Argrave had a question: how does one gain the good graces of a faction in a xenophobic cult with enough power to rule over a city?

As much as he wished to, he certainly couldn’t walk up to any of the three towers, declare his intention to go inside, and be welcomed. The circumstance in Delphasium had been exceptional, but Sethia was a much larger city, and its lords were not nearly as gregarious as Mistress Tatia had been. Argrave and co. would be refused at the gate, he was certain, and he did not wish to test the theory.

In ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ the player’s induction into Cyprus had been spurred by a random, coincidental happening—a chance meeting, in essence. The player would meet a Vessel serving within the tower of Cyprus, demonstrate their prowess, and… things went from there. Argrave could not replicate that. Causing a chance meeting was even further beyond his purview.

Despite thinking on the matter during the entire journey, Argrave couldn’t answer his question. But with a little refinement from his companions, some half-baked ideas he’d been ruminating on blossomed into one beautiful little scheme.

“This is the home,” Galamon whispered and nodded. It was night, and few people were out. They stood before a rather humble dark stone house. It had no windows, and its doors were shut tight. “I smell dried blood… and not in small amounts. If things are as you say, this is the place.”

Argrave exhaled. “Good. I thought it was, but it’s better to be certain… been a couple of months, you know. Things are starting to fade from my memory. So many spells to learn, overwriting what was once there…” Argrave twirled his finger about his head.

“Do you have a solution for that?” Galamon questioned seriously.

“Only rerunning things through my head constantly,” Argrave admitted. “Whatever. Anneliese is with Garm. Guess you and I just have to wait. Won’t be long. Midnight, I think.” Argrave looked up at the sky, staring at the red moon.

“You don’t really need to be here,” Galamon stated neutrally. “Following someone is best done alone.”

Argrave held out his hands. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Galamon raised a brow, then shook his head. “As you will.” He grabbed Argrave’s arm, shepherding him away a great distance. They made their way into an alley between two houses. It was quite dark, and Argrave couldn’t even see the house any longer.

The wait was long and boring, and Argrave wished he’d heeded Galamon’s suggestion. Galamon’s patience was boundless, though, and Argrave stood there fidgeting his hands until the elf’s whisper broke the silence.

“Someone’s come out,” he said. “They’re being especially paranoid.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Argrave questioned, craning his head to see beyond the wall. Galamon forced him back.

After a while of tense silence, Galamon pushed Argrave deeper into the alley. “Come on.”

They made their way through the alley, emerging on a street on the other side of the one they followed. Galamon was especially alert, taking quiet and deliberate steps in pursuit. Argrave tried to stay just as quiet and didn’t dare speak—he knew Galamon was tracking with senses other than sight, as the man they were following was not anywhere in the sight.

“Hmph. Seems he knows the guard patrol routes,” Galamon noted. “He’s made it to the farmland. He’s digging.”

Argrave smiled and exhaled in relief. He had been somewhat skeptical this would work without a hitch, but things had fallen into place. They waited quietly on the street. After a time, Galamon started to move beyond.

They came to a patch bearing pepper plants. Argrave couldn’t see anything amiss, but Galamon knelt down, removed one gauntlet, and then dug into the earth. The elven vampire had to dig very deep, but eventually, Argrave saw a dim blue mark. As Galamon dug more, the rest of it was revealed: a freshly severed human hand with a mark on the backhand signifying its former owner as a human belonging to a Vessel of Fellhorn.

Galamon picked up the hand. “This is what you need?”

“Yeah,” Argrave nodded. The thing was mostly drained of blood, and the dark-skinned hand was much paler than it had any right being as a consequence. “That should get some attention, for sure.”

“Then I’m to do the next thing?” Galamon questioned, rising to his feet.

“Yep.” Argrave nodded, tearing his gaze away from the hand. “Go to the house. Scare them. Make sure they think someone’s onto them.”

#####

“Excuse me,” Argrave greeted, drawing close to the large gates of the wall to Cyprus. Two men stood in front of the great stone doors of the wall. They bore brown silken clothing covering most of their body, and their spiked helmets were made of dull bronze resembling copper.

“Keep your distance,” the guards cautioned. “Turn back. This is the residence of the Lord of Copper. You have no reason to be here.”

“Is this the place I might report a crime?” Argrave said quickly, ensuring he got their attention.

The guards looked at Argrave and his company of two warily. They might’ve brought Garm, but he didn’t want to risk anything with this little venture. He was safely in their inn.

“A crime?” the guard repeated.

Argrave held out a hand—not his, strangely enough. The guards looked at each other, then back to Argrave.

#####

“Funny how offering a hand to someone in need can earn you friends so easily,” Argrave mused, sitting cross-legged on a once-decadent couch that had not been maintained or changed for several years.

Neither Galamon or Anneliese, sitting just beside him, seemed amused by his joke, and so Argrave sighed as they waited.

“Come on. A bit of levity amidst morbidity is the best way to handle it,” Argrave urged them.

“What we are doing here is beyond merely turning a blind eye,” Anneliese said. “We’re involved. It is merely hard to swallow.”

Argrave had no answer to that, so he stayed silent.

As Argrave had hoped, the hand alone was evidence enough to earn him a meeting inside Cyprus. The guards out front had deemed this matter important, and so they fetched someone more able to handle this matter.

