s always work to be done, regardless of tragedy.” The boy replied. He looked down at the axe he was holding. “Besides…it saves my mind from wandering.”

Trent looked back at the hut, pausing to think, “It’s a shame what happened.”

“I’ve heard that a great many times lately. Doesn’t seem to do me much good to hear it.” sighed the boy, who grabbed another log, lining it up on his chopping block.

“Might I ask how you earned those bandages?” Trent asked, gesturing to the boys arm.

The boy instinctively reached a hand to cover his wound. “Same thing happened to that wall” He nodded to the hut, before bringing his axe down on the log, splintering it clean in half, and sending the pieces flying.

Trent stepped closer, furrowing his brow “I hear it was a little girl.”

“A girl“ The boy looked to the ground “or a devil.”

“And where did this devil come from Mr?…”

The boy placed his axe to the side. “Fernbrew, Merrick Fernbrew. But you ain’t need to call me mister. As far as i can tell she came from the river. Her dress was sopping wet, covered in mud. Scared me honestly, she looked as pale as a ghoul. She was trying to sneak past our farm. That's when my sister Annah caught her, and her skin...” He paused for a moment, staring off to the side of Trent, failing to meet his gaze. “It was like it lit on fire. Scarred poor Annah…she died of her wounds soon after.” His voice cracked, emotions claiming it from him for a moment. “Course my Pa and I gave chase, but when he placed his hand on her shoulder she screamed and let out another burst of fire. Killed him too, and caught me a bit in the blast. I stayed behind to try and save my Pa but....he didn't make it either."

Trent paced back and forth slowly as he listened. There weren’t a great many hex’s he knew of that fit the boys description, and lesser still that a little girl could become involved with. “Is it you alone now on this farm?”

Sadness welled in Merricks eyes as his voice faltered “Yes sir, just me”

“If it’s any consolation, a girl that young, no matter the magic, can’t stay on the run for long. They’ll find her.” Trent said, stepping forward and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Merrick hesitated, before relaxing his shoulders, and taking a deep breath. “Would i be mad to say that part of me doesn’t want her to die? The families of the others, they’re vengeful. But I just want things to go back to as they were.”

“Perhaps I could speak to the other families?  Trent asked.

Merrick met Trent’s gaze, and nodded in gratitude. “The mother of one of the victims, she runs the Drunken Banjo Inn.”

“You’re a good lad, Merrick.” Trent replied, turning to leave.

Merrick placed a hand on Trent’s arm, his grip stronger than the oxen in his fields “If you don’t mind me asking mister…why are you so interested in all of this?  You ain’t kings guard, and my Pa always said there’s no sense chasing tragedy.” Merrick asked.

Trent thought to himself for a moment, rubbing the back of his head, knowing that he himself didn’t know exactly what had possessed him. “I’m just trying to help.”

Merrick loosened his grip “Just make sure you don’t plant more than you can harvest sir”.

Trent chuckled slightly to himself, “If I knew how to do that I’d be far from here friend”. He reached into his overcoat, grabbing a humble coin purse containing fifteen silver crowns. Trent took Merricks hand, and placed the purse in his palm. “For the wall. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

For the first time since meeting, Merrick mustered up a smile “Thank you mister; and good luck”.

The two shared a moment of understanding,  and then Trent turned, his long overcoat catching the wind. He moved silently across the morning dew covered grass of the surrounding farmland. As he walked with purpose to the Drunken Banjo Inn, the wind shifted subtly, and a flock of ravens in the sky flew steadfast in the same direction as his intent.

—————

Chapter 2: Blood & Prayers

“Have you been up long?” Volanta asked, wincing a little as she sat up, hand clutching the old stitched wound on her ribcage.

A modest fire crackled and spat in the hearth of a humble abode, its glow painting the cramped cottage in warm colours. For weeks she had called this narrow place her refuge, though its walls seemed to press closer with each passing day. Shelves lined all walls of the room, sagging beneath the weight of time-worn trinkets, rust flecked gears, stones carved to strange shapes, and bits of metal whose purpose had been forgotten long ago. Sweet smoke curled from surrounding sticks of incense, winding through the air like a lazy serpent, cloaking the room in a balm of peace. By the fire, a large looming presence sunk into a rocking chair of black steel, silent and unmoving.

