“Wake up, Mistress,” said Theko. His voice filled with urgency.

I stirred slowly, still annoyed with the events of the previous day.

“Gryphon,” muttered Maapu, “Up in the sky. Gryphon.”

His words jolted me from my slumber. They are closing on us.

With no time to waste, we sprung up and quickly packed our temporary measly belongings.

“Lyria, how long?” I asked between my breaths.

“I would estimate anywhere between ten to twenty days,” she answered without breaking stride.

“What if they obtain information from those outlying hamlets we met?” I asked. We did not bother to cover our trail.

“The outlying orc settlements have no love for outsiders,” explained Lyria, “and definitely not for High-elves.”

I gave a sigh of relief.

“Though,” added Lyria, “it would be beneficial if we could lay low a bit.”

*****

It was midday when despite our best attempts to avoid the roads and trails, we ran into the three. They approached us from nowhere. No visible weapons were carried. Clad in a simple and sturdy linen shirt, leather travelling breeches and soft suede shoes, they were definitely not local farmers. One was an orc, the other I could only presume to be a human and the third, probably a wood elf. A curious sort of company but then again so are we.

“Gracious blessings be upon you,” greeted the human.

Before we could reciprocate, the elf gave a candid smile.

“May we enquire your reason for treading these paths?” he asked.

The orc spoke immediately, “Not that we wish to intrude upon your personal matter but strange as it may sound, would you be gracious to partake in our ceremony?”

This is weird.

“If you wish to continue your journey we will respect your choices and trouble you no more,” added the human.

“But we promise to offer you a warm meal and perhaps provide some items to help with your travels should you grace in our ceremony,” continued the elf.

We stood still without budging.

“We swear by the shaper, no harm shall befall you,” declared the orc finally.

I leaned toward Lyria and whispered,” What is a shaper?”

Lyria shrugged showing her ignorance on the subject.

Finally, she made the choice.

“Lead,” she said, “but should I find your company detestable, we will depart without notice.”

“Agree graciously,” answered the human, “Blessed born.”

Lyria slightly winced at the words as if forced to review an unpleasant memory.

*****

They led us through well-hidden paths, obscured through carefully placed diversions. The conversation, along the way, was civil. The three did not intrude further upon our private lives, nor on our destination. As we proceeded, their gait made it apparent that they held reverence for Lyria. Only once did their curiosity led them astray when they questioned the weapons we carried.

The march ended in a huge cavern, well-hidden and large enough to support a huge community, which it did. Small tents and huts and some crude living rooms carved from the rocks served as their living space. Sunlight penetrated the cavern through holes in the roof, which would have been undoubtedly and cunningly hidden with suitably placed vegetations or boulders. A low hustle erupted inside the cavern at our intrusion. Soon a small crowd led by a hunched figure approached. But the most striking feature was the large stone carved statue in the centre, a humanoid eldritch being, surrounded by flames, smoke partially covering the visage loomed overall. For a brief moment, it appeared as if the figure in the statue sported multiple arms and shaped the flames around it or shaped something in the flames. The identity of this hidden commune was unmistakably evident. Cultists.

As the lead hunching figure neared, the features became distinguishable. A copper reddish colour skin, split hooves for feet, an elongated face with small curved horns on the forehead. A pair of yellow eyes blinked twice before settling on Lyria. Even though the lead figure held a cane, it became apparent that the purpose was not for support. If I were to guess, it is symbolic in nature.

“Ah, a tiefling,” said the lead figure, “There is no need to exercise caution here. You are among friends.”

Lyria, unconvinced and obviously perturbed, did not abandon her defensive stance and simply crossed her arms in front.

“I am Karotak,” introduced the figure.

Lyria finally gave a smile and we introduced ourselves.

Karotak turned around and soon called one of the cultists, a young girl with wide green eyes and freckles.

“The companion of the blessed Mistress needs attention, please prepare a bed and some warm drink,” he instructed. The girl slightly blushed at Lyria and ran ahead.

For once, a title was associated with Lyria and not me.

“If your intention was to convince us to join the hegemony of the one-horned warlord, you are advised to abandon your attempts,” said a stiff Lyria.

Her words drew a look of surprise from Karotak.

“We are, indeed sympathetic to the One-Horned Warlord’s cause,” he answered her, “but we are not associated with the Warlord. Nor do we ask you to join. We simply wished for your gracious presence as a Blessed One.”

Lyria’s lips tightened and she stood firm on the ground.

“My words do not convince you,” said a patient Karotak, “I take responsibility for that. We simply cannot ignore someone blessed by the Shaper to toil alone.”

Shaper. The cult of the shaper, it is then.

“How did you find us?” I asked.

“That is an easy question to answer,” said Karotak as he winked at me and continued, “How could one ignore the twin bright beacons on a dark stormy night?”

Allowing a brief pause for his words to sink in, he continued.

“The weapons you carry, you created them, if I am not mistaken,” he addressed Lyria.

