The screaming.

The last monster died moments ago, but the screaming hasn’t stopped. I fear it will never stop.

They didn’t want us in their city, so they promised us opportunity somewhere far away. They promised us a frontier town with endless possibilities. They promised us a dream and delivered us into a nightmare.

For a long time, all we have known is bitterness.

Bitter cold. Bitter loss. Bitter looks from those more fortunate.

Our original little hamlet, Themm’as, wasn’t anything special. It was an overgrown camp near an overworked, undersized granite quarry. No reason for anyone to pay it any mind, let alone raze it to the ground, killing half it’s citizens, and turning them into an undead horde. The attack was so sudden and over so quickly, by the time word reached Baron Andersil the cold white ash had all but blown away. The snow now is a bitter reminder.

The look of snow. The smell of blood. The sound of screaming.

My only surviving daughter, Laurna, hasn’t spoken a word of Common since that day. Even when the two of us, along with the seventy others, finally stumbled through the gates of Kes Solomas seeking asylum. Sure, after a whole day of processing and figuring out what to do with us, they offered us bare lodging and simple rations to accommodate us for what was going to be a week. The said they would find us jobs and we could work our way into populace. But what use were miners in a town full of artisanal tradespeople?

In my interrogation, or “interview” as they called it, they asked me the stereotypical questions once they found out my half-dwarven heritage—

“What kind of weapons and armor can you make? How high is your Blacksmith Class? Are you a cleric? A fighter? You work with stone, so you must at least have the Sculptor Class…”

Imagine their disappointment when I told them I was only a level 15 Miner with an 19 in Forager and a 5 in Cook. Themm’as didn’t exactly have a wide variety of shops and markets, not like the ones we passed by here in Solomas. And, out of all of the Artisan Classes in our hamlet, two of mine were the highest and everyone’s were taken out of sheer necessity. To top it all off, I’m only level 7 and not yet eligible to choose a Job Class, not that I would have any idea what I would ever consider. Through sour smiles they sent me out of the interview room and back to where they concentrated us, where ten of us lived in a studio apartment intended at most for a family of three.

Sure, we were free to go outside, but the shame of being on those streets seemed so much worse than being crammed into such a small space with other miserable people. People I’ve known since I was a young girl. People I’ve only ever known to be all song and smiles. Broken. Alive, in body only. A few couldn’t bare such a burden any longer and ended their lives. I really couldn’t blame them. If not for Laurna, I would’ve considered it myself. Our collective, destitute status didn’t help our situation.

What little we had to our names we traded or sold for only slightly softer blankets to sleep under; rat skewers or honeyed porridge just to have something different to eat; or leather sandals, not even shoes, to protect our feet since the Durability on our old shoes zeroed out on our journey from the ruins of our home.

Then one day we were told to pack up and prepare to join a political envoy to some place several days north of Kes Solomas. When the oldest amongst us heard this they practically fell to their knees and started praying to Sekhmena. When I asked one specifically, I believe his name is Pleatus, about the area he shook his head vigorously and mumbled something about the Denegrin Plains. The old ones chanted their unintelligible prayers louder.

Now, on the very road of those very plains, I wish their prayers were even partially answered. The bloody remains of just two of the human faced, bird creatures lay in the dirt. The rest of the flock escapes to the northeast and I silently pray to Sekhmena that I never see them again. In some of their talons are the bodies of my fellow refugees. Their screams for aid die as the distance grows.

My arms are wrapped tight around Laurna, her burlap tunic torn in places where one of the creatures had her. If not for the sacrifice of one of the guards she would be one of those dying voices dragged off to the horizon. Would she have called out to me? Would she have even screamed?

When the creature had her in its talons, she didn’t so much as give a grunt in pain, but the look on her face… the tears… I would have traded places with her in less than a heartbeat if I could’ve.

I wipe the tears from her face with the edge of my own scratchy tunic. Her wavy, light caramel hair and olive skin so much like my own and that of the sisters she once had. Her eyes are mine also, the kind of deep, forest green of the kind you see at the end of spring and bordering on summer, but her nose and ears… Not a moment has gone by when I didn’t miss him. I give her nose a little kiss before we’re told that we would be continuing. Someone loots the monsters and we help to right overturned wagons, the tough, canvas covers easily torn under the monsters’ talons. People with the Mend Spell are still able to fix the vehicles and those with healing Spells help where they can. We ride on.