Argrave looked around the interior of Cyprus, taking in the sights. It was the first floor of the tower, so one might expect that it would be the best-kept and most presentable. ‘Disrepair’ was the best term for the room Argrave saw, though. There was one long, if decrepit, tapestry winding about the whole of the room, depicting the god Fellhorn and various Fellhorn-peripheral scenarios. After a while examining it sequentially, Argrave realized it depicted their creation myth.

He was just about to rise to his feet to examine the tapestry when someone came back into the room. Barring his brown-plumed helmet, the man seemed a guard just as those before. Argrave knew who he was: the Lord of Copper’s primary human commander, Captain Jeralian. He was an old man with the air of a hardened veteran about him. His hair was all gray, and his beard was short and patchy as though he was normally clean-shaven but hadn’t groomed in a few days.

Captain Jeralian stepped up to them. He had the severed hand, clasping it by the wrist. “Foreigners. My men tell me that you discovered a man trying to bury this hand.”

“That’s right,” Argrave confirmed.

“And, further…” he stopped, retrieving a stool off to the side. He set it across from them and sat. “You allege to have discovered an underground smuggling ring where the citizens of Sethia are spirited from the city and taken to the southern mountains?”

Argrave paused a few seconds before nodding and confirming, “Yes.”

Jeralian straightened on his stool, back rigid. He stared at them with cold golden eyes. “Describe what happened.”

“Well…” Argrave paused as though gathering his thoughts, but he had long ago prepared what to say. “The three of us were walking about the city, and—”

“At night?” he interrupted.

“It’s nice out at night,” Argrave shrugged. “We’re from the north. We enjoy the cold; the moon is nice.” Argrave held his hands out and continued to explain. “Anyway, we turn the corner and stumble upon this guy. He’s digging near a patch of… those spicy, fruit-like crops,” Argrave made the shape of a pepper with his fingers, acting ignorant of what they were.

“Peppers,” Jeralian interrupted. “Go on.”

“He sees us, we see him. I didn’t think anything was amiss at first, but then he takes off, holding a bag or something. He dropped that hand you see there,” Argrave pointed. “We start chasing him, and—”

Jeralian held out a hand to interrupt. “Why were you chasing him?”

“Because he dropped a severed hand,” Argrave said as though it was obvious. “A fresh one, too.”

“You chased him because of that?” Jeralian pressed disbelievingly.

“You’re acting like that’s unusual,” Argrave retorted, equally incredulous. “It’s the duty of the faithful to ensure no crime goes unpunished—such is as Veid teaches us.”

Jeralian bit his lips, thinking about what Argrave said, then nodded. “Go on.”

“Once we catch up and he sees that we’re foreigners, he starts pleading with us. He tells us about what he’s been doing. Apparently, people come to him—usually former tribals, as he said—and they set things up to send people away to the mountains. They sever the person’s hand to get rid of the Mark of Fellhorn, stage a death where it’s difficult to find the body, and use this underground passage to get far enough from the city to make the journey to the mountains,” Argrave concluded, pointing at Jeralian.

Jeralian furrowed his brows, staring at Argrave as though he was a madman.

#####

“…and he claimed he could take us to the house where this smuggling ring purportedly is, master Brium,” Jeralian said, kneeling before a man in a bed.

The ‘Lord of Copper’ fit his title well, even if only by virtue of his copper-toned skin. He wore silky orange clothes, which concealed a thin body with a large frame. The wet nature of the Vessel’s skin made his body seem like genuine metal, shining against the light splendidly. All of the jewelry he wore was copper—rings, bracelets, earrings, et cetera. He sat on the edge of the bed, posture straight and tensed. He was a handsome man with tight, stern features, and wavy brown hair descending to his shoulders.

“Your impression?” Brium inquired, voice low and serious.

“He’s very clearly a foreigner,” Jeralian said at once. “His customs, beliefs, and behaviors are far from ours. Regarding the veracity of his words… the information he offers is too easy to confirm and matches up with some occurrences noted in the city. I can’t believe he’d lie about this.”

“Yet… stumbling across someone burying a hand? Having that same person disclose the entire operation?” Brium asked rhetorically. “If the people involved were that incautious, they would not have lasted this long.”

Jeralian lifted his head once, then quickly lowered it, saying no more.

“He’s telling the truth about this thing’s existence,” Brium finally concluded. “But he isn’t being entirely honest about his role in the matter.”

“What should be done, master Brium?” Jeralian said quickly.

“Thinking of his character… I believe he was involved with their group, but once he discovered they offered no benefit, came to those he thought would. He’s enterprising. Ruthless, even.”

“Yet he came to Cyprus, master? Meaning no offense,” Jeralian quickly added.

“Argent or Aurum might offer a one-time reward, or none at all… but I think he doesn’t wish to be powerless. He wants room to grow.” Brium smiled. “He chose luckily… or chose well. I cannot decide which. What of his capability?”

“He claims to be a C-rank spellcaster, while his elven companion is B-rank. The last, the warrior… is intimidating,” Jeralian said with a simple shake of his head.

Brium stood up from his bed. “It seems I must speak to this man myself, discern if he is ruthless and intelligent enough to be of use in Cyprus’ future. He may be of great use… or a waste of time. I’ll decide that.”