Trial and Flame

by Kevin Murphy

  Through the second half of the night, Dakkon used his thermal vision to detect well-hidden small game as they passed by. With only a rough description of the location and Dakkon’s pointed finger, Cline was given one shot to take down a creature obscured by brush. The task was unreasonably difficult, and made for surprisingly light entertainment as Cline frustratedly ran into bushes to retrieve his arrows. Then, Cline returned with his first successful kill—a rabbit—and after that the night was more like a display of their ranger’s incredible aptitude for sharpshooting than it was any sort of lighthearted diversion.

  By the time dawn rolled around, Cline had thoroughly impressed the lot of them. With his final three shots, he brought back three more rabbits, and the party celebrated every one of his successes. The luxury of having fresh meat meant that they could try to cook the next time they stopped. Eating only dried this and dried that had left them all longing for something new and different. Despite no one having ever learned even the most basic culinary technique, they each wanted to try their hand at it. Though they’d never let Dakkon take a turn again, of course.

  A few hours before they’d intended to stop—and well after the group had amassed a dozen small chances for a decent meal—their march was obstructed by a patch of thick brush which completely obscured their way forward. Seeing no immediate way around, as the thicket continued beyond their line of sight on either side of the water, the group was reluctant to leave the stream that they had so-closely followed. Rather than deviate from their course, Melee pushed into the thick brush first—creating a path by force—then the others followed behind her. Not being able to see down the stream, which had—until then—always been clear and open, should have been their first sign that something was amiss. After days of walking, however, what may have otherwise seemed obvious had managed to elude them.

  Well into the thicket, they found tall heaps of white, long-dead branches which had been laid out laterally and stacked up like a wall to bar their passage. The wood eagerly cracked and snapped as Melee pushed through that final obstruction. A few steps further and the group found themselves past the clumps of vegetation. They stood amidst a sudden clearing.

  The area beyond the barrier of dry wood was open and partially-shaded from the sun by overhanging foliage. Once through to the interior, they could clearly see that the white wood formed surrounding walls which had the appearance of a low-tech rampart. There was a ramshackle hut toward the center of the clearing, suggesting that someone had lived there before. A canvas-like shelter overhanging an anvil, bellows, furnace, table, and shelf filled with various tools suggested someone might work there, still.

  From around the side of the shabby hut walked a stranger gripping an axe just below its beard. The man was a complete stranger, but for some reason Dakkon felt irrationally irked by his appearance—pale, pasty skin and pointed ears. He wasn’t sure why, but the features seemed oddly familiar.

  “What the hell did you do to my wall!” the man yelled. He placed the blunt, cold metal of the axe’s back against his temple to soothe his expressed headache, then massaged the area with small circular motions—blade bobbing up and down all the while.

  “Ah…” Melee said at a loss for words to explain her sudden intrusion.

  “Hold on now,” Dakkon said. “We didn’t even realize anyone was in here.”

  The lean, pale man sighed exasperatedly and dropped the axe to his side. “Yeah, that’s sort of the whole point. How did you even find this glade? Everything’s been warded so that people can’t just stumble upon it.”

  “We… just stumbled upon it,” said Melee.

  The stranger shot Melee a quizzical look, as though he were trying to determine whether or not she was telling him the truth. Then, after a moment, he snapped his fingers, having come to some sort of conclusion. “Let me guess, you lot followed the stream, did you?”

  Melee, still flustered, looked around to the rest of the group for guidance—unsure if it was alright to fill the stranger in on their travel plans.

  “We sure did,” said Dakkon. “Good guess.”

  “It was more a process of elimination,” the stranger said. “You don’t seem to recognize me, so you didn’t come here to find me. I set up the wards to keep people away myself, so I know that you could only make your way here by following a trail of some sort. Having warded the stream and some area beyond it, it seems likely that my desire not to take a walk several times each day for water was the weak link.” The man paused for a moment. “But then, why would you be following this particular stream when there’s a road so close by? Are you lot on the run?”

  The guess had been closer to the mark than Dakkon would have liked.

