Riloth the 19th the 71st

I woke with my thoughts already racing despite the fog of my headache.

That dirt eater murdered me! She’s insane. I’m trying to help her, and she kills me? Well, if she thought I was a demon before, I’ll show her.

I left the Parlor with a sack of gold and the security escort. When they noticed the sleeping dwarf, I shouted, "Oh my gods, that’s her! That’s the dwarf that robbed me on the road into town!"

Looking from me to the dwarf, the taller guard, whose name I really should bother to learn, asked, "Are you sure?"

"How often do you see disheveled dwarves on the surface?" I replied.

Nodding, the two guards approached her, pulling restraints from their pockets as they went.

They roused the dwarf with less sympathy than the today before, "Wake up, vagrant!"

"Aye, I’ll go. I know the drill. Just leave me alone!" she yelled.

"You won’t be going anywhere but to a cell until we get this thieving business sorted out," the shorter guard said.

The dwarf’s face, seeing me behind the guards, turned from irritation to rage. When the shorter guard moved to restrain her, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the ground. As the first fell, she plucked the baton from the holster of the tall guard and moved to strike him with it.

Fortunately for the tall guard—whose name I will definitely find out someday—I'd expected something like this. I summoned a Gust which blew the dwarf to the wall, pinning her there under the sustained wind. She fought it, but the two guards were able to restrain her and drag her to a holding cell. The Parlor had a small jailhouse set around back, behind the kitchens and baths.

After the guards left her, I activated Mage Armor and sat outside her cell.

"Are you ready to talk?" I asked through the bars.

"Go shtup a cave troll," she responded, spitting at me to emphasize the point.

The spit was deflected off the armor without a noticeable drain on my Will.

Hmm, I wonder if this deflects rain. I suppose I’ll need to escape these resets to try. I was so cautious in my magic before this ordeal, I never considered all the practical everyday uses.

She continued to stare daggers at me as I thought.

"My name is Tal, can you tell me yours?" I asked after a brief silence.

"Go shtup a cave troll, Tal."

"Fine, don’t talk, just listen. I’ve been stuck here for months now. I lost count exactly. As far as I can tell, the only person aware of these resets so far—besides me—is you. Also possibly, some pack rats—unless you did something to them. I was hoping we could work together to try to figure a way out of this."

She didn’t respond. I spent an hour trying to convince her that I was in this situation the same as she was, but she refused to speak. Eventually, I gave up and left, determined to try again tomorrow. Not having any other plans for the day, I visited Ren for another training session. Getting beat by the dwarf had lit a fire under me. The golems were such powerful inhuman creatures, so beyond my hope to destroy, that being defeated by them did little to bruise my ego or spur me to revenge. For, when a king steals the home from a commoner to extend the pasture for his horses, the commoner has no illusions of seeking recompense through the courts. The very idea of challenging someone so beyond one’s station is absurd. But, if that same commoner thought their neighbor had stolen a chicken, they’d bring the case before the king’s own court if only they’d hear it.

The defeat at the dwarf’s hands stung. She was better than me, for sure, but the gap was not so insurmountable that I had no hope of bridging it.

Ren’s training was nearly identical to the last time. Until I exhibited noticeable increases in ability, I didn’t expect the training to change. I spent a bit of the practice trying to cast cantrips with Mage Armor active, but still couldn’t release the cantrip without dropping the spell.

On the way back from Ren’s, I poked my head into the Dragon’s Den and bought their only bottle of Dwarven Fungal Wine. Yeah, it didn’t sound good to me either, so I also got her some of the strongest rum they had and some mushroom stew that was said to be popular amongst the dwarves. The bartender gave me some strange looks at my requests, but a pouch full of gold kept any criticism or questions locked behind pursed lips.

When I entered the detention area, a new security guard greeted me, "Mage Theral I presume? We have some questions for you about the prisoner, if you wouldn't mind."

I handed the man a gold coin and said, "Actually I do mind. Can you give us a moment?"

Accepting the bribe with a practiced ease, he said, “This’ll only buy you a moment mind you, otherwise I got to report you to the boss. I will need you to answer some questions, or we will have to let this, fi—” he stalled choosing his words carefully while eyeing the filthy dwarf “—fine lady go.”

“A moment’s all I need. Thank you.”

The guard stepped outside with a nod. The dwarf sat on the floor, still staring at the wall.

In a gentle tone, I said, "I brought you something. I'm sorry about ruining your," I paused trying to think of a word to describe her manic dash, "plans for the day. I hope this can make up for it."

I placed the alcohol and food on the floor, where she could reach, and walked out.

Passing the guard I said, "You know, it’s the strangest thing. There must have been another dwarf out on the road robbing people. What are the odds? Do you mind letting her go?"

The guard did as I asked, but I went into the Parlor while he did so. I didn't want to risk another incident in case my peace offering was rejected. I spent the rest of the night at the baths rereading Halflings, Full Hearts and regretting not having picked up a new book from Levar’s when I’d been out.