If I had any doubts, Karotak’s words were definite proof. The Sentinel definitely has arcane secrets woven into it. Lyria’s weapons provide more than what their physical form suggests.

“All our best efforts could only match up to a fraction of a fraction. Surely, only one touched by the shaper could create such a treasure. May I enquire about your heritage?” asked Karotak.

He immediately recognised his folly with a hard squint from Lyria and apologised, “I am sorry, Blessed One, that is a sour topic for all of us.”

Our small walk continued till Karotak led us to a small thatched hut.

“I have matters to attend but I promise to return soon. In the meantime, please rest and avail our hospitality,” saying that he took his leave.

The whole community was filled with orcs, humans, elves, even dwarves and duergars who ran around doing their daily job. Tieflings moved around unhindered. Childer ran around chasing imaginary dragons and some shared their meals with others. A few cast their glance at Lyria and some even gave a warm smile to her presence. For once, Lyria was not ostracized as a tiefling but accepted and even elevated. If this were a settled community, Lyria would have been treated as a noble or even a grand ambassador.

The girl with green eyes and freckles returned carrying a simple wooden tray with five cups and a small kettle. Five cups, not two. She was trailed by two other children, younger than her, carrying baskets in their small hands. A few flatbreads and some clean linen clothes were displayed in the basket. She stole secret glances at Lyria but refused to meet her gaze.

“She is special, isn’t she?” I engaged the girl much to the annoyance of Lyria.

The girl looked back at me and gave a brief smile. For a long perplexing moment, she wondered if she should respond or not. She reminded me of the daughter of my maids, who held similar expressions when once I spoke to her, wondering if she would be overstepping her bounds by replying back to me.

Lyria clearly knew what I was trying and with her hands on the hips, she gave me one long look.

“She is indeed a special woman,” I coaxed the girl much to Lyria’s ire.

“Karotak says she has the mark of the Shaper,” spoke the girl finally and then giggled and ran off trailed by her friends.

We ate the bread in silence. The herbal drink in the kettle was refreshing. Even Maapu took a moment to calm himself as he drank the contents slowly.

*****

Eventually, Karotak found us.

“Are you well settled, Blessed one?” he asked and without waiting for an answer continued, “are the needs of your companions met?”

While the goblins simply looked up to Lyria, she in turn gave a tokenistic smile.

“Why am I needed here again?” asked Lyria ignoring all pretence of civil behaviour.

“We invited you into our home purely out of Alturistm,” he answered her, “I refused to believe but now that you stand before me, I cannot ignore you. You are touched by the Shaper and we of the Cult of the Shaper cannot let a Blessed One simply pass without gracing us.”

Karotak’s eyes darted like swallows and the bells in his beads jingled as he turned his head watching each of our expressions carefully.

Satisfied with his own words, he continued, “There have been rumours of one of the Shaper’s own walking, but to grace upon with my own eyes is a marvel.”

“We have endured enough, persecuted and pursued relentlessly,” spoke Karotak with a faraway expression, “yet all we wanted, needed is a place to survive.”

“And you believe your God will deliver your vengeance?” asked Lyria cynically.

“Not vengeance, we only pray for deliverance,” answered Karotak.

“Arch Fiends, Circle Princes, Domain Masters, Lords of Demesne, Daemon Lords or call them even Gods” Lyria's tone was steady and dripped with venom, “They will help none. They will abandon all if it serves their own goals. That is the true nature of those who you worship.”

“You have been abandoned as a child,” said Karotak with concern, “We all have similar pasts but you don’t have to abandon your hope.”

“Then why not place the hope on your hands?” asked Lyria. She was determined to argue.

“Hope is better placed in a higher power,” answered Karotak who seemed to have inherited the patience of a sage.

“Besides,” continued Karotak, “it is easier to place faith in your own self with the weapons that your craft. None of our soul ordained weapons could match a fraction of yours. How many......”

“None,” came the stentorian voice of Lyria, “they are just weapons I smithed.”

Karotak scratched his chin in surprise. Lyria’s words, for one obscure reason or another, surprised Karotak.

“I should accept your words, however far fetched they sound,” stammered Karotak.

Karotak’s eyes traced the engravings on The Sentinel. His yellow eyes widened further with every passing moment. He finally forced himself to meet Lyria’s gaze.

“May I request you to impart your wisdom on our smiths?” pleaded Karotak, “Please think about it through the night.”

With those words, Karotak left us alone.

I was lost in my own thoughts. Finally, a community that accepts her for who she is. A place where she is respected. She deserves a place to call her own, just like everyone else.

Karotak, despite my initial caution, seemed genuine when he mentioned seeking deliverance than revenge.

The community was well hidden and survived long enough to have children running around. The prudent method would be to go native with the community and send message to Arlene. This might, after all, work for my benefit. We are provided with a thatched hut. Sending the three goblins to inform Arlene would leave us with the privacy that we crave.

As the thought of spending private time with Lyria crashed my mind, my heartbeat raced.

Lyria too had deep thoughts. In the end, she resolutely grabbed her maul, headed out and began to slaughter everyone.