B.T.V. -- Session 12 Epilogue: A lot of Talking and a Bar Fight

My dearest Airith,


It seems like only last night I took quill to scroll to write you, because in fact in was.

As you might remember, my cherished, I had obtained a chest containing unprocessed ghostlight from a Leviathan ship. After I woke from a full sleep, steadily making my way back to full health, I managed to use that to charge two of my cartridges, so I am not as defenceless as I was, but continuing to build up my charges remains an important task. Going down for a middle of the night meal, having gone to bed very early, I found Finndo slumped in slumber on a bench in the taproom, and leave him be. I wonder if he’s obtained a room for himself. Selador joins me as I eat, and orders cabbage and mushroom soup from our server, Illa Kaes, who seems to find the request change but, when the dish comes, my friend seems well pleased with it.

Lyra’s Major Inari (Iterrari? I’m still not certain) arrives at the inn, which I find strange, and she comes straight to us, which I do not. She tells us that the Fenarian delegation that had just arrived in the city was there to negotiate support for a war on the Two Rivers, an adjacent Eastern kingdom. Of course, she added, that is a matter for Division 6, not the Stig.

I mention my belief that Division 6 has taken an interest in me, but the Major scoffs at the idea. After asking why I thought that, I mentioned Feddix had told me. “The Jhereg are an untrustworthy bunch,” she declares. “This is a mark for their own use.” A crew, it seems, has deputized me in some way, and I assume it was the Jhereg who hired me to cleanse the house of the Witch Wolf Wraiths, as I wrote you earlier, beloved.

Turning toward Selador, the Major becomes stern. She tells him she has some affection for Sergeant Lyra and, since the latter has no family in the city, the Major planned to offer her protection, and warned Selador not to leave Lyra disappointed in their mutual attraction.

The fact Selador carried a Great Weapon was of some concern to the Major, “But you appear a man of some decency.”

The Major, after receiving assurances from Selador, downs her ale in a single quaff, then tells him that Lyra is fond of jewelery before departing. Illa, returning to fetch Selador’s soup bowl, was told by him that he found it excellent.

“I will tell Muid you enjoyed it,” she says. Presumably she means the cook. “I was told there was a homeless person here, but I think it is just Finndo.”

As she leaves us, Bamboo goes over to the reclined Finndo and begins chewing on a corner of his sleeve, which spills below the bench, and Illa smiles at this before continuing to the kitchen. Finndo blearily awakes, then sees Bamboo and gets up to walk over to our table, where the lyorn continues his chewing.

He is uneasy, he admits, even as he affirms that he, personally, will purchase the inn. “Something’s going on. I will take the air.”

At that very moment, a group of four Jhereg enter through the main doors to the taproom and take seats in a corner table just by it. One fetches tankards of ale, and I speculate that this might well be the middle of the night but also the middle of their workday.

Finndo returns almost immediately with Vadavan the Necromance, and nods as he goes with him to a corner table in the “Windows” section of the taproom.

Another individual enters the bar, and he appears to be a Tarar, a tribesman with a head somewhat like a dog’s. He grabs Illa casually as he growls an order to her and, while she appears discomfits, she also slips from his grasp with practiced ease. He then ascends to the Windows section, where he encounters a curious bamboo, and lifts him by the scruff of the neck to growl at him, though with no seeming malice. Bamboo starts squirming and the Tarar returns him to the floor, then comes over to our table and asks if he can join us.

He introduces himself as Staffy, and he wears hard hide armour. He eyes Selador’s uniform warily, and seems to constantly be sniffing, as dogs do. Receiving a tankard from Illa, he comments, “Ah, my first of the day.” After taking a substantial pull of the ale, he added, “There is much necromancy going on in these parts.”

Turning to me, he stated, “I have fought with Drifters. I, too, walk alone. It is not easy to be alone all the time.”

He then asks Selador of he has a romantic partner, and my friend admits to being in the midst of wooing one.

“She wears scent,” Staffy says. “I can smell it on your clothing.”

Telling me his is a Tarar, when I ask about his travels, he adds, “All the places are much the same, full of Draegerans who need to be taught a lesson.” I cannot help but chuckle at this.

He proffers his sword for Selador’s inspection. It appears made of flint, not steel, but seems sharp and serviceable. Selador tries it out, and finds it twice as heavy as a metal blade, but Staffy has muscles on top of his muscles, so presumably that does not overly fatigue him.