Riloth the 19th the 73rd

The next morning felt strange, like I’d spent longer in the time between resets. This is even more memorable when writing about it in your pages. I laid in my bed, eyes still closed, but immediately became aware that something was amiss—beyond the strange sense of lost time. I could tell that someone else was there. The newly familiar smell of onions and unwashed feet filled the room. I stilled my breathing, as I did when meditating to enter my vault, and tried to appear asleep. If I took my time, I could cast Mage Armor without moving a muscle. It was not something I’d manage quickly in my hungover morning state, but given a minute undisturbed, I could manage it.

I opened one eye the barest crack and saw a blurry figure, inches from my face.

"Good morning Tal, I wanted to repay your hospitality from yesterday," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. I opened my eyes fully to see her standing between my bed and the window, my rapier in one hand and fake-spellbook in the other.

"I came here planning to murder you in your sleep, so I could move on and be done with you. Actually, I did that yesterday," she paused to let that sink in.

Could that be true? Could this be that odd sense I felt?

I focused on that sensation, trying to identify it more clearly, but my mind was not clear enough for such actions.

She smiled, "Imagine my surprise while rifling through your bags next to your corpse, when I found a book that you should not have. How many Hardune did you slay to get it?”

Spellbook? What does it have to do with anything?

I weighed my options.

Do I attack her? I might be able to surprise her, but what then? Even if she didn’t really kill me the day before, which I’m pretty sure she did—she is clearly able to wake up before me in the resets. Do I try being honest? Maybe she’d listen. Do I lie? I didn’t even know what this woman wanted, so lying seemed unwise.

Let’s take a page out of Daulf’s playbook and go with the truth.

"I have no idea what a Hardune is, but what you are holding is Spellbook, er, my spellbook," I said.

She put the tip of my sword near my face, "You’re telling me you have this spellbook, and you don’t even know what it is? Bah! I don’t believe that for a second."

"I didn’t say I didn’t know what the spellbook was," I replied, trying to ignore the sword. "I said I don't know what a Hardune is. How do you know what that Spellbook is?"

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't keep the emphasis out of my voice that named you something more than a mundane object.

"You have this and you don't know the Hardune?" she asked, waving fake-you around.

I should mention, we had been speaking in Torcish the whole time. When she said Hardune, it was a word I didn't know, but most Torcish words are often just other words mashed together. "Har" meant guard and "dune" prison so, I heard it as "guardprison".

I tried parsing it aloud in Rilith, "Guard-prison? Prison guard... Warden? I’ve heard the word spoken once, and read it in Spellbook another time, but never with enough context to discern a meaning."

She lowered the sword, "Slag. You really don't know what this is? Either that or you're a great liar."

I laughed despite the tension.

“I can assure you, I am not a great liar.”

She started pacing around the room, muttering to herself, "He's just a shortbeard. Not a demon... probably, unless this is a long con. But that's not their style. So why's this meddling ferret here? Hmmmm," she kept pacing, lost in thought.

I sat there in my bed, at her mercy. While I thought I could maybe take her in a fight if it started at range, and she didn’t have my sword to deflect my attacks, and I was free of a hangover. Unfortunately, none of those were true. I hoped that wherever her thoughts landed, it would not result in my eternal deaths.

After a minute of not-so-silent pacing she stopped, turned abruptly to me and said, "Alright, so. You are probably not a demon. Sorry about killing you."

"Um, don't mention it?" I said with a very questioning tone, because how do you respond to that?

"I was under the assumption that I was in Fauell, but your appearance makes that less likely. Unless of course you are being punished for some great failing. If this isn't Fauell, I was not forsaken by Torc, and if I wasn't forsaken I don't have to stay here. I can possibly escape. So, you're going to help me do that."

Relief flooded me and I spoke without caution. Finally, there was someone I could get some real answers from instead of more endless questions.

"Okay, great. I'm glad we are past the demon thing. And I'm really glad you've come around on trying to escape, believe me, but you are going to have to explain a few things first. Namely, what do you know about that spellbook."

"You really are a shortbeard. You tell me where you found this book, and I’ll tell you about it."

Emboldened, I pressed on, "No. The way I see it, the only thing I have of value to you is the origin of that spellbook. So as soon as I tell you that, what's to stop you from killing me each morning to keep me out of your hair? I only locked you up. You killed me. I think you owe me."

As I spoke, I could see her grip tighten on my sword as her anger began to build, but when I mentioned that she killed me, she winced.

"Aye, that's fair. I’ll tell you what you want to know," she said, voice chastised. "My name is Dagmar Har’Tokar, and I am the only surviving member of the Hardune, the guardians of the Avatar, and I fear that Kaltis is doomed."

"Wait," I interrupted her. "Can we not do this here?"

"Why not?" she asked, voice full of suspicion.

"I'd rather not explain here," I emphasized the last word, hoping she'd take the hint. "It isn't a trick. I think you will agree when I tell you. Also, I need to pick up my potions. I won't be able to recount much without them."