“I trust I didn’t rob you of your sleep” she said, rising from her stool. Her movements were slow but steadier than the day before, and there was color in her cheeks where pallor had clung. She reached for a small pouch of tea leaves and a charred cat iron pot, the metal pitted from years of fire. “I’d not be standing at all, were it not for you.”

Volanta was no small woman. She stood near to six feet, broad of shoulder and corded with the hard muscle of a warrior long acquainted with conflict. Her hair fell in a wild, tangled mane of dark ginger, untamed as the savanna from which she hailed. Pelts hung about her shoulders and waist, each fur a relic of the beasts she had slain, wolf and bear, fox and elk; stitched together into a patchwork that spoke of winters survived and hunts well won.

She placed the pot atop the fire, grabbing a nearby jug of water and pouring it in with the leaves. “I hope our little friend is okay”

The figure by the fire moved at last, the steel chair groaning as it rocked to and fro. Its mighty hands rose into the light, nearly twice the size of Volanta’s, each finger thick as a mason’s chisel. Rather than skin, cold pale stone made the body of this creature. Deep cracks lined its form like the creases of an old crone’s body, and in those gaps clung moss, with pale mushrooms sprouting in damp hollows; a living garden upon a body of rock. Slowly, the golem turned its head, its movement grinding like millstones, and opened its palms. Nestled there was a raven.

The raven was a timid thing, no larger than a child’s fist, its head drew in tight against a ragged mantle of thinning black feathers. One wing hung crooked, stripped bare; almost to bone, as if the wind itself had gnawed it clean. A milky shroud clouded one beady eye, the other glinting dark as wet coal. It gave a rasping croak, thin and brittle, and shifted weakly in the golem’s grasp, its talons scraping the stone.

Volanta smiled warmly and said “It’s funny, the only time I’d see ravens in the Fading Savanna was when they were picking apart the remains of rival clans after a battle. But this one seems…peaceful” she reached out a finger, the raven retreating further into its feathers, “if not a little worn”.

She persisted, her eyes never leaving the little corvid. “When my dream led us to him, I must admit I was…underwhelmed. But he’s growing on me.”

The golem cradled the raven in one vast hand. The other reached to the arm of its chair, until it found a small wooden pendant. It was carved, worn smooth by years of touch. The golem turned it slowly between its fingers, with the grace of a gentle giant. Upon its face was a simple mark, a dove, wings outstretched, frozen in flight. The bird’s lines were clean, almost tender, the work of a careful hand. Against the golem’s weathered palm, it looked fragile, a relic of gentler days.

The golem lifted the pendant, its cold unrelenting gaze fixed upon it. The nearby fire crackled a little louder, and began to flicker as though a gentle wind was passing it by. Volanta could feel the air in the room become a little warmer, as a sense of calm gently pressed upon her. In the golems other hand was a bundle of small seeds. These seeds began to sprout, as though many seasons were passing them by, growing to small vines that moved not to the light of the sun but to the will of their stone caretaker. The barren wing that the raven had tucked to its side was soon wrapped, and from the vines sprouted beautiful flowers of all colours, their petals forming new feathers for the little bird. Several small cracking sounds came from the creature's wing, as its crooked bones unbent, and the raven now stood straight in the golems grasp.

Volanta looked in awe at the arcana unravelling before her. Staring at the raven, she said “Easel, friend, not to put it lightly, your gods gifts are incredible”.

Easel’s gaze lingered on Volanta, their unyielding stone expression frozen. Before they could communicate, the raven in their palm stirred sudden and fierce, loosing a ragged cry as it burst upward in a flurry of its feathers and flowers alike. The sound was harsh in the close room, a crowing squawk far stronger than the pitiful croaks it had managed before. For just the time of a heartbeat its clouded eye shone with a light not from the golems magic, but something older, stranger. Then it struck hard against the shutter of the rooms closed windows, wood splintering beneath the blow, and was gone into the morning air.

Volanta was quick to the window, her furs brushing the frame as she leaned out. The bird wheeled high, wings beating with wild strength, before cutting away toward the far edges of the village. She watched as it dwindled, swiftly disappearing on the horizon.

“Whatever the hell that was, I dreamt of that bird for a reason. I’d bet some force intends for us to follow it!”. Volanta proclaimed hurriedly, turning to grab her things.