Damn these creatures.

Damn that halfling necromancer.

Damn that baron for sending us away in our time of need.

Damn it all!

A Scout spots something else in the air and discord spreads through us once more. One of the guards with one of those door sized shields asks the Scout what it is and she can hardly explain, only saying that it is massive and heading straight for us.

Someone shouts Wyvern and we abandon the wagons, crawling underneath them for a vain sense of extra protection. I cover Laurna with my body and whisper pacifying words in her ears, her father’s ears. Words I didn’t have time to whisper to him that day. Words like:

“It’ll be okay…”

”We’ll get through this…”

”I love you so much…”

I want her to believe these words, but what I need is for me to believe them. I need someone, anyone else to tell me that those words will come true. That at the end of this deep, dark tunnel is a glimmer of hope.

There is no roar as the massive thing draws near and I probably wouldn’t be able to hear it amidst the chaotic rabble. I do hear a sound like a winged insect the size of a barn getting closer and loud, but not too loud. The wind is strong and constant, whipping loosely packed snow away from where it’s coming from and sending us into a near frenzy. I hear the Scout from earlier shouting to hold fire— to relax? No, that couldn’t be right.

Intermittent gasps sound off one by one and I only believed the call to stand down when I saw, with my own eyes, one of my own squirming out from under the wagon only to gawk in slack jawed wonder at whatever it is right above us. There is no fear on their faces, only amazement and maybe… something… They’re happy to see it, whatever it is.

It was Pleatus in particular that caused me to rise to my feet, taking Laurna up with me. A short distance away, I… honestly, I don’t know what to make of it. Had someone cast incredibly powerful magic on a small seafaring vessel? To what purpose? How much money does this party have? And then it hits me…

What do you do when a mass of unwashed refugees show up at the gates of your beautiful city? Patron or not, we had nothing to offer the baron and his city of merchants and artists. We were consumers of resources, fillers of living spaces, disrupters of aesthetics. In a place where everything has a value, what are the lives of seventy two— no, wait… sixty one lives? The owner of the ship might know, and they look like they may be able to afford it.

From the ship’s side, a street-wide ramp gently lowers down, almost like a hand reaching toward us in invitation. It beckons us into it’s maw, to devour our bodies and souls, or what was left of them after our ordeal. From the depths of the ship rolls out the most sinister looking carriage being led by two strange, but powerful looking horses. The ship itself looks ancient, and in under such disrepair that I wouldn’t be surprised if it were crewed by the undead of an ancient, seafaring line.

The horse-drawn vehicle, however, is a cross between modern gypsy and futuristic siege engine with a mysterious, and oddly dressed figures in the driver’s seat. Both of them have a type of militaristic uniform, dyed leathers with small tags of metal. The one not driving clearly outranking the other just by looking at their dress. The high ranker has their three corner hat pulled down low as to cover their face. I’m sure the others are sharing the same feelings as me, similar visages of unease spread across all of our faces. As the carriage approaches, everyone save for those from Solomas take collective steps back. One man on horseback even puffs his chest out in pride and smiles wide. This man is Sir Granit Ryescale.

A prominent merchant, our ambassador and the one in charge of our envoy, seemed the typical sort of his station: quiet, distant, eager to return to the safety of his mansion in Solomas. Our first break, showed me the kind of man he truly was.

He and his guards— I would’ve said men if not for a couple women I barely noticed within their ranks— took the Simple Rations from our wagon and began dividing them amongst themselves. If I wasn’t expecting it, I would’ve been shocked, but how else was he supposed to recuperate the waste of time and money leading us into the wilderness would cost him? We waited for him to point out people he wanted separated for “inspection” as a night guard once did for another group while we stayed in those tiny studio apartments. I mean, he couldn’t very well perform it in front of the girl’s family, not that they had any room to do so where they stayed.

My heart almost beat out of my chest, waiting for him to aim a surprisingly rough and calloused finger at my beautiful Laurna, forcing me to beg and plead for him to spare her and to take me instead. She had not yet taken her Masá No’ar (Hill dwarvish for “Youth Journey”) and I was terrified of the further damage to her psyche such a horrible thing could cause.