  “What makes you say that?” asked Cline nervously. He seemed so off-put by the remark that the pointy-eared stranger was certain to think they were fugitives. “Wait—there’s a road nearby?”

  “Of course, there is,” said the stranger, casting a quizzical look to his new guests. “So, then, you’re lost, too?”

  “Gah!” Melee exclaimed. She’d clearly grown tired of seeming meek and on her backfoot during the exchange. “This whole walk has been a real pain in the ass!” She pointed to Dakkon and Cline in turn. “The next time either of you ask me to march halfway across the kingdom, I’m gonna tell you to shove it.”

  Dakkon grimaced apologetically at her words. He could sympathize with her completely. If ever someone asked him to walk this far again, he’d likely tell them to shove it, too. If they’d had a team of horses from the very start, then the journey wouldn’t have been so tedious—it may even have been a rather pleasant one—but, he’d wanted to take things as slowly as possible so that the tournament’s initial chaos had a chance to settle down. Dakkon regretted that decision now, however. Given the opportunity, he’d gladly buy each of his friends their own mount.

  “Well, we did sign up for it, after all,” said Mina, with a resigned sigh. “Nothing to be done but keep on moving. Sorry to have broken into your wall, sir.” Mina, too, seemed more on edge than Dakkon had ever seen her.

  “At least we’re closer than we’ve ever been,” commented Cline.

  “Cline, that’s a ridiculous thing to say,” Mina chided. “Of course we’re closer than we’ve ever been. We haven’t been walking backwards or in circles.”

  “He’s not all wrong, though,” said the pointy-eared man. “If you keep following this stream then you’re only about a day and a half’s walk from Thelasidonna.”

  “… Thelasidonna?” Mina asked with a tinge of shock. “You mean, the elven border city?”

  “It’s more than just the edge of elven lands,” the pale man corrected her. “Thelasidonna is a bastion of the arts, and it is a skillfully crafted masterwork in itself.”

  “How did we stray so far west!” Mina cried aloud. “Dakkon, give me your maps.”

  Dakkon handed over his pair of maps to the distressed druid who quickly began to compare them against her own, then he turned to speak to the stranger. “Again, sorry about your barrier. We had no idea what lay ahead. I’m Dakkon, may I ask your name as well?”

  The man’s exasperated expression seemed to fall away at the apology—he even seemed to be on the verge of smiling. “It’s not a big issue, Dakkon, just a spot of extra work. In any event, your arrival has exposed a weakness that I’d overlooked, so I’m glad your lot found it. My name is Yorvel.” Then, he really did smile. It was as if he was pleased to have the opportunity to introduce himself. “If I came off hostile at first, forgive me. I’m somewhat starved for interaction. You don’t appear to be brigands, so it’s a pleasure to have you here.”

  “If I may ask, Yorvel, why hide away in the woods?” Dakkon asked.

  “That’s a simple question with a complex answer,” Yorvel said. “But, most simply put, I have been exiled from my home lands. I’m not a fugitive exactly, but I like to work in private—or rather, I feel it’s best to keep away from prying eyes.” He motioned with his free hand t
oward the workspace behind him, as though—in contrast with what he’d just said—he really wanted people to marvel at what he could do.

  Dakkon picked up on the hint and decided that it couldn’t hurt to play along. “Not having anyone to share your work with must be trying,” he speculated. “Would you mind showing us what it is you craft?”

  Yorvel smiled widely, exposing his bright, perfectly-aligned teeth. “There’s a spark of diplomacy in this one, eh!” he jovially said to Dakkon’s party members. “Very well. I’d be delighted to show you what I’ve been working on. I’m not working with the best of resources out here, but I—” While he was in the process of turning around, and before he’d had a chance to finish speaking, Mina grabbed his attention.

  “I’ve checked the map five times,” Mina said. “Shouldn’t we be about here?” She pointed to a river on the map.

  Yorvel gazed at the map for a moment. It was the more precise of Dakkon’s two maps that he’d bought, and it did not show the location that they were heading to.

