Lingering Shadows Part 2 - Campaign Stories

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This story comes from the community-created Share Your Campaign series, where the Eternity TTRPG community shares their games' stories. To see more from this series and others, visit the Share Your Campaign page.

Drogi

Drogi watched Iceliat take off for the inn as screaming people pushed and shoved their way past. He bit his lip as he saw the amount of agility and speed these no bodies had sprinted by. Sweat began to bead on the back of his neck and his shoulders tensed more than what was already there. He’d alternate which hand was on the drive wheel to push people out of his way and inch forward toward the clearing Iceliat once stood. His chest grew tight the more people they crowded, rushed, and yelled. In his head he tells himself, “It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok. This isn’t there.” Externally, he shouts profanities at any person that bumped into him. The crowd made him feel that the ever changing uncertainties meant that he would have to constantly change his game plan. As a soldier, if there was a change of plan, then that meant something had gone wrong. If something went wrong, someone usually died. From the way the people were panicking, he was positive someone had been killed or injured, and this just put him on high alert.

He could smell everyone who passed. They all smelled the same, but at different intensities. Dirt, sweat, garlic, and moldy bread. Everyone had these smells, just in different mixtures. He could smell if someone was coming from behind him that way. For the people who think of themselves as nobles, instead of dirt and sweat they smell of oil and musk, the garlic and old bread smell remains. To Drogi, there were always more people than there actually were. He’d see shadows in the corner of his eye intermittently. Some he recognised, some he didn’t. Some were clear as day, some were just large blurs with vague racial features. Without the smell, though, it was easier for the shadows to sneak up on him. The things that couldn’t harm him, though he wouldn’t admit it, scared him more than the things that physically could.

Once he made it to the clearing, he locked his breaks and leaned his elbows onto his knees. Staring at the space between his feet, he continued his mantra, “It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok.” His ribs were starting to hurt from the large inhales he was having to take to calm his nerves. He watched as drops of sweat fell from his forehead and hit the dirt making little clumps of asymmetrical spheres. The sweat collecting at his lips, he gave a strong exhale through pursed lips expelling a wide mist. His nerves had him hear the continuous impact of feet on dirt and stone. Different stride lengths and weight distribution of each step. A new set of steps were approaching him accompanied by the clanking of metal. Armor most likely. One hand unlocked a wheel’s brake which would allow him to make a sharp pivot, the other grabbing the hilt of a short sword stashed beneath his seat. He sat upright calmly and turned to see the source of the incoming rattle.

A guard in polished steel plate and crimson linen was quick stepping down towards Drogi. His hands were on his sword and side bag, but only to steady the bouncing from each step. When within speaking range he halted to attention and asked, “Master Drogi?”

“I’m no master.”

“Sir, I have been sent by Master Vatra to escort you and Master Iceliat to his estate. Is it safe to assume Master Iceliat is at the Horsehead Inn?”

“He’s no master, either. He’s a slaver and worst of all he’s a dickhead. And, yeah, he’s probably at the inn.” The guard began to go around Drogi and push his chair. With one brake still engaged, he was turned slightly and almost tipped out. “Ass! I’ve got it! Just go! I’ll see you both there.” He took off without a word. Drogi, more embarrassed than angry, unlocked the remaining brake, replaced his blade, and followed. His sweaty hands had no impact on his grip on the hand rim as he propelled himself forward. The calluses on his hands were as rough as improperly cured leather. Unappealing to the touch, it had the great function of allowing him to maintain grip on his weapons and chair. Every bump had a history, and that history was constantly replaying in his head.

By the time Drogi made it to the inn, the innkeeper was seated in a walking chair smoking a pipe. She was an Empyrean woman, older than Vatra, but with a younger energy. When they met she was able to give the same amount of sass back to Drogi. He’d pass her and greet her with “Drow” and, in turn, she’d shoot back with “Cripple”. Were this a different time, others might mistake this for flirting. She stood roughly the same height Drogi thought he still was. Her build was feminine and slender. Her voice was like a cascade of water over algae covered stone. Without a word, she made eye contact with Drogi and nodded a welcoming nod. Drogi was almost flustered, but was able to maintain his composure.