Instead, he called all the old ones and children over to an intricately decorated wagon and distributed sacks and small boxes to each. Then, he called the rest of us over and repeated this until everyone was given a bundle. Personal water skins that we could refill from barrels; dried fruits, nuts, and rock biscuits (a kind of dense, dry bread intended for long journeys); and a few yellow and red herbs in case of emergencies. What he gave us was better than Simple Rations by only a slim margin, but for us it was a world of difference.

And though he did not answer any questions himself, he did direct people to one of his guards who seemed to know enough to give lengthy explanations. I noticed this many times and it wasn’t like he turned people away in anger or frustration. He merely shook his head sadly and gestured over to where the guard. I soon learned her name Callista Armstrong.

Also, during every monster attack, though we was never on the frontlines, his arrows whistled overhead and never missed their mark. He employed Skills with practiced precision and ease as if he was only a merchant by chance and was in reality a veteran soldier. Actually, it was Sir Granit that saved Laurna from being carried off and his arrows that finished off the beast.

It is this very Sir Granit that rides before his men, leading them to meet this carriage of horror and showing not just a great sense of easiness, but joy. Their hands are no where near their weapons and good natured mumbling and chuckling rumbles between them like a distant storm. Their groups stops several yards away from us to wait for the carriage, but he calls back to us.

”Worry not, good people of Themm’as, for your true salvation is at hand. Cast away your fears and doubts, for they have no place in the presence of Linqs’ citizens.”

We consider his words for only a moment when the back doors to the carriage swing open and the drivers leap from their seats. What look to be four, small versions of saureans position themselves around the carriage, pointing richly designed crossbows obviously meant for their tiny, clawed hands and searching the area for presumed threats. Had it not been for their matching uniforms they would have been quite intimidating. Laurna looks back up to me with a confused smirk on her face.

Two actual saureans and an elf step out from behind the carriage. It almost sounds like the beginning of a tavern joke. The male saurean is obviously mixed, maybe human or elf. The female saurean being provocative and striking with her vibrant colors and revealing dress. Both have what look to be a clockwork arm each. The elf is wearing the same outfit as one of the drivers, ornate grey, black and blue from head to toe. The other figure that was also in the driver’s bench takes his hat off and it vanishes from his hand.

There’s an audible gasp on the big reveal. His coal black, skull burst into crystal blue flames. His people didn’t react, neither did Sir Granit nor his guards. My grasp around Laurna tightens and I can feel her trying to shift forward, to move towards this Lich Lord. His vehicles, attire, and visage scream evil nobility, but what is it about this man that tells me that that couldn’t possibly be the case?

Is it the way he walks side-by-side with his people? Is it the way he so casually places his hand on the other driver’s shoulder as they talk or shies away from the sexy saurean’s caresses? Is it the way he so warmly greets Sir Granit and the guards while moving straight toward us?

Toward us!

We take another step back, even Laurna’s short lived enthusiasm falters as she lets me move her away. This stops the fiery blue undead man, who slumps his shoulders and tosses a coin to the brown haired, young driver. The two groups erupt in laughter. The sound is as foreign to us now as it is unsettling and it takes a while for them to settle down.

The flaming skull man, who didn’t join the others in the teasing mirth, shakes his head slightly and dips into a low bow. “Please excuse the others, miss. We had a wager on whether or not my natural charms could offset the spookiness of my looks. My name is Ardacen Winters and y’all may call me Ardy.”

It takes me a moment before I realize that I’m standing there with my jaw hanging low by such an introduction. Is this man insane? Is he possibly a Traveler? I’ve heard they were odd and— wait, I’ve heard this name before I think…

”A- Ardacen?” My voice croaks like a rusty door hinge.

He nods curtly.

The tears form almost right before the realization hits. That vile man mumbled that name many times, that strange name and odd description. “Did- did you know a Halfling Necromancer by the name of Dez?”

Somehow, his fiery face hardens into a scowl, “I see. Yes, we had a violent history as, I’ve come to learn that a lot of people had as well. I’d like to emphasize the ‘had’ part, by the way. You don’t have to worry about him anymore.” He motions for Sir Granit to follow him and, in turn, he tells us to do the same.

Reluctantly, and after several shared, worried glances we trail along toward the ship. The brown haired driver gets back in his seat, turns the carriage around, and stops.

