by Drew Hayes
“I say we go small,” Glenn reiterated. “Little quests here and there, dealing with enemies we can easily kill. Build up our gold reserves slowly, get new equipment a piece at a time, and when the Grand Quest finally rolls around, we’ll be set.”
“Fuck that,” Terry snapped. “We didn’t get in by playing it safe. We did it by taking risks and killing the damn wolf pack’s leader. That’s what we need more of. Big quests, big scores, big upgrades. By the time this Grand Quest rolls around, we won’t just be ready, we’ll be overpowered.”
Mitch didn’t join in their bickering. He’d been listening to it long enough to know both arguments by heart. Glenn preferred to rack up a high kill count, which meant enemies they could mow through. Terry was all about the gold, and the harder the quest, the better the reward. Well, that was usually the case, anyway, but the last time their characters had gone to the Hall, there were a few quests that seemed... mismatched, like they’d been offered by NPCs who needed hard things done but didn’t have the coin. This module stuck by its commitment to realism, he had to admit that, but personally, Mitch could have tolerated a little less authenticity. Giving them a way to access their gold without lugging it around was nice; offering hard quests for paltry rewards, not so much. Ultimately, he would be the one to decide what sort of mission they undertook. It was his duty—his burden, really—as the party’s leader. The only reason he hadn’t made the call yet was that he’d been hoping for Jamie to let something slip.
Their GM was a curious woman, not just because of her semi-abandoned comic shop. Mitch had brought this group around to many games in the past, and he was accustomed to seeing slowly-mounting frustration from the GMs as he, Glenn, and Terry all carved their way through whatever stupid plans or expectations the GM had in mind. Jamie was different. Sure, she chastised them and hit them with guilt when they did something particularly harsh to an NPC, and the woman was absolutely brutal about making them stick to the rules of the game world, but they never actually seemed to bother her. Every stunt they pulled, every plan they wrecked, she just sat there with a gentle smile, rolling the dice and letting them know what came next.
Mitch didn’t like it. He preferred his GMs bothered and uncertain. That was when they would start dropping accidental hints, or better yet, just give up and let the group get away with bending the game rules. Jamie was unflappable, and that made Mitch feel less in control. She’d let Glenn and Terry bicker for nearly an hour, doing nothing to stop them, and he had no doubt she’d wait the whole night if needed. She wasn’t interrupting; she was letting them play their characters as they saw fit. Mitch would have to be the one to make them shut up, and without gleaning even a single bit of insight in the process.
“Terry, shut it,” Mitch ordered at last. “This Grand Quest looks like a big deal, which means we don’t want to risk losing our characters and having to earn new admission right before it starts. Glenn’s right, we do this a piece at a time. We’ve got a whole month, so let’s kill everything with a bounty in this whole fucking kingdom.”
Glenn beamed, and Terry grumbled, but he knew better than to actually talk back. Once Mitch laid down the law, that was it. Elsewhere, Mitnan slapped a table and gave the same talk to Glezidel and Terkor. The staff of the tavern grew a little more scared, then breathed a sigh of relief as the three adventurers rose from the table.
“We’re off to the Hall,” Mitch told Jamie. “We’ve got some quests to take.”
* * *
By the time Elora returned, Eric had managed to get his breakfast, shower, and grab and don fresh clothes from a series of dangling hooks that shifted and changed height at irregular intervals. Though she said nothing of the sort, some small part of her was impressed. True, at this level they were more testing talent than skill, but it was also a measure of someone’s dedication. More than once she’d come back to find her last pupil, a human named Holdram, still trapped in his room, or smashing the box containing breakfast crudely against the floor. She hated to think of the students she’d found in the shower—those sudden bursts of near-boiling steam could leave some nasty wounds, even if they would heal. Eric had managed to push through it all, and that spoke to a certain amount of steel in his gut. That was good; he’d need it to endure a whole month of training.
“As far as morning routines go, that was novel.” Eric had clearly noted her entrance, not that she’d been trying to move quietly. He was just putting his armor on atop the pressed shirt she’d hung that morning—the last piece of his gear save for his boots. She hadn’t made much issue of it before, but the footwear would have to go soon. Thick, crude, and built for utilitarian use, they were not the boots of a rogue. If she wanted to do any real stealth training, they’d need to be replaced. Of course, that task would be far easier if his party wasn’t idiotically set on a quest that would drive them into poverty.
“It won’t be for long,” Elora told him. “That’s the way every rogue down here wakes up. You have to earn everything you get. Want to leave your room? Get good with a crossbow. Want to eat? Hope your lock-picking skills are up to snuff. Enjoy showers? Better have honed those reflexes well.”
“I made it, didn’t I?” Eric pointed out.
“You had an extra-long time to do so, since I was at a meeting,” she countered. “And don’t think for a moment it will always be this easy. As soon as I think you’re getting comfortable with a challenge, I’ll dial it up a few degrees.”
“Then I’ll just have to try harder.” Eric finished putting on his armor and turned to his boots, slipping them on with several hard jerks that Elora took note of. Not only were they poor boots, they weren’t even fitted properly. All things considered, it was amazing that he moved as well as he did in those things.