Before she could, Easel’s hulking hand met her, holding a worn great-axe. Its cracked wooden handle bent and scarred from harsh winters not of the land Volanta had now found herself in. Time and hard use had left scars along the steel head, pits from rust, chips from armor, but the weight of it promised ruin all the same. It was no knight’s weapon, all polish and pageantry, but the tool of a reaver, meant to split bone with ease.

Volanta nodded in thanks to Easel, taking the great-axe in hand, and hastily grabbing a nearby bag of supplies. Easel slipped the pendant around their neck, and fetched a small patchwork satchel packed tightly with herbs and bottles that they strapped around their waist.

The pair darted for the exit of the little abode, bursting out the door and looking to the skies for the raven.

Tracking the little corvid was not easy, though it seemed at every turn when they may lose it the bird slowed. It wanted them to follow. Morning chill turned to a pleasant sunny day, but it was not long before the hopeful sunlight was choked by the high-rise canopy of the Outer Woods surrounding Glimmerfall. While Easel seemed almost at home amongst the nature, Volanta stumbled across the floor of stubborn knotted roots from trees far older than the current century. The bird dove to stay within eyesight, hopping from branch to branch along the path to its destination. The woods themselves were alien to Volanta, who’d grown up in open plains for most of her life amongst her tribe. Towers of oak as old as gods formed a beautiful maze, and this maze was not without life. An interconnected network of small creatures hummed throughout every tree, root, pond and bush. The full, unbridled, uninterrupted force of nature met the pairs senses.

It was only a few hours until the little raven had reached its last branch. It hopped back and forth, chirping for attention. The small isolated patch of trees seemed to be as normal as any other place in the woods. Easel was the first to spot it, lifting their arm and pointing. Volanta traced their silent partners directions, her eyes quickly landing on a large patch of vines draped across a large cliff face. While vines were not unusual in such a place, something about how these ones hugged the cliff so tightly seemed out of the ordinary. A near perfectly crafted imitation of nature, but an imitation nonetheless.

Volanta stepped forward, taking a handful of the vines and yanking hard upon them. They clattered to the ground, and their absence revealed a small jagged cave entrance that descended to darkness. Easel opened their palm, gripping their pendant in the other, and summoned forth a small concentrated ball of divine light.

“Don’t forget to thank your god for me once all this is over” Volanta said, shaking her head in wonder, and pressing forwards into the cave. The tunnels inside were shorter than any human, and for two large individuals traversal was a unique struggle. They crawled on hands and knees, at times having to shimmy past sharp edges inconveniently placed along winding paths.

Finally the tunnels reached a space with a ceiling high enough to stand, they hobbled to their feet across wet earth, and were greeted by what looked to be a miniature village, shrunk down for a child’s play. The air was thick with the stink of rotting meat, and the bitter tang of tallow lamps dying in their sconces. A set of humble dwellings had been carved into the stone, latched with loose bits of timber, and stuffed with hay and stiff hides. Tents huddled closely together in the cavern's belly, squat things of mud, bone, and rotting planks of wood. Overhead, stalactites dripped ceaselessly, feeding shallow pools of water where tiny cave fish darted among the murky bottoms.

A crude market lay at the center, no more than a flat circle of stones with piles of teeth, loose jewels, and polished bones. A collection of spears made from jagged flint leaned against the walls, ready for the next raid. Skulls, both man and beast, hung from twine strung up to the ceiling. A warning to intruders, or a promise.

Easel reached into their satchel, pulling out a pencil and leather bound journal. They carefully pinched the pencil between two fingers, scrawling across a page. Holding it upl, Volanta squinted in the darkness to see the word “JULLYWUG’S” written across the page.

Just reading the name made Volanta groan, much the same as most across the world who had the misfortune of encountering a Jullywug. Not a foe, or a friend, but a menace to all. It’s said that Jullywugs were once a race of extraordinarily intelligent beings that walked the realms, with a unique talent for commerce. A great many centuries passed while they became integral to the worlds very existence, almost no trade complete without a julllywug. But where obsession seeds, greed is not far behind. Perhaps no one left alive knows what exactly happened to the jullywugs. Volanta had always heard that the old gods placed a curse upon their bloodlines, damning them to lose their great intelligence, leaving them with only their greed. Whatever the story, a jullywug was never good news, and they were standing in a nest of them.

Which begged the question, where exactly were they?