”Sir Granit,” Sir Ardacen says while pointing at both of his vehicles, “Park the wagons inside the Estoc’s cargo bay. We haven’t had the chance to make her hospitable for guests yet, so everyone will have to stay inside the Nightshade, there’s more room. Oh, and the horses can go in there too, not sure how they’ll handle being in the air.”

He must be crazy. He must be! If its a ship I’d rather stay on the deck, puking my guts out from the nauseous Debuff then being crammed into that tiny, little carriage.

Still, with Sir Granit’s insistence, we hesitantly disembark from our wagons, clutching at our meager belongings (if we had anything left besides the water skin and small foraging bag given to us at the start of this trip). Sir Crazy Lich flings the doors to his carriage wide open and hops inside, poking an arm out of the ominous, shadowy entrance to wave us along. To no one’s surprise, we all stand in place, unsure what else to do since no one seems keen to follow along. Except…

Laurna breaks from of my loosened hold and leaps into the unknown.

”Poppet, no!” I shout, sprinting after her.

My world spins on its side as I find myself in another plane. The smell of dirt and sawdust fills my lungs. A strange, muted sun shines overhead— I think— and rows of large tents surround a spacious, rectangular picnic area complete with long, wooden tables and benches. Laurna bounds in from behind a tent and tackle hugs me, nearly knocking me off my feet.

Her eyes are as wide as dinner plates and she’s bouncing on the tips of her toes. Her wide, toothy smile says more to me than any words she would’ve most likely shouted in a rapid pace.

More people file in after us and, one after the other, jaws hit the floor and heads dart from corner to corner. Sir Ardacen has his three corner hat on again and some kind of mage’s staff. He begins to sing—

“Come with me, and you’ll be, in a world of my creation…” he cuts himself off and ponders a moment, “Wait, that’s not fair. I didn’t make the vardo, or even a quarter of the stuff in it…”

He shrugs, waves us closer, and gesticulates like an over enthusiastic salesman, “Ladies and gentlemen of all ages, welcome to The Nightshade, though none of us call it that. Usually its just ‘the vardo’ but don’t ask me why. If you can’t already tell, it is a magical vehicle. A wondrous object class item. The horses are clockwork, the sides are armored, and the inside is often fully furnished and larger than the outside makes it appear to be. There’s only one entrance slash exit, and no bathroom, but I don’t expect our flight to be too long. Still, if you need to rest: find an empty tent, flip the mat in front to the red side to mark it as taken, and you’ll find some temporary accommodations within.

”Sorry, we weren’t expecting so much of you and we prepared for a bunch of things really quickly just in case. If you’re hungry, there’s a magical storage bag in the center of the tables with some simple food, though I was told our head chefs Gorm and Malica are preparing something special for your arrival.”

I don’t know how, but I can see the drool rushing out of his boney jaws and a dreamy look in his eyes.

”I know you’ve all had a tough time so far. An evil little man killed your loved ones and destroyed your town. Believe me when I say that the people of Linqs understands your pain, your suffering. It’s why Baron Grandersil believes that sending you our way is the best thing for you. And, I’ll be completely honest, it’ll be good for us, too. You’ll see. As for Dez, we subdued him, destroyed his army, and one of Pravdara’s Marduks sent him howling to The Endless, wherever that is, for the next thirty seven years. And if he comes back, we should all be a bit stronger by then.”

His little speech over, he gives us a short bow and leaves.

Not many children lived in Themm’as, maybe about seventeen all under the age of sixteen and not yet taken their respective coming of age ceremonies with Laurna being the oldest. They all helped their parents with work around the house and sometimes around the quarry. We never stopped them from playing games or having fun, but it always seemed like their little shoulders carried as much of the weight of the world as they could bear along side their parents.

Seeing them now, some dragging an adult or two by the hand, you would never have suspected the hard lives they left behind. Parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts or whoever survived the slaughter to take them in as their own must have been the shred of comfort that kept them so resilient through all this.

And now, like the children, we found someone to take us in. To protect us from the monsters around the bend. To tell us everything will be alright. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll believe them.

Many scurry to find a tent and a chance for privacy. I know Laurna and I do. It’s something we’ve all taken for granted before. How can something we all believe to not just be a gods given right, but almost a need, be taken away so quickly and absent-mindedly? But before we can lay on our feather-filled (yes, actual feather!) beds, there was a commotion that brought us back out.