  “Hmm,” said Yorvel. “I don’t believe this map is very accurate for the surrounding region. If this is the same stream, then, instead of it forking to the north and east, it simply bends to just above Thelasidonna. There is also a bog which should be marked right around here that’s completely missing. Given that, I’m sure that more details are incorrect, but without another map to compare it to, it’s hard to say exactly which.”

  Mina stared down at the spot where Yorvel had said an entire bog was missing from the map. “Dakkon, how much did you pay for this thing?”

  “Hmmm…” Dakkon thought. “I got it for 27 gold, I think—plus the other map.”

  Mina drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Yorvel laughed mirthfully.

  “Wow. That explains it,” said Roth, who grinned despite the situation. “I’m surprised we managed to find Klith. Maps are pretty expensive in Chronicle, you know.”

  “Yeah,” said Cline. “For that price, I bet the cartographer just freehanded areas he’d seen on another map. We’re going to have to get a new one, ASAP.”

  Dakkon’s face flushed a bit at his mistake. He knew that maps were expensive, and while he had asked for a detailed map, he’d chosen two that were unverified by the cartographer’s guild—to save money. He had even asked that both maps primarily focus on the outskirts of Correndin because he hadn’t expected to wander well beyond that area at the time.

  “Yorvel, you don’t happen to have a map you’d be willing to part with, do you?” Dakkon asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Yorvel said. “Nor did I ever express a talent for drawing maps as I have for the magic forge.”

  “Wait a second,” said Mina, suddenly growing less interested in Dakkon’s mistake with the maps and more interested in their host. “Magic forge? You’re a mah`yarin—and an elf?”

  With Mina’s sudden change, the rest of the party, too, began to reappraise what was likely to be their first encounter with another of Chronicle’s races.

  Yorvel smiled proudly. “I am a mah`yarin—but I’m not fully elf, by their laws. My mother was elven, and my father a human like yourselves. My grandfather taught me his craft, and that has been the source of some controversy.”

  “What’s a mah`yarin?” Roth asked.

  “It’s a sort of magical craftsman,” answered Mina. “The exact sort we were hoping to find once we reached elven lands.”

  Dakkon felt reinvigorated. They may have strayed off-course, but they had met a magical craftsman well ahead of schedule.

  “It’s serendipity,” Cline said, shaking his head in amazement.

  “Is it?” Yorvel asked. “Why might that be?”

  The party explained that they had just come from the visilium crystal mines of Klith, and that they had planned to find someone of his discipline who’d be willing to refine the crystal cores that they’d won through combat. Their story intrigued the craftsman, so they gladly pulled out the trophies they’d won from the tunnels. They had crystal cores of four colors: violet, blue, red, and green, a strip of flesh, an acid sac, and the hardened crystal sickle that they’d gotten from the swarm queen.

  Yorvel’s eyes sparkled as he saw the materials set before him. He looked both envious and jealous. It was immediately clear that the chance to work with such materials was a rare pleasure for the craftsman. Despite his clear longing for each item, Yorvel’s eyes lingered longest on the violet crystal bead.

  “Do you have any idea what the different colors mean?” Dakkon asked.

  Yorvel broke his gaze at the small, violet orb when he turned to Dakkon. “Once refined, they should have completely different properties. But to better answer your question, I’ll admit that I’m not certain what those different properties could be. I’ve never had the pleasure of working with these materials, so I can’t say precisely how they’ll turn out. However, I do know that my grandfather always wore a pendant which held a remarkably similar violet crystal. The way it darkly glowed always caught my eye. Seeing it makes me long for simpler days—and for family.”

  Dakkon considered the craftsman’s words, then shot an inquisitive glance to his other party members, who nodded one by one. They had come to the same conclusion.

  “Yorvel, we know that your trade is a valuable one—and an expensive one,” said Dakkon. “Would you be willing to accept the violet core in exchange for processing our other materials?”