Volanta stepped deeper into the caverns, cautiously eyeing her surroundings. She was never the subtlest of individuals, each clumsy footstep echoing down the cavern tunnels, with the impacts of stone upon stone as Easel followed. The crack of several small bones stopped the two in their tracks. Neither had stepped on any bones.

Easel was the first to spot them, pointing to the many shadowed tunnels splitting off from the main cavern. Volanta heard it next, small chittering sounds from dozens of creatures, all from different directions surrounding them. The sounds were gibberish and yet frustratingly close to real words. Little figures darted in the darkness, and pairs of small beady yellow eyes flashed amongst them.

Volanta called out “We mean no harm. We’re just looking around!”

The chittering grew louder, and the eyes in the dark grew from few to dozens. A pale macabre mask of bone emerged from the shadow. A birds skull, worn over the face of a tiny creature, no taller than a child. From behind the mask small coarse black hairs tangled in an uncontrollable mess, covering not just the face but the whole body. Stubby coarse arms jutted out awkwardly from the walking ball of fur, gripping tightly a flint tipped spear.

Volanta called again “We can’t exactly explain why we’re here. It would sound silly if we tried, just-“ she sighed “Look, do you know anything about a red moon?”

The chittering stopped.

“Moon…” a croaky voice replied from behind the birds skull.

“Yes, yes moon” said Volanta, taking a step forward.

The little masked creature darted back into shadows, easily spooked.

Volanta stopped, looking to Easel for support. They looked amongst the crowd of jullywugs, as Easel slowly lowered themselves to the ground, sitting cross legged. Volanta copied, laying down her axe to the side.

One by one, pairs of eyes became balls of fur as the jullywugs moved out from the dark crevices and tunnels that had been their hiding places.

The one wearing the mask croaked once more “Moon…moon kind. Moon help. Moon trade.”

Volanta replied “I’m sorry, I don’t…I don’t understand?”

A burst of chitters spread across the room like a wave from one ball of fur to the next. The masked jullywug huffed “Understand. Never. Don’t. Understand. Kind. Moon”

The little thing skittered forward across the stone, the sound of its long toenails scraping across the floor.

Volanta said “I know. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood. To not be accepted by the world”

The creature approached Volanta, spear in hand, gesturing with it “No. You. Understand. Nothing!”

Volanta raised her hands in the air as a gesture of peace. She replied “Actually, I do. My own people misunderstood me, banished me. Now those very same people are at war with the empire I live in. I’m too Othyrian to be a part of the empire, and I’ve lived too long in the empire to ever be Othyrian again. So yeah, I know a thing or two about being misunderstood.

The masked Jullywug looked up at Volanta, placing a hand on its own chest, saying “Jer-ah-my-ah”

Volanta asked “Jeremiah? That's your name? Mine is Volanta. It’s a pleasure to meet you Jeremiah”

The dozens of little furballs hopped in excitement at her words, as Jeremiah slowly lowered his spear. It continued “Jer-ah-my-ah. Save. Moon. Girl. They Take.”

Volanta looked to Easel, taking in the words. She asked “Girl? What girl? And who took her?”

Jeremiah croaked “Human. Human Take. Moon Cry. Moon. Want. Stay.”

“Humans? Which humans? And why? I wish that you could show us somehow.”

Easel leaned forward, still holding the pencil and journal, and placed them on the ground. At first no jullywug dared move, until Jeremiah stepped forward, picking up the pencil and tracing vague outlines across the paper.

He drew the crude outline of a child, with long hair, and said “Moon”.

Other Jullywugs joined him, taking over, sketching many other crudely drawn people. “Take. Human. Steal. Us.” said one of them.

“Girl. Scared. Them. Magic.” Said another.

“So there was a girl here, staying with you. Some people came and took her, and she fought them with magic?” Volanta said, hoping to make sense of things. “Surely it can’t be the same girl we’ve been hearing about in village…”

All the little balls of fur amongst the crowd jumped with excitement, their cries of glee echoing around the cavern. Jeremiah looked to Easel, staring across their body “You. Kind. Human.”

Easel paused for a moment. It was strange, in all the time that Volanta had spent with her new companion she had never once seen them pause to think. She half questioned if they could. After all, a construct does not typically have a soul, or free will. Though this hardly seemed to be a typical construct.