When I ask if he has served as a mercenary, he admits he has, then adds his people prefer the term “Sellsword,” and for some reason I see no need to object to this. I begin to believe the time to be in the taproom must be the middle of the night, because Mythic, the strange Draegeran who I described in an earlier missive, enters as well. Staffy seems wary of him, and stands and demands his name before withdrawing to another table. Finndo then joins us as well.

“Something momentous has happened,” Mythic announces. “The Mournblade is here. I can hear her.”

I assume by the name this must be another Great Weapon that comes from without Axildusk.

“I am not certain what to think,” Mythic continues. “I must do something.”

He pretends certain blades have the power to move themselves from place to place, but always preferred to be wielded by users. “This blade will see someone who is useful for its purposes.”

Mournblade might even prefer a human to a “Sindarin,” he continues, and in the conversation I follow after that he seems to mean Draegerans, or more precisely elves, since they seem to be two distinct races.

“I cannot ignore a runeblade’s arrival,” he stated emphatically.

Selador proclaims, “This is a momentous turning of the wheel,” as he does in such situations. He also expressed surprise Mournblade’s “twin” had not yet made its way to Axildusk. All present refuse to refer to it by name outside myself, and I of course have no idea what they mean.

Finndo suggested Mythic take strong drink before setting out to find Mournblade, and while he pretends reluctance, he allows one probably wouldn’t hurt.

Mythic then observes to Selador that his “arts” seem to be working well, and my friend replies he has encountered no barriers to them so far, presumably meaning during his time in Axildusk. Selador has explained to me that he had some skill at necromancy, but only it seems of a limited sort.

Mythic reported he had tried to call on a “Lord of Erth,” whatever that might be, without success, and suspected it was absent from Axildusk. As for the “Lords of the Beasts,” he stated, some Draegerans bore marks of them.

Then for some reason Selador commented that for now Law observed but did not act, then uttered, “There will come a time when Law will enforce its own.”

“Your words might be portentous,” Mythic answered.

Graith, who had been abandoned at the other table by Finndo, came over to our table.

“I was not aware a Dragon Lord was here,” the necromancer said. “You are a sorcerer, I take it?”

Mythic allowed he was “well-versed in magick,” which I have heard used, but not often, in place of decanting, my dearest.

“You study more than one art?” Graith said in surprise.

Mythic said he knew of necromancy, but also many conjurations and was familiar as well with the wards and abjurations used in Axildusk for protection.

“It is strange I have not heard of you,” Graith observes, and added that Mythic seemed well-suited to be a teacher of decanting.

“It shows so easily as this?” Mythic inquires, and Graith allows he has some ability to detect such in others.

Finndo, rather abruptly and inelegantly, suggested Mythic might make a good candidate for Emperor when the Cycle changed next.

“Yes, Finndo, you are something of a judge of Draegerans.”

Graith asks Mythic, “You’re considering, shall we say, putting yourself forward for the throne when it becomes available?”

Mythic said he expected such a change to come soon, and Graith takes umbrage on behalf of the Empress. “One does not speak of her passing so lightly.” “I don’t concern myself with day to day matters,” Mythic responds airily.

“You are a very strange man,” Graith countered.

I offered, “Sometimes those touched by the Gods appear strange.”

Graith pretended he would inquire when he returned to his home as to whether the Gods favoured Mythic’s potential claim to the crown.

Selador inquires as to the Gods “that hold sway in this space at this time.”

Graith answers he can think of only one immediately and that would be Darkness, who I mention is rumoured to be the mother of Verra the Demon Goddess and her two sisters.

“She is rumoured to devour worlds,” Graith says of Darkness. Then he mentioned a Lord of Dreams, G’Mon.

Mythic expresses an interest in visiting Graith and seeing his laboratory, and the necromancer hurries off to do so.

“I’m glad he took the bait to leave,” Mythic says. He warned Selador to be careful in his necromantic investigations until they knew more of how the Gods might react to beings recalled from the past arriving in their domain. Shadow, it seems, had aided Darkness in a previous realm in a war against, well, I’m not sure who but perhaps humanity and others, but as I mentioned in an earlier report Shadow now claims to stand against Darkness.

Mythic prepares to leave to find Mournblade. It must be found, he said.

Finndo asked if Mythic was certain he wished to involve others in the search. “I, for one, am not.”

I suggest we do assist, mainly because if am nearly sure the idea will be rejected having come from me.

Mythic does seem to dismiss my aid, but then adds somewhat cryptically that while I am concerned with blue ghostlight, “You ignore the light of the sky above you.” No idea, my beloved, what that meant. The sky has always been red, as long as I have lived, except during true dark.

Mournblade, Mythic pronounced, was “lit by the red light of Chaos.”

