It was closer to noon than dawn when the Sea Goat finally moored at the Ravnice docks. The state of rolling plains contained most of Quaj’s farms. As a result, it was the only state where most of the population resided outside the city proper instead of within it.

Wren stood with Harpis at the railing while the remainder of the crew tied the beleaguered Sea Goat to the dock. The gnome’s ear was at belly level to Harpis as the man’s stomach growled violently for sustenance.

“Suppose we grab some food and drink before your stomach turns itself inside out or convinces your eyes I might be good for eating,” he said, looking up at the young man.

Harpis looked down sheepishly. “That sounds about perfect.”

Before they could make their way down the gangplank, the helmsman of the Sea Goat stopped them. “Thanks to you both, we would have all perished without your efforts.”

Reaching out and shaking their hands, he looked from the gnome to the man and back. “Feen Masterson is the name. I’ll be in Ravnice for some time trying to repair the ship and rebuild the crew. Here and later, if the Sea Goat or I can ever be of service, you’ve not but to ask,” he said, waving them off. Before turning back to the boat, he pointed down at the handle poking above Harpis’ boot.

“You’re already a better owner than Fynhar was. I never understood why the old man always used such a pretty thing to gut fish.” He said, shaking his head.

Harpis went to draw it from the boot and hand it back, but Feen stayed him with a raised hand. “Please, keep it as a token of our appreciation lad.”

Once they made it to dry land Wren paused to scan the wharf area. “We’ll find food, drink, and beds fine enough in there,” he said, pointing at the sign which read Siren’s Scream Inn. Harpis followed the gnome through the wide cobblestone wharf toward the inn.

The open wharf was maybe three hundred feet deep. Still, navigating the crowded cobbles to the row of narrow two-story taverns, inns, and other businesses aimed at serving the typical customers and purveyors of the wharf took some doing.

As they stepped into the half-empty inn, Wren waited, watching Harpis blink several times as his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit and damp-smelling stone and wood structure. The gnome then took them past the bar and fireplace that smoldered along the wall at the entrance. They made their way to the back-most booth tucked behind the stairs to the second level.

Walking around to the seat that afforded a view of the tavern entrance, Wren gestured for Harpis to take the other. As the man did, he whispered a call to The Sleeper for a spell of revealing to see if the man had any hidden magical items or the like. The ability to detect magical enchantment was one of the few endowments all god-gifted magic wielders could call upon.

He quickly saw the bright aura that flickered around the dagger in the man’s boot but nothing else. Finally, he sat down with what he deemed to be a relatively safe drinking partner.

“Know much of magic then, lad?” he asked, his head unmoving as his eyes surveyed the other patrons.

“Never in my life,” Harpis replied.

“So just the once then, eh?” he continued, garnering a surprised look from Harpis.

Satisfied the man knew nothing of his gift, Wren felt further assured he was not being conned or lured into some ambush.

The barmaid approached, and he asked for a whiskey and a bowl of stew. Harpis ordered a mead and stew for himself with a raised eyebrow aimed at the gnome.

Furrowing his own in response, Wren looked at Harpis questioningly. “What?”

Harpis shot him a grin. “I just didn’t expect they’d serve you alcohol at all on account of looking like a partially bald, malnourished youth.”

Wren flashed him a look of disdain and opened his mouth to scold the man but was interrupted by their server.

“If I didn’t serve the likes of Wren, I’d only be making half my money, good sir,” the barmaid said, flashing a smile as she deposited their drinks.

Wren beamed and handed her coin enough for ten times their order. “Keep us filled up, please, lass, and he gets whiskey next,” he said.

As she curtsied and hurried away, Harpis raised his eyebrows again at Wren. “Whiskey with lunch?”

Wren snorted as if the question was preposterous. “We are in Ravnice City, of Ravnice State, where the finest corn is grown and the darkest, smoothest, whiskey is distilled from it. I’d have it to break my fast if somewhere around here that sold it would open early enough.”

Harpis’ growling stomach did a flip at the thought of whiskey for breakfast.

Their bellies full and stew bowls empty, the barmaid cleared away their dishes and placed two glasses of whiskey on their table. The drink and weariness from the last night’s battle began to creep in, and the odd pair of drinking mates visibly relaxed.

Wren looked the man in the eye. “So Harpis, what plans do you have for yourself here?”

Harpis paused awkwardly for a moment in thought before shrugging almost helplessly at the gnome.

“To be honest, I have worn out my welcome in the south, and I am sick of working the rails of fishing vessels. The Siren killed my father and will probably do the same to me if I make my life on her waters. My father always suggested I try my hand with a city militia, so here we are, I guess,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound like it believed itself.

Wren gave him an approving nod. “A fine enough life you’d make for yourself protecting the people of Ravnice, its governor or gates, but how would you feel about serving the greater good of this whole forsaken island?”