“How did the meeting go?”
Elora had been so focused on his footwear that she nearly let the question take her by surprise; only reflex and wit saved her from looking foolish. “It went fine. They’ve undertaken a quest that I suspect is very typical of them. High difficulty, low profit.”
“Sounds about right,” Eric agreed.
“Nice to know they’re at least consistent. Anyway, I’ve put out a few feelers and tonight, I’ll have to go on an errand or two.”
“Will I be joining?” He didn’t demand it, which was smart, nor did he ask like it was a favor. Eric had simply structured the question like someone waiting for an order, playing to Elora’s authority and ego. He was a quick study; some people needed weeks to learn the right way to suck up to her.
“Perhaps. I have to go alone first, to see how capable our prey is,” Elora said. “You’re quieter than your friends, but that’s not saying a lot. If our quarry has even moderate skills, you’ll give us both away. On the other hand, if they’re inept, it might make for good training. I’ll have to see for myself first.”
Eric nodded solemnly. “As you say.”
“I like the groveling, I do, but don’t push it all the way into theatrics,” Elora cautioned. “There’s still a whole month left; you want to leave room for your character to grow and move. Can’t very well get any more beaten down if you start out that way already.”
Despite the criticism, Eric grinned. “I was going more for ‘eager to learn and respectful’ than beaten down. Guess that’s yet another thing I need to work on.”
“That part might just demand some fine-tuning. Now, pick up your crossbow.” It hadn’t escaped Elora’s notice that Eric had brought his weapon out of the cell with him. That move was both smart and dangerous. Bringing a weapon along was always a good idea, but if he forgot to put it back that night, he’d be in for a damn hard time getting out of the cell the next morning, especially as a rogue who didn’t use throwing daggers. “From what I saw, your party is severely lacking in terms of ranged combat, and as a rogue, you’ll want to perfect the tactic of fighting without exposing yourself to danger.”
“Full honesty: hitting the crossbow target was my hardest task today,” Eric told her, e
ven as he followed orders and grabbed his crossbow. “I’m renowned back home for my lousy aim with a bow.”
“There’s a vast difference between a bow and a crossbow,” Elora said. “Bows are as much art as weaponry—everything from the angle of your foot to the weight of your arm can change an arrow’s course. Crossbows aren’t as accurate, especially at longer ranges, nor are they as fickle. If you can learn yours well and predict a bolt’s path, you can aim with decent accuracy even on the run. True, you’ll never shoot a sparrow off a branch from half a forest away, but you can certainly hit the kneecap of someone down an alley.”
“At this point, I’ll take anything.” Eric lifted the crossbow up and checked to make sure a bolt was loaded. “Oh, I thought I should let you know, I think the sights on this one are messed up. The bolts seem to take a weird turn once fired.”
“Well obviously it’s messed up. You don’t think we’d put the good equipment down here for the rookies, do you?” Elora walked over and checked the crossbow up and down. “Uh huh, this one is on the edge of something breaking. No telling when or how, but it’s just a matter of time.”
“So, what do I do if it breaks?” Eric asked.
“You fix it. Or you find another way to get out of your room in the morning. Rogues depend on their tools, Eric, which means our tools depend on us to take care of them. I’ll teach you some basics, but when the moment comes, you’ll be on your own, just like you would be if it broke mid-quest. This is not a gentle, hand-holding experience. You learn, or you fail, end of story.”
Eric carefully pulled the crossbow away and looked it over once more. “Then I suppose we should get to training. I’d hate to have it break before I’ve even learned how to fix it.”
“Now that’s the rogue spirit,” Elora replied. “Come on, let’s go shoot at things while I throw knives at you.”
Chapter 23
Being handed three days of nothing to do but wait for Elora had impacted the party in different ways. Grumph had set off for the library once more, and Gabrielle had decided to work out in her room since public sparring was off the table. Thistle had begun reaching out to fellow minions in the capital, hoping to gain some information or insight as to who was attacking the temple. As for Timuscor, he and Mr. Peppers had undertaken a somewhat different task.
They returned to the temple district of the city, not hoping to gain any information about the quest, but rather to learn more about the gods and goddesses who ruled over the lands. Timuscor knew little about the divine pantheon beyond what Thistle told him, and even the gnome’s knowledge tended to center around Mithingow and Grumble, as they were the only two gods he’d served. It was curious to Timuscor that, despite knowing he’d wanted to be a paladin his whole life through, he’d never bothered to learn about the gods he’d be serving. Then again, so much about his life before this group, before the Bridge, didn’t make sense. Timuscor had learned to simply accept such mental inconsistencies as part of whatever foggy, half-clear existence he’d lived previously.
Still, the desire to be a paladin burned in his breast, and with his open prayer to the gods unanswered at the catacombs outside Briarwillow, it seemed he would have to search for a divine sponsor that might tolerate a paladin such as he. It was possible no such god existed, but as Timuscor saw it, if he were willing to give up without trying his absolute best, then he wouldn’t be qualified for the title of paladin, anyway.