"Aye, you do look like you spent the night down the waste shaft. You Waatin really can't hold your liquor. Get up, we’ll go— but no scheming, or we will repeat this whole ordeal tomorrow."

I got out of bed and moved to dress. I stared at Dagmar, but she stood there oblivious. "Are you going to give me some privacy?"

"No," she said, and took a seat at my desk and started flipping through the fake spellbook.

I dressed quickly, and we headed out of the Parlor. I wrote a note for Trish, which Dagmar insisted on reading, and left it on Simon’s desk.

"I need to pick up a few things, why don’t you head down to the baths here and clean up. Is that something dwarves do? Clean up? I know you worship Torc, but it’s okay to, you know, bathe right?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of my caution.

"Aye we do,” she said with a laugh, and a sniff of her own armpit. “I have to admit, I have let myself go. What do you need potions for?”

“I drank some dwarven ale... yesterday? A few months back? Either way, I have been paying for it every morning since. The potions help"

"BAH HA HA!" she bellowed, "That explains the sorry state. It took you ages to cast that armor spell. Sure, let’s go."

"I am going to need the sword,” I said, pointing at it in her hand. “I missed my chance this morning to make enough gold to cover the potions, but I’ve been able to use that as collateral."

Dagmar looked from the sword, to me, and back to the sword, "Clever. Swear a Will oath of your good intention, and I agree."

"I, uh," I said, rubbing the back of my head, "I don’t know how to do that."

"You don’t know how to swear a Will oath? What do they teach you at that Tower?"

"Ha, no. My mother was a Stormcaller, and I," I paused, thinking how to define myself, "try to emulate her."

"Hmmm. Well, if that's true—and I’m not saying I believe you. Fauell, you might still be a demon. If that’s true, then I might not have to take this book from you."

Choosing to ignore that last comment, I said, "So, the sword?"

She flipped it around and handed it to me hilt-first. "I suppose there's not much you can do, since I know where you sleep. Ha!"

Well, that is reassuring.

I gave her directions to the baths and told her to charge it to the room of Theral Stormcaller. Bringing my sword, I went to Levar’s, got my potions—with extra Dagmar—by leaving my sword as collateral, and picked up some coffees on my way to find her outside the baths. She was not ready when I got there, so I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

After an hour had passed, I gave up and walked in to find her passed out in the changing room, thankfully clothed and bathed. Simon had found her new clothes at my request.

I kicked her off the bench to wake her, "I brought you some pick-me-ups. Here," I said, handing her the potions and coffee.

I was about to take my two when Dagmar stopped me. "Wait, take those two." She indicated the two set aside for her.

I let out a sigh and complied, grimacing at the foul taste. Dagmar took the two originally intended for myself and downed them without flinching.

After drinking the potions, she held the empty vials up to the light. "These aren’t too bad. You Waatin sure are a backward folk, but one thing you do right is potions. The gnomes come close, but theirs taste awful and aren’t as effective. They’ll never admit it, but you found yourselves a marvel here," she said, reveling in the absence of fatigue.

"Also,” she added, looking herself up and down, “this outfit is much nicer than what we get in the Torack. Your fabric variety really puts ours to shame. Moss doesn’t make the best thread." Probably realizing she’d just said two positive statements in a row, she added, "But it’s a waste of coin. How much do you think this cost? Better off buying slag."

“I don’t know,” I answered in regard to the price. “Simon said he’d add it to my bill when I check out tomorrow.”

“Bahh!” she laughed, surprising me with its sudden and loud nature. “That's clever, though I don’t condone the shirking of one’s debts.”

I didn’t want to have any conversation where Tilavo could hear, so we headed out to the Sleeping Owlbear Inn to have a private chat. By then it was past two and most of the patrons were out and about, so the tavern was relatively empty as the wealthier refugees from Landing spread out through the town. I ordered a roasted duck, and the dwarf ordered an "Etney" of ale, which the barkeep, to my surprise, understood and gave a broad smile.

"Etney, the inverse of ‘end’?" I asked, breaking down the Torcish word, "What's that?"

Surprisingly, she seemed eager to explain my inquiries into dwarven culture, "Endless. They bring me ale until they run out, or I stop. Though, the pisswater you Waatin have can hardly be called ale. Where did you get that mushroom wine anyway? It was halfway decent. The best thing I've drunk in months."

"The Dragon’s Den."

At the name, she slammed her mug on the table and shouted, "That racist bastard! I knew they had the good stuff. They said I couldn’t come in because of my appearance, but I knew what that prissy man at the entrance really meant."

Not wanting to argue or explain dress codes, or remind her of her odor of a few hours past, I just nodded.

"So you were going to explain some things to me."

Still angry, she downed her mug to drown her mood and motioned to the barkeep for another. While they poured, she began her tale. "My name is Dagmar Har’Tokar, and I am the only surviving member of the Hardune, the guardians of the Avatar, and I fear that Kaltis is doomed."