Harpis shrugged. “I don’t know what good I’d be as a necromancer. I don’t worship The Sleeper. Or any of The Five.”

“I speak not of my religion but instead of something clandestine,” Wren said quietly before leaning in to continue. “If you have the perseverance and the wherewithal to make it through indoctrination, you will find a life and a career far more satisfying than that of a local militiaman. Perhaps we can help you explore that gift of yours as well.”

Harpis tilted his head inquisitively at the gnome. “You are an acolyte, right? Those are the robes of a necromancer, aren’t they?” He asked, holding up a finger in warning. “I’ll not be convinced to join you for some evil lovemaking experience with a corpse.”

Wren glared at him for a moment and then laughed from his belly. “Not much of an education in the pissant fishing village you must have come from, eh?”

Harpis laughed nervously at the gnome’s barb, spreading his hands apologetically.

“I am indeed a necromancer and have worshiped often at The Sanctum. I am no acolyte anymore; I attained the rank of death speaker a century ago. We are no eviler than Daybreak’s Exarch or his clerics at their archdiocese in Mer. We are simply the other side of the same coin,” Wren explained.

The barmaid returned and poured more of the dark liquor for both. Wren waited until after she left before continuing.

“Just because people fear death does not make its goddess evil. I worship her with the same reverence as those of the light worship her sister,” he explained.

Harpis grinned drunkenly at the gnome and continued his alcohol enabled oversharing of his thoughts, unable to keep a straight face as he pushed Wren’s patience.

“So, you’re telling me you worship a naked dead lady but don’t engage in corpse fornication? I suppose that’s all right then.”

Wren’s knuckles whitened as he clenched them before he let out a long breath and gave the man a steely look. “Consider that you will die of old age long before I will, Harpis, the human. One more insult at the expense of my goddess or my faith, and I’ll hunt down your corpse and reanimate it for the sole purpose of pleasuring farm animals at the Ravnice Wharf,” he growled at the semi-intoxicated man.

Harpis cringed at the threat but continued largely unabated. “What about the other thing then, this other order you serve?” he asked.

Wren made an obvious scan of the tavern before leaning forward and speaking in a whisper, “If you are interested in joining my organization, then stay at this tavern for the next week. I will pay for your room, food and then some. If you are still here on the final day, you’ll receive further instruction and more coins in case you choose to stay.”

Harpis raised his eyebrows at the statement. “And what if I just take the coin and make my start here in Ravnice, joining the militia?” he asked.

Wren crossed his arms and stared at Harpis for several long moments until the man started fidgeting. “I welcome your decision. Consider the silvers a thank you for what you did on the Sea Goat. However, based on the smell and look of you that first morning we left Kalt, I am guessing you are more likely to drink your way through it. I’d bet you’d quickly find yourself haggling the Ravnice wharf for work just as you did in Kalt.”

The man seemed taken aback for a moment. Instead of arguing, he gazed distantly at the table and then looked Wren in the eyes.

“Well, either way, I would probably be better off than making love to the dead with you and your mysterious friends,” he said in a voice that pretended confidence.

Wren did not flinch or speak. Instead, he took a long sip of whiskey. Setting his glass down gingerly, he gave Harpis a tight smile.

“Have it your way then, lad. Maybe you’ll wake up twenty years from now with two thankless children, a fat wife, and a career of escorting vomit encrusted drunks to the city jail to look back on. Or perhaps, you’ll wake up dead, a miserable drunk who drowned falling off the side of a fishing vessel. I am honestly unsure which would be worse.”

Harpis stared intensely at the ceiling for a long moment in contemplation.

“Hey,” Wren said, drawing his attention, “look, it’s your life, Harpis. I am just offering you purpose. Enough talk of that then. You have my thanks and, as I mentioned, some silver. You are as interesting a drinking partner as I have had in some time. Tell me about yourself.”

After several more glasses and discussions ranging from fishing villages to The Five, Harpis could hardly see or speak straight.

With sunlight disappearing from the inn’s windows, Wren got up from his seat and walked to the barmaid attending customers at the front of the tavern. He paid for one of the rooms upstairs and gave a wink and instructions to her.

He walked back to the table and an inebriated Harpis. “Come with me to your room. There is something I must tell you.”

The man rolled his eyes and followed Wren upstairs. When they arrived at the second door in the hallway, the gnome paused and glanced at the stairwell before speaking again in a whisper, “Look, I know you said you did not want to get involved, but as we made our way up the stairs, I spotted two men taking an over-abundant interest in us. I doubt they care about you, so I will do my best and lead the older skinny looking sailor and his ox of a friend away from here. If anyone asks you about my employers or me, you should pretend to know nothing. There are rival organizations that work counter to my own on this island.”