Easel reached out a hand to grasp the tiny pencil in their massive grasp, and wrote across a new page. The silence in the room was enough to hear one’s own heartbeat. When they pulled their hand away it read

“I am not human, I do not have a soul. I was created”

Volanta shifted awkwardly in her seated position, a few errant chitters from the crowd breaking the silence. “Well…Just because you aren’t human doesn’t mean you have no soul…right?” she asked, unsure herself.

Easel didn’t write a reply. They kept their long expressionless gaze fixed upon Jeremiah, the kind that seemed hard to tell if it was looking at him or past him.

A handful of Jullywugs stepped forward, carrying a large flat object atop their backs, covered by scraps of faded leather hides. They heaved the object in front of Volanta, crowding around it.

She went to pick it up, but the ones who had carried hissed suddenly, hands clutching back to its edges. The whole crowd began to hiss in union, yelling “Trade! Trade Must. Us. Give!”

“Okay, okay…” Volanta said, desperately searching for something to trade. She reached into her pack of supplies, pulling out some scraps of jerky that had been well cooked and preserved by herself not long ago. After such a long walk to get to the tiny cave, the sight of them made her stomach rumble.

She offered them to the crowd, saying “I’d be happy to trade, but this is all I have to give. Is it enough?”

Some of the Jullywugs grunted angrily, some looking to each other for approval, and some already reaching for the scraps of meat. Jeremiah spoke above the others, slamming down his spear to the rocky floor “Meat. Good. Make. Trade!”

The other Jullywugs nodded in agreement, obeying their leader. Volanta handed down the meat, and picked up the object that was grooved and soggy to the touch. Pushing away the hides, it appeared to be a large circular wooden sign, beaten and weathered by the elements. The symbol atop the sign was equally worn, but was unmistakenly of a banjo, with a trail of bubbles coming out from its strings as though a note of inharmonous music had flown away from them.

Volanta’s eyebrows narrowed at the sign. “I’ve seen this sign, in Glimmerfall. The Drunken Banjo Inn I believe. I’ve passed it a few times, while grabbing supplies. Not the friendliest patrons it seemed, always staring at me through the windows. How did it end up here?” She asked.

Jeremiah responded “I. Hide. Moon. Follow. Human. Take. Here.”

As Volanta and Jeremiah exchanged words, Easel’s empty stone sockets seemed to wander around the cave, landing on a single small damp brown mushroom. It drooped slightly, as though desperately reaching for a nearby puddle of water that was close and yet too far to be of any use. It struck Easel that, while they had such great control of all plant matter, they had never quite considered how much plants could feel. They didn’t feel pain, but Easel didn’t feel pain. They didn’t feel emotions, at least not in the way humans knew of it, but Easel wasn’t sure they did as well. Certainly it could not be contested that a plant could sense and respond to the worlds graceful touch. They could respond to light, and communicate with other plants. So they could respond to the world. Was that all Easel was doing?

“Easel” Volanta called, moving into their field of vision “Easel!”

Easel’s attention snapped back. “Are you ready bud?” Volanta asked.

Easel nodded, standing and gathering their notebook and pencil. Jeremiah and the rest of the jullywugs crowded around the pair.

“Friends! Luck. Good!” Jeremiah said, focusing very hard on his pronunciation.

Volanta smiled, puzzling to herself how she’d never taken the time to talk to a jullywug before. She ducked into the tunnel they’d came from, ushering Easel forward, taking one last thoughtful look at the ragged group of little creatures. Though they were deep into a network of caves, far from any wind, she could have sworn she felt a gentle breeze pulling her to the exit and beyond.

———————————————————-

Chapter 3: Cards on the Table

“You can stare all you’d like. The cards aren’t getting any better” Dallamore mocked.

Sparse candles dotted across round wooden tables amongst a large open space. Shadow hugged the edges of the room, with a thick scent of cigar smoke lingering in the air.

Dallamore leaned back in his seat, his wide brimmed black hat bent forward; meant to obscure his face. Still, one eye seemed to glimmer through the shadow, a faint orange. He was adorned in long black robes that once promoted his position as a priest. But those days were long behind him.

He pressed  “The candles burn shorter by the second my good sir. Would you leave us all in darkness before you decide?”

Across the table sat two figures, cloaked not in shadow, but frustration. One was a young lad, barely old enough to take a wife, wearing the rags of a farmer who was too poor to find himself at a gamblers table. The other was a dwarf. His wild mane of ginger hair was painted with streaks of grey, almost entirely covering his face except for his eyes. Those eyes told Dallamore that he’d be going home a rich man today. The dwarf wore a coal smeared set of plate armour, a set that could fetch a fair price if Dallamore could convince him to bet it.