The food in that unassuming pack is still hot! And not just hot, delicious! The moment the first dish appeared within view, the smell hit our noses like a dwarven pickaxe to stone. We somehow regain our composure and find more food than we could handle, though not for lack of trying. Sir Granit’s guards appear amongst us and join in our impromptu feast, though the lord is no where to be found. I spot Callista and leave Laurna for a moment with her meal.

”Miss Armstrong?” I ask several times, since the din of the crowd becomes that of a nearby rockslide. “Will Sir Granit not be joining us?”

”Good lady Lorenei, do not fret over my master. He is with Sir Ardacen on the bridge of the ship. They have many things to discuss yet no time to squander. Instead… eat, rest, comfort your daughter. If any be willing, however, the other guards and I would love to entice you all with some stories of the people of Linqs and their adventures in Kes Solomas. Now that you’ve been given the barest glimpse of their many wonders, mayhap you would deign to believe in them!”

Eating hot food from a magical bag, inside a magical carriage, inside still a flying ship… I still find their stories so fantastical that were I to have actually seen the events take place, I would have moved into Sekhmena’s temple and prayed for mental health for the rest of my life. Still, whatever this stewed meat with roasted vegetables is I hope there is more where we are going.

*****

”Everything alright, sir?”

”Hm?” I turn to Conner who is watching me stare out a window. We sit side by side at one side of a rectangular table across from Sir Granit who is reading over some papers. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. You think everyone in the vardo will be okay with our leftovers and our old beds?”

He smiles at me and pats me on the shoulder, “It’ll only be until we get back home.”

I sigh, “I forgot to tell them that we’d stop off near the tower so I can claim it. You think they’d notice?” He gives me a curious head tilt and I notice his eyes glance at something behind me. Before I can turn around, two hands perch on my collar and two thumbs start a little massage on my back. One set of fingers is electric blue and scaled, the other is obsidian black and metallic.

”Honey, honey. No stress, okay? You’ve done all this before, remember? With less resources, lower levels, and under rougher circumstances. They almost have the same population as we did when we first set out of Rentas.”

I let out a deep sigh and close my eyes, letting Jahda work her magic. Not literally as most of her Spells would kill me in slow, horrifying ways.

”C’mon,” she adds, almost whispering in my ear. Her hissing is like someone gently tearing a piece of paper close behind me. “Tell us what’s really bothering you.”

There’s a pause. In my head I barely acknowledge that Jahda is doing anything. I’m staring at the papers on the table, but I have no idea what they say on them.

I want to tell them that I’m worried about the people and how they’ll take to living in The Keep. I want to tell them I’m worried about the Tower of Archaic Secrets and the aforementioned secrets it holds. I want to tell them I’m worried about Myla and how I’m supposed to raise a child.

Instead, I pull something out of my inventory and hold it up to audible gasps, not just from them, but from everyone in the bridge. He asks me when, and I told him before the next Vanishing. Mika hollers something in dwarvish, Plisk whispers something in elvish, Sarnus and Jahda hiss the same phrase in Saurean, and Conner bangs a fist on the table with a guffaw.

”I knew it! I knew it! Pay the man!”

Coins fly at him from all directions, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. Don’t worry everyone, Dawn’s get her cut.”

I turn to them all in disbelief, “Y’all better tell me what the wager was right now or so help me… If it was about whether or not I ask her—“

”Sir. Sir…” Conner placates me with a wave of his hands, “Relax, sir. Not ‘if,’but ‘when.’ Dawn and I both said some time this month.”

”So the rest of you thought later than a month? Am I really that bad at this?”

Mika raises her hand, shoulders slumped like she’s volunteering for something rather unpleasant, “I said never.” She perks up defensively, “But don’t feel bad, bluebelle. I was the only one and I didn’t really believe it. The odds were just so high, the payout would’ve been huge. Honestly, I thought you would have done so before baby Myla arrived.”

I stare down at the ring in my gloved hand, “Yeah, I thought so, too.” My fingers curl around it, but it doesn’t feel as heavy anymore. I smirk, the only way a flaming skull can smirk and I can see Sir Granit look at me apprehensively.

”Thanks, everyone. Really. I honestly feel more confident about it now. But first, we gotta claim the tower and lock it up. Oh, and Mika? How the hell did you use your traps on the Gnolls?”