I suggested Mythic search for gatherings of ghostlight if he wishes to find Mournblade, but he suggests instead that the “bane sword” would feed upon such spiritual energy, and we would be better seeking places where that light had withdrawn.

Now Random, my newest acquaintance, joins us, and he backs the idea of putting Mythic on the Imperial throne.

Then he mentions that “the cleftyck, the veer, the elves are responsible for a great crime against the realm,” the Cadaviva, which he described as the undead. I mention the only undead I know of with any certainty is the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain, who has been “alive” for a far greater span than any other Draegeran, and is said to be a vampire. Ghosts are our plague, I insist.

That gives them pause for thought, and I am asked to expand on my earlier statements that the Draegerans are really humans who were tampered with by Jenoine in their experimentation to form a stagnant society, though I leave the last bit out. That leads them to conclude these “Cadaviva” might not be present in Axildusk. “I think together we can achieve some things,” Random declares, but then I am sent off to Staffy’s table to get a list of the tribes of Draegara, since my friends seemed to want to speak without me present, again.

Staffy tells me of the following tribes, of which there are a total of 17, though he knows of 15 only:

• The Lyxa, who are traders;
• The Tarar, who are sellswords;
• The Dygosa;
• The Arneels;
• The Verdosau, who are hunters;
• The Panzer, who are berserkers or just mad;
• The Leonides, who are barbarians;
• The Shahasa, who are sorcerers and shamans, with an appearance like a striped cat, which I conclude means they are the Rakshasa that my friends had asked if they were present in the world;
• The Codice, who fish;
• The Brunia, who are beekeepers;
• The Grizz, who are gladiators;
• The Brack;
• The Spizz, who are trackers;
• The Mast, who are large and “like to roll big rocks around,”;
• And the Quinnials, who are slayers.

“We are the lost Houses,” Staffy laments. “We are the tribe.” The tribesmen, he adds, are more likely to be found around Skaduan or Tentacle.

I tell him I am from Elde Island, and he scoffs at that, saying my aqua eyes are “the mark of the rebel.” He expected I would be from Banners as a result. “Did you pay weregild to the Death Wardens?” he asked. When I said I had not, he advised me too, in case I was slain and wished to be revivified. Suddenly, beloved, I was uncertain I had spent wisely when I ordered the pentaglobes, which would have covered a great deal of the 250-imperial cost demanded for revivifications. He confides he is staying at the White Lantern tavern, in case I wish to speak to him further.

Then he points to the four Jhereg sitting by the main doors.

“Their blades smell of oil. They have been sharpened. They do not drink. They await some signal.”

He points out their leader, who I take note of before returning to my friends. Meanwhile, Finndo has said, “I have heard the one who has the Sword of Cause might be here.”

Selador then suggests that a native of Axildusk might be a good choice to be king of all Eastern lands, rather than an outsider. I consider the possibility I will have to shoot my dear friend several times in the head if he means me.

Finndo, fortunately, rules me out, and I am grateful.

I arrive at the table and relay Staffy’s warning, and Finndo and Selador go off to deal with the Jhereg while I resume my seat with Random, not wishing to waste the two charged cartridges I had just acquired. Random pretended that participating in a bar brawl was beneath a former king’s dignity. Selador, though he knew many laws, seems not to understand the rules of brawls. While Finndo tangled two of the Jheregs with a chair, Selador approached one of their fellows and cut his head clean off. The Jheregs, armed at best with knives, have little chance at the two cousins, and Selador finished three before Finndo allows the fourth, gravely wounded, to quit the fight and the inn.

Finndo tells this survivor to inform the Jhereg council that the inn was now off-limits to Jhereg. The last Jhereg is dumbfounded. “You have cost lives,” he repeats at least twice.

“Do you wish to make it four of a kind?” Finndo answers. “Make your way out while you can.”

“You haven’t seen the last of us,” the survivor gasped as he collected himself to do so.

“I have, if you were listening earlier,” Finndo replied airily.

Meanwhile, in an aside to me, Random reveals to be that his wife was Queen of Rebma, an Atlantean. These words mean nothing to me but I take note of them. Finndo speaks to Staffy momentarily, hiring him to be the tavern’s doorman for two orbs a day. When he and Selador returned to the table, though, Finndo suggested Staffy might better make a bodyguard for Random, and asking me if I knew of any other tribesmen in the city, I mention the Verdosau I had met, and Finndo seems intrigued.

He then asked what the new name of the inn should be, and as we quaffed our ales, I considered it, and then suggested…well, that will wait until the next letter.



Until I can hold you in my fierce embrace again,
Ash

Asher's words transcribed by R.Perry