  Yorvel smiled, but then closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. To work with these, I would need to fetch additional supplies that I have no hope of affording, and while there’s a village nearby that may have them, my purchases—as a half-elf—are always scrutinized. While I would love—”

  Dakkon held up his palms in entreaty to halt the half-elf’s refusal. “I know you’re alone out here. It’s not much, but, if you’d like, we can stay and keep you company for a time. We can fetch your ingredients for you. Roth needs a better weapon than the pick he carries now, and we could all use other additional supplies from town, so we’ll need to go there anyway. As for your craft, Mina’s foci have both been destroyed and we would all be thrilled to see her with a new one before we manage to get ourselves into trouble. We’re weary from our travels and we’ve been hunting on the way here, but not a one of us can cook. Let us help one another.” Dakkon gave his kindest smile, then looked to his teammates who nodded supportively, again. They would love an extended break.

  Yorvel paused to consider, then after a moment he displayed a toothy grin. “Now, cooking is a skill I’ve managed to develop quite a bit.”

  Chapter 16: The Long Rest

  Yorvel instructed Melee, Mina, and Roth how to get to town and where to go for his supplies—the three were fast volunteers to head into town, and Yorvel’s mostly-hidden glade seemed as good of a place as any for Dakkon and Cline to lay low. Dakkon would have been pleased to practice while his party was away, but he spent most of the time talking with his host and marveling at his work.

  Yorvel was a half-elf, and half-elves in Chronicle were quite an oddity. Their skin was paler than most humans, and they had a hint of the elves’ tolerance for colder climates, but they were ostracized by both parent races. Humans didn’t fully trust the elves, and the elves were far too proud to have their bloodline muddied. Their pride, even more so than their law, was how they had managed to prevent the spread of elven secrets. Nearly all trade skills had certain methods known only to the elves which they withheld from the other races. In some cases, such as the mah`yarin, they withheld all knowledge exclusively. It would be no stretch to say that, for players who hope to specialize as crafters, not choosing to play an elf might prove to be a crippling disadvantage.

  As early as age six, Yorvel had shown an aptitude for his grandfather’s trade. It was the old man’s choice to privately tutor Yorvel in the art, and it was Yorvel’s task to never mention his training. After several years, the apprentice had become an exceptional craftsman—but the only ones who knew
were Yorvel, his grandfather, and his mother. His father had left to go adventuring when Yorvel was an age too young to remember him.

  Being an outcast in elven society was a difficult way to live, but it was the only life that Yorvel had ever known. Growing up in such conditions, close family became more important to him than practically everything. Over the years, the young craftsman had become far more talented at his craft than elves twice, perhaps even thrice, his age.

  Yorvel made his greatest mistake one day by proving it.

  A young, brash, 28-year-old elf had enjoyed tormenting the outcast Yorvel ever since the two had first met eyes—an interaction that Yorvel eventually learned never to do, as elven pride caused him far more grief than the occasional spiteless gaze was worth. One day, to show off his privilege through the exclusivity of his craft, he insisted that Yorvel watch a demonstration of his most recent creation. The proud young elf had made an uneven ceramic pot which boiled water after its lid had been closed for five minutes. The design was amateurish in Yorvel’s eyes, and of a quality that he would have made when he was seven—perhaps eight at the oldest. When Yorvel saw the infancy of his long-time tormentor’s craft, he couldn’t help himself. The bully’s pride in something so unexceptional caused Yorvel to laugh.

  The older elf was enraged. He demanded that Yorvel try to make something so that he might be vindicated when the half-breed failed and humiliated himself.

  Even at 15, Yorvel was no fool. He knew that showing up the elf would likely be a mistake—he wrestled with the idea. But that day he saw things in a new light. He deluded himself into believing that if he could make something that so far outstripped his tormentor’s talent, the other elves would come to see his worth. Yorvel wanted to win strongly enough to ignore that elven law would never be on a half-breed’s side.

  15-year-old Yorvel made a magically-infused cane so fine that even his picky grandfather would have approved. The cane’s shaft was made using magically-strengthened volcanic glass, embellished from handle to tip with contrasting pale blue visilium crystal runes that looked—from a distance—like sprinkles of ash. The handle of the cane was a two-colored egg, standing fat-end-up, made half of cloudy amber with the other half made of smooth lapis.