Finally the dwarf spoke “Bastard. Fine. I fold.”

Dallamore smirked, placing his cards on the table. The other two leaned forward to see them, letting out a collective grunt. It was almost the worst hand in the game.

“Seeing as you two folded, I’ll be taking my money now” Dallamore said, leaning forward and grasping the loose pile of coins in the centre of the table.

The young lads hand met him in the middle, taking Dallamore’s wrist. His gaze was scornful “Double or nothing”.

Dallamore replied “Ohhh but I really must-“

“Double. Or.  Nothing” the young lad persisted.

“Well I suppose i might be persuaded to another game” Dallamore glanced to the dwarf “If that armours on the line”.

The dwarf tried his best to hold back the worry in his eyes. He stuttered.

The young lad leaned in to him “Cmon! The lucky bastard can’t beat us three times!”

After a pause, the dwarf nodded, and sighed “Set it up”

Dallamore’s face was stone cold. He was lucky to have found such a desperate pair of addicts. Not to mention just how thrilling it had been to play again after some time on the road.

He began collecting the cards from the table, shuffling them with a familiarity that comes only with experience. He asked “This place seems empty. Do you two have no friends to call and make this a bigger pot?”

The dwarf grunted “Hah, not many folks are in a playing mood with the latest news”.

“Oh? And what news might that be?” said Dallamore, laying cards across the table.

The young lad chimed in “You must be new here. He’s talking about the murders…and the witch.”

“A witch!” balked the dwarf “More a devil if I’ve ever seen one!”

Dallamore’s interest piqued “So you’ve seen this devil?”.

The dwarf hesitated, eyes darting down to his cards “Ah, well I misspoke. I’ve just heard stories, that’s all”

Dallamore peered down at his cards. Though it didn’t matter. For him the game was far less about the cards, and far more about the fools across the table.

 “Five silver crowns”. He slid some coins to the centre of the table. “I can’t say I’m all that interested in witches or devils. I’m a simple traveller myself”

The young lad scoffed “Some place you’ve chosen to travel to. Empires practically forgotten us while their off waging their latest war”. He matched the collection of coins in the centre “I’ll call”.

The dwarfs eyes darted between his cards and the ones spread across the table. “I think your lucks finally run out traveller. I’ll raise five silver crowns.”

Dallamore glimmered with excitement. He always loved a game. He took another card and placed it face up in the centre along with the others.

He spoke with an air of confidence “Oh my dear sir, my luck ran out many years ago. Trouble is, it’s not my luck that lets me win. I’ll bet ten silver crowns”.

The unfortunate pair didn’t know just how true those words were.

Sometime amongst the shuffle of cards, two rather large individuals found their way through the entrance. An older woman moved to greet them, the owner of the Inn that Dallamore had found himself in. One might think her a frail woman, if not for the toned musculature of her forearms peeking out from her apron. An old burn discoloured much of her face.

The young lad took his turn next, calling once more. “So you mean to say that your victory is on skill alone?”

The dwarf called the bet, while Dallamore responded “Skill? No, not skill alone. It’s fate my friend. Fate is my greatest ally”.

The dwarf scoffed “What a load of shite. There’s no such thing as fate”.

Dallamore placed a final card in the centre, and thumbed his cards “Why yes there is, and I can prove it too.” He moved five more silver crowns to the centre.

The young lad grew curious “And how would you do that?”

Dallamore leaned forward in his chair for the first time “Well my friends, lately I’ve been having this dream, and of all the places I could have seen, I saw-“

“I said LEAVE!” Shouted the silver haired woman from the entrance. She was pacing angrily, holding a long bow-staff. Two individuals towered over her. What at first looked to be a statue seemed actually to be some kind of man made from stone, coated in moss and flowers. The second was a large woman, adorned in furs, with a heavy greataxe on her back.

Volanta stepped towards the woman, one hand outstretched “We just want to know if you’ve been to the outer woods recently…”

The woman snapped back at her “I’ve answered enough of your questions, savage.”

Volanta spoke patiently through gritted teeth “We think that maybe you or one of your patrons might have seen something , or heard something. Something we can’t quite expla-“

The woman stepped closely, bow-staff in hand “You’re not welcome here”

Easel stepped forward, now by Volanta’s side, towering over the woman.

