Despite the late hour, the
Tin Tankard was filled with celebration. Music played, people danced, and drinks flowed. The roar of merriment was but a murmur to those listening to it from the tavern's basement. For the two of them, there would be a different kind of celebration.
Xanesha locked the basement door and slithered over to the man propped up against the nearby wall. He was a mess – his blonde hair tussled, his face carrying several days' worth of stubble growth, and he had the stale stink of ale on his breath. He wore filthy robes that announced his status as a cleric of Abadar or had been at some point.
His eyes, however, glowed with an unnatural emerald hue. He looked around the room before taking cautious steps on unsure legs. Xanesha watched as he moved, his footing becoming more solid with every step. She was pleased with the quick progress. "Your strength is returning," she said. "Your control is much better."
The man took a few more steps, turned, and looked down at himself. When he spoke, it was with a voice that was not his own. "My strength is enough for now," said
Karzoug. "However, this vessel almost feels like an insult. Did you provide me with a vagrant? Me?"
Xanesha bowed her head. "I apologize for the substandard accommodations," she said. "But he may be of use to us in the future."
"We shall see," Karzoug said. "Now, about my sword."
"Master, everything is going according to your plan. The fools were keeping your sword in their vault at the church of Abadar. Someone finally noticed that their collector's piece was no longer an inert artwork. They noticed the power – your power – emanating from the weapon. Of course, they had no idea what to make of it, so they brought it out of the vault to examine it."
"That's when my champion claimed it."
"It was easy for a man of his skills to take the blade," Xanesha noted. "Ironically, your vessel provided the information that allowed your champion to capture the blade."
"How did you convince the assassin to get the sword?"
"As much as he thirsts for vengeance, he enjoys the finer things in life. I told him about the sword and some of its abilities." Xanesha smiled, pleased with herself. "Once he stole it, the blade did the rest."
"Your assassin is now my champion. He had best be a better selection than this one." Karzoug looked at his hands and frowned. "I will speak to him soon. Now, about the shards..."
"Gone," Xanesha said. "The Pathfinder Society, the organization I was telling you about, had three shards secured and locked away. They are scrambling now, figuring out how they could have been taken."
"The fools believed their protections and security measures to be without equal. Another nuisance swept away. The world has forgotten much in the past ten thousand years. Soon, they will remember – and fear – the name
Karzoug the Claimer."
The green glow left the man's eyes, and he fell to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. Xanesha wrapped her tail around his chest, and propped him up against the wall. She leaned down and tapped his cheek with the back of her hand. "Ottman," she said. "Ottman, wake up."
Ottman Jalstin, former cleric of Abadar, opened his eyes. They widened further when Xanesha straightened, and he looked at her serpentine torso. "No," he whispered hoarsely, wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands. "What do you want?"
Xanesha leaned down and smiled at him. "I want to help you. After all, you gave me the information about the sword."
Ottman pressed his face into his hands. "I needed the money, or they would have killed me." His voice caught in his throat. "I should have let them kill me."
"Nonsense," she said. "You are far too important."
Ottman's head snapped up out of his hands. "I'm a degenerate drunk and gambler!" he spat. "I wasn't even there when my wife was..." His anger turned to grief in a moment, and a choked wail tore free from his chest. "Gods... Kaylee..." he croaked, then pressed his face into his hands again.
Xanesha watched Ottman's body tremble with every sob. The muffled cheering and revelry from above them was a potent contrast to the man sitting on the floor in the dark, stinking of stale spirits, broken with grief. He had lost his money, his god, and his wife. Ottman had lost everything. "No," Xanesha thought to herself. "Not everything. You still have some worth to me."
Ottman slowly lifted his head and looked at her, eyes glassy with tears. "P-please..." he sobbed. "Can I see her? I need to see her..."
Xanesha's thick serpentine tail wrapped around him, pulling Ottman to his feet. She squeezed him, pinning his arms against his side. He closed his eyes and felt her scales against his hands, sliding across his arms. Ottman was pinned, trapped, and didn't care.
But then the scales began to feel different. They felt softer. The squeezing pressure eased and became more comfortable. Ottman leaned his head forward and came to rest on a shoulder. Hair caressed his cheek. The hair smelled faintly like strawberries. His bottom lip trembled, and he didn't want to move.
A hand pressed against his cheek. "Ottman," said a voice that both filled and broke his heart. He opened his eyes and saw
Kaylee Jalstin's face inches from his own. "Ottman," she repeated.
He sobbed and pressed his cheek against her hand. "Kaylee," Ottman said, smiling as the tears flowed. "Kaylee, I'm so -"
Kaylee held his cheek with one hand and brushed the hair out of his face with the other. "Shhh," she said, then leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "I'm here now. It's okay."
Ottman wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, pressing his face into her neck. His body shook as his heart broke, and he wept. Kaylee stroked the back of his head and looked at him with yellow, serpentine eyes. "It's okay," she repeated. "Everything will be just fine."