So he—and Mr. Peppers—toured the temples. They spoke with priests to learn of the creation stories for each god, most of which were simultaneously grandiose and uniform. There were a few surprises, however. Timuscor hadn’t known that Mithingow, god of gnomes and wisdom, and Grithgow, god of half-orcs and battle, had actually been twins, changing their shapes and creating their people as they found the pieces of the world they chose to rule over. It did explain why those two races had never gone to war, though, and perhaps why Thistle and Grumph got along so well.
Timuscor was also intrigued to learn that Longinus, the god of valor, had begun his career as a knight questing for paladinhood. For an instant, Timuscor felt a spark of hope that perhaps here, in this temple, he would find a god who understood what it was to wish to serve the greater good without being a god’s pawn. Unfortunately, as the tale continued, and Longinus was courted by many gods in return for his heroics—before ultimately joining their ranks himself—it became increasingly clear that Timuscor and Longinus had very different ideas of what it was to be a paladin.
Undeterred, the knight and the boar continued their trek through the temple district. It was slow progress, with Timuscor finding only failure at every turn, but he stayed positive. Even if he didn’t like the answers he was finding, Timuscor was still learning, and Thistle had taught him there was always value in that.
Eventually they made their way past the major temples. Timuscor was contemplating stopping in at the temple of Grumble to see how things were going when Mr. Peppers suddenly halted directly in front of a building that Timuscor had taken to be a weathered shop. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it did indeed seem to be a church, although its front bore many symbols instead of just one, and none of them looked particularly familiar.
“Odd.” Timuscor approached the door, but then paused. He wasn’t quite certain what this place was, and in an area of worship, there would certainly be spots meant for private reflection. Given how easy it was to miss, and how relatively uninviting it was compared to the nearby temples, it was possible that he was about to break in to somewhere he wasn’t welcome. More than that, he simply had a feeling about this building; there was a heaviness that he couldn’t fully comprehend. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but it also wasn’t one that seemed as though it should be taken lightly. Despite his history as an adventurer and a slight natural curiosity, Timuscor had seen enough to be wary wherever gods and power were concerned.
“Come on, Mr. Peppers. Let’s go meet the others for dinner.” Timuscor turned to find the boar staring at him obstinately. For a moment, the two of them stood in the street like that, eyes locked on one another, waiting to see who would move first. Finally, Mr. Peppers let out a grunt and began trotting forward once more, albeit at a begrudging pace.
“Good boy.” Timuscor reached down and scratched Mr. Peppers, which seemed to take some of the unhappiness from his slow trot. “Why don’t we stop and pick you up some apples on the way back?”
The snort of joy Mr. Peppers let out was so loud that three nearby people were startled, and Timuscor had to spend the next several minutes apologizing to everyone for his boar.
* * *
Minions were not, as a rule, a particularly courageous people. It went counter to their nature, as a life spent being smaller or weaker than everyone else tended to teach lessons prizing caution and retreat whenever possible. While that made them easy to bully and control, which was admittedly what made them desirable as minions in the first place, it also meant that few people worked as hard to know both where danger was, and how to avoid it, as minions.
These were the people Thistle reached out to, going around the capital to every powerful estate and kingdom building, searching for the lowly peons doing the real work. Although his initial approaches were always meant with hesitance—after all, a stranger was just someone new who might stab you—he was eventually able to win their trust. Working as a minion was much like being forced into a family: not all had chosen to be in it, yet there was no denying they were bonded in a way that reached across petty things like social standing or race. What’s more, once they learned he was working for the church, they were downright eager to share information with him. Few throughout history had ever stood up for their kind, which may have been why Grumble’s followers were so fiercely loyal. None of them could stand what was happening to the temple, even if they hadn’t been personally impacted by it.
After several hours and a lot of walking, Thistle knew considerably more than he started with. For one thing, the attacks weren’t just coming
at night; they were happening later in the evening, when the crowds were thin and only a few parishioners would try to attend the church. It was a crafty strategy, one that left minimal witnesses, save for the victims. And that itself was something interesting: all of those attacked had survived. In fact, none had come away with injuries more serious than what a single healing spell could mend. On top of that, the perpetrators had never given those they struck any sort of message to pass on. No “get out” or “this is for our god” or anything. They simply appeared from nothingness, attacked, and then vanished.
Individually, they were strange facts, but when put together, they all pointed to a single truth: there was a very good chance that Thistle had been wrong. Kalzidar’s worshippers were not the sort to wound when they could kill, and the god of darkness certainly had no reason to order their mercy. Generally, when one found the remains of Kalzidar’s work, it was like Briarwillow—entire towns wiped out. Though he could be subtle when the occasion demanded, Thistle could find no reason why Kalzidar would employ such tactics in a situation such as this one. Was he trying to provoke Grumble into making the first move? To simply pester the god of the minions? To take small acts of petty vengeance?
None of it added up, not with the Kalzidar that Thistle had heard tales of. The god of darkness only entered the light when it was time to deal a blow, and he almost never struck gently. All of this had the feeling of a god with a more delicate touch.