Dallamore watched the exchange from afar with glee. Finally some entertainment.

The pair of gamblers who had been playing with him moved closer to the pair of newcomers. The dwarf called “Are these two troubling you Ria?”

“Yes” The woman responded, eyes never leaving Volanta “Yes they are”

At this point another patron who had been smoking quietly in the corner also joined the crowd. He wore a long dark green cloak, with muddied brown boots, and a bow strung across his back.

The archer called out “Looks like you two should get walking now. Wouldn’t want to be caught out alone on the streets”.

All sides tensed, exchanging looks. For a moment it seemed even the slightest of breaths could be heard among the silence.

Volanta matched the woman’s gaze “We came for a quiet drink, and a kind word, but if it’s a fight you want then I’ll gladly leave you on your ass”.

The young lad scoffed “You’ll need more than a healer when we’re done with your ugly fucking face savage!”

Volanta breaths quickened as he spoke, and finally she let out an animalistic scream that rumbled from deep within her chest. Her voice boomed “Do. not Call. Me. A. SAVAGE!”. She grabbed the greataxe from her back with a speed far greater than one would expect for an opponent of her size.

All sides reached for their weapons. The woman, bow-staff already in hand, stood ready. The dwarf grabbed two wooden shields from the bar, while the young lad pulled out a small metal cudgel. The archer prepared his shot from a quiver of what seemed to be blunt tipped arrows, more fit for training than killing.

With a violent burst of speed, the armoured dwarf charged forward towards Easel. Metal chimed like bells as Volanta intercepted, slamming the flat side of her greataxe into his shields. Once. Twice. The dwarfs knees began to buckle under the weight of a third strike.

A wooden staff cracked across Volanta’s chin, sending her eyes flying in her head. The room spun for a moment. As her vision steadied, a flurry of punches met her stomach, the silver haired woman advancing like a storm. The woman spun her staff, jamming it into Volanta’s ribs. Blood began to leak from her stitches, only recently recovered.

“A—little—help!” Volanta called out between strikes.

Easel grasped one hand around their pendant, reaching out the other and concentrating. From the wooden floorboards of the tavern, vibrant emerald green vines began to sprout rapidly from the floor, stretching to ensnare the silver haired woman.

Just then, two blunt arrows impacted Easel’s chest, throwing them off balance. The conjured vines quickly rotted and receded through the floor, freeing the women. As Easel looked up towards the firing archer, they were met with a swift strike. A metal cudgel cracked across their face, the young lad wielding it now holding his wrist in pain from the recoil of his own attack.

The young lad reared back for another strike, just as a single playing card flew across his field of vision. The image of a joker flashed with a deep purple light along its detailing, leaving a crooked trail of smoke in its wake. The smoke moved as though by its own mind, tendrils working their way to envelop the face of the young lad.

“Four to two are harsh odds to give to a guest. How about we play fair?” grinned Dallamore, the deck he was playing with now spread in his hand. The fighting seemed to pause for just a moment in dread, as the young lads eyes turned darker than night.

“Wha-what the fuck!? I can’t see! I can’t fucking see!” Screamed the boy.

The archers courage wavered, hesitating to loose another arrow. Easel kept his distance from Dallamore, reaching towards a plant pot in the corner with a sad looking wilted flower. The flower gained back its colour quickly, growing far larger than its pot, and sprouting thorns. It lashed out toward the archer, knocking him to the ground with a violent impact.

The dwarf watched his allies dispatched in a few mere moments, not noticing Volanta charging forward to unleash a mighty kick. It impacted his chest with a crack of bone, punting him across the room. Losing grip of one of his shields, Volanta grabbed it in air and swung upon the silver haired woman. The shield landed clean across the woman’s face. As she fell to one knee, Volanta grabbed her with both hands and raised the woman above her head. With an animalistic scream, she hurled the woman in the direction of the not yet recovered dwarf.

Volanta, Easel and Dallimore cautiously came back to back in the centre of the tavern, eyeing their combatants, and nursing their wounds. Volanta whispered to Dallimore “I don’t know what magic that was, but I know it wasn’t divine.”

Dallimore eyed his deck of cards, a new one now fading into existence among them, with the symbol of a joker. “Oh honey, there’s much more to life than the divine”.