“But I don’t know anything,” Harpis said

Wren held up his finger to quiet Harpis and took a few steps down the stairwell to peek at the first floor before returning to the man leaning heavily against the wall.

“You know my name, and that is enough. I think they’ve left. Remember, take the coins and do as you please if you want. But if you are indeed interested in something more for yourself, stay here for the week. Someone will deliver instructions regarding what to do next,” he explained.

Harpis grinned at him and nodded stupidly. He drunkenly reached for the doorknob, missing twice before turning and opening it. The gnome followed him inside, shutting the door behind them.

“Hey, what did I just tell you?” he asked.

Harpis gave him an exaggerated wave of the hand before slurring his response. “Drink my life away for a week and await instructions,” he said before promptly flopping onto the bed face first.

“Amateur,” Wren commented. He hastily produced some parchment, pen, and ink from his robe and scratched out the same instructions for a more sober Harpis to read the following day. He slipped the note and some money under the man’s elbow and latched the door behind him as he left.

Heading out of The Siren’s Scream, he stopped the barmaid and tipped her twice as much again. He then bid her bend down so he could whisper in her ear. “See to it that none bother my companion while he stays here.”

Blushing at the amount of money he had given her, she nodded in agreement and returned to her other, less thankful patrons.

The night was young, but Wren always felt it best to leave bars, taverns, and inns well before their closing time. That was the hour thieves and worse preyed upon the overly drunk customers streaming out of such establishments.

Besides, he had better whiskeys at home he could enjoy. A few blocks away, Wren stopped at the door to one of the city’s morgues. Noting that the small piece of cloth he had shut in the door as he left was still in place, he picked a key ring from inside his robes and unlocked the door. The shred of cloth fell without the door to hold it to the frame. While surveying the street behind him, he picked it up before entering the small first-floor office of his establishment.

“Home sweet home,” he muttered aloud to the shadows. He truly did love this shop and the one-room apartment on the second floor. What luck, or more likely a well-planned strategy, that his Syndicate posting, as a gifted necromancer, was as one of the city’s morticians. It offered him ample time working for The Sleeper and Syndicate both. It also gave him a unique grasp on information and goings-on in the city.

He climbed rickety stairs that creaked under even his small weight at the back of the office to the one-room living space on the second floor. He thought of having the stairs fixed for a moment but decided he preferred hearing the approach of a would-be attacker instead. He opened the apartment door and locked it again behind himself.

The apartment was small but had plenty of space for the solitary gnome. His small bed was around the corner from the stairwell wall. At the far end of the room was his comfy chair and fireplace.

He walked through the kitchenette and eating area, which held a small wood table he had procured from a nearby bar along with the two wooden chairs that sat at it. On one side of the fireplace, wood was stacked floor to ceiling with a ladder leaned against the pile. On the other was a bookcase with religious and magical texts and a dozen or so various whiskey bottles.

He thought of falling into his comfy chair and drifting off but instead sat in one of the wooden chairs at the small table. A shot glass and a cup sat next to several bottles of brown liquid. He blew the dust out of the glass cup and poured himself a drink.

No need to drink alone, he thought, snapping his fingers. A small amount of smoke appeared on the table in front of him, and through it stepped Xissay.

She was Wren’s familiar bound to him through the ritual he carried out a century ago in earning the rank of death speaker. Others of his order would call forth spirits out of The Great Dream of giant demons or other physically impressive creatures.

Wren thought it more prudent, given his occupation as a Hand of The Syndicate, to go the more inconspicuous route. Besides, it was nice having someone around smaller than him. Wren could also keep Xissay in the plane of the living longer and with greater ease than fighting to keep the undead soul of a wyvern or some other monstrous, unwieldy thing from returning to The Great Dream.

Though she was not as physically strong as other larger familiars, she made up for her lack of size with an ability to fly and cast some of the fire magic she mastered in life. To Wren, she was more companion than creature or tool.

Strutting past the smoke, Xissay looked Wren up and down. “Drinking alone again? You look like hell.”

Wren shot her a glare and poured her a drink in the shot glass. “Not anymore, it seems, and not before either. I met someone.”

In her high-pitched nasally voice, she taunted the gnome, “Oooooh, and was she pretty?”

“Not like that,” he replied. “I think I met someone who could be a new Eye for The Syndicate and us here in Ravnice.”

She spread her hands apologetically in peace, and Wren harrumphed away the pang of guilt at the passing of his late charge. He poured them both another glass and before long was himself snoring away in his bed.

Xissay gave the sleeping gnome a fond look. “Amateur.” She snickered and stepped back into the once again appearing sulfuric smoke. She smiled as she returned to the plane of those eternally sleeping. At least these past hundred years with Wren, she got to enjoy the adventures of the living from time to time.