The four enemies stumbled to collect themselves at the edges of the room. The jet black eyes of the young lad finally cleared, as he breathed a sigh of relief. The archer and dwarf picked each other up from the floor, as the silver haired woman dug her staff into the ground and staggered to her feet.

A silence sat among the space, broken only by grunts of pain from all sides. The dwarf spoke first “We tried to tell you nicely. You are leaving one way or another!”

Volanta snarled back “We aren’t leaving.”

The silver haired woman mocked “An Othyrian and her pet statue…freaks like you belong in jail”. Easel’s unfeeling gaze shifted towards the woman.

“That’s no way to speak to a lady twice your size.” Dallamore said, twirling a playing card in one hand. “Now are we going to chat, or are we going to play?” he said with a menacing grin.

The dwarf and the archer exchanged a hesitant glance, as all sides tensed, firmly gripping their weapons.

The dwarf took a knee, holding up his one remaining shield to the ceiling. The young lad sprinted forward with an unpredictable cadence to his step, jumping atop the raised shield, right as the dwarf thrusted upwards with all his might. The young man flew through the air, screaming all the while, landing in a whirlwind of chaotic strikes towards Dallamore and Easel.

Volanta moved to jump among the fray, but was met with a volley of blunt arrows. She dashed for cover, dropping her great-axe; grabbing two nearby tables and holding them up. She advanced quickly, deflecting shots as she went.

As Easel reached to let out another blast of light toward the young lad, they were struck across the back with the staff of the silver haired woman. Small cracks splintered across the stone body of the unyielding golem, as Easel fell to the ground. The impact of their body hitting the floor knocked Dalllamore off balance, as he struggled to duck and dodge the strikes of the duo now pinning him into a corner.

The archer loosed another volley towards Volanta. She dashed towards him frantically with her makeshift shields. Before she could reach the archer, the dwarf slid across a table, crashing into her legs and knocking her to her knees. The dwarf grabbed both sides of her head and slammed his own into her skull with a mighty crack. Burning pain filled her head as she desperately reeled from the strike.

Dallamore joked “Gentlemen, is it too late to reconsider this whole disagreement?”, pulling another card from his deck. The two of clubs. His one glowing orange eye flashed purple, and his body seemed to shift and stretch in an impossibly unnatural way. The young lads strikes found no grasp, as Dallamore’s body warped and twisted around his blows.

“FINISH THE BASTARD!” the dwarf screamed, as all attention turned to Dallamore.

Just then, a single blunt silver dagger flew from the shadows and struck the head of the archer. He clattered to the ground, unconscious. Whispers of a figure darted among the edges of the room, steeped in shadow.

The silver haired woman called “Another blasted trick. SHOW YOURSELF!”.

At this moment two bandaged hands reached out from the darkness and grabbed the young lad from behind, covering his mouth. He tried to resist and shout, but it was mere seconds before he was dragged into the darkness. His muffled screams turned to silence.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Dallamore sidled up alongside the distracted dwarf, tapping on his shoulder. The dwarf turned his head, coming face to face with a card showing the symbol of a man upon a throne. The card burst into flames, and from the smoke three thick steel chains apparated and shot forward to ensnare him. They squeezed around his body, locking him in place.

“My my, not so brave now are we?” Dallamore remarked.

Easel, still stirring on the ground, looked up towards Volanta. Their empty stone eye sockets began to bloom with…flowers. These flowers grew quickly, multiplying, and soon a beautiful trail of multicoloured flowers split the room in half; leading straight to Volanta. They climbed up her body, latching to the wound on her head. Quickly these flowers withered and died, but in their place her skin seemed to have completely healed over.

Volanta shook off her dizziness, and locked eyes with the silver haired woman. The two charged, and in but a moment were upon each other. It wasn’t long before Volanta had the upper hand, grabbing the woman by her throat and throwing her against a nearby wall like a ragdoll. The wooden slats of the wall gave way, smashing through to the next room.

It was small in size, a simple room perhaps once meant for keeping guests. No light found its way inside; in fact the only window was boarded shut. Where a bed would be was a pile of straw, and a dog bowl filled with scraps of food. Crouched by the bowl, alarmed by the woman’s arrival, was what Volanta first thought to be a creature. It was small, skinny, fragile.

Its stringy black hair covered most of its face, all except for one small eye, darting among the group. The crew of uneasy allies stared closer at this creature, as they realised that it was not a creature at all.

It was a little girl.