Just past the doorway, the guard was standing at attention talking to someone with their arms full of weapons, bags, and loose clothing. This was his chance to make things awkward for Iceliat. “Yeah! That’s him!” he said. “Take him in! He’s stealing all my things!” The guard turned questioningly. Drogi all but gave up and hazed the guard. After some clarifying remarks, Iceliat dropped items into Drogi’s lap and looped two bags on the rear of his chair. “You guys are garbage,” no one heard. They were already on their way to the estate. “Garbage,” he said, again, under a broken whisper.

Drogi recollected himself and turned. The innkeeper stood, pipe held by her lips, and dusted the rear of her brown pleated, full-length skirt. Drogi watched her without realizing how long he was gawking. She walked to him, bent to meet his eye level, inhaled from her pipe long and audible. She removed the pipe and exhaled a plume into Drogi’s face. Unperturbed, he inhaled through his nose. With smoke still leaving her mouth as she spoke, she said “Half man”, then walked away.

Drogi shuttered at that and struggled to find a retort. He wanted to say “barely a woman”, but he also knew that didn’t make any sense. Instead, he went with “Adam’s apple.” He wasn’t proud of that one. Though her voice was deeper than most, it was still feminine and endearing. From behind, he heard her chuckle like she knew he regretted going with that attempt of an insult. He loosened his grip from his drive wheel and let gravity take him down the slight incline. He wouldn’t feel his shoulders relax until he was at the final dip. “Damn Empyreans. Nothing but trouble.”

He fell behind the other two, losing them, and had to ask a few people for directions. Most just pointed, others pretended to not hear him. He asked a few others if they knew what happened at the court, but everyone had a different story. Harpy. Eagle. Demon angel. The only common description was black wings. The number of eyes, wings, and claws changed anytime he asked. He eventually accepted that asking questions about the event was useless. All anyone knew for certain was that it leapt into the sky, bursting from the old stone ceiling, and disappeared into the surrounding woods. He thought the same thing about every person, after every answer: “useless”.

When Drogi reached Vatra’s estate, he performed the type of wheelie he had to teach himself to ascend curbs. Wheelchairs weren’t a common tool people used. Usually, if you became paralyzed, you were taken in by your family and they would tend to your needs. Drogi, on the other hand, couldn’t allow himself to be cared for. He came up with a quick sketch, had a carpenter and blacksmith collaborate, and in two weeks he had his chair. It had a low profile backrest, canted wheels to allow for stability and shaper turning, a dumped seat to prevent anterior sliding when he sat upright, and hooks, loops, and bars placed strategically to hang his gear for easy access and allow for full range of motion when he would swing a weapon. The rear handles were added, not by design, but because the two builders were presumptuous. Instead of having them removed, Drogi just bit his lip. At the bottom-rear were anti-tip wheels that prevented him from being tipped posteriorly. The narrow and shortened foot plates, though allowed for small room negotiation, made tipping forward more possible than desired. The chair was fitted with a lap strap so if he were to fall, the chair wouldn’t be separated from him. This made him feel too restrained, so they usually hung loose behind the chair. He had to learn his maneuvers on his own and in private. He refused to let anyone see him struggle or fail. He changed his naturally fighting style to something more conservative. For now, gone were the times of graceful parries and impactful strikes. He now relies on wide arc swings and the force of a ram. Learning the wheelie to ascend steps was one of the last things he focused on. The weight shifted back threw him off balance and would at times throw him back. Fortunately, the unplanned rear handles prevented his head from direct contact with the ground. Once he became more proficient, he felt more comfortable maneuvering around people and within small rooms.

He was met at the main entrance by a different house guard than the one who was sent to retrieve him. This one, possibly not expecting a warrior in a chair, looked down in surprise then gave a smile in pity. Unappreciated, Drogi pushed past and ran over one of his feet. The guard yelped and bent down. Head now within range, Drogi headbutt him with a hollow thunk. “Oops,” he said, as he pushed through. “What’s a cripple gotta do to get a drink around here!” he shouted, making his presence certain and known. Vatra and Iceliat were standing over the second floor railing. “Oh Master Asshat! Master Dickhead! May this lowly veteran enter and have a pint of ale?” They both smirked lightly. Vatra ordered one servant to retrieve some ale, and had a guard help Drogi up the steps. Drogi, of course, declined. He moved toward the steps, transferred to the first step, folded his chair in half by a hinge sagittally placed. He would bump up two steps, then pull his chair up. He did this for the fifteen steps, reopened his chair at the top, transferred in, then said “I don’t need slaves to help me.”

A human servant returned with a glass pitcher of foaming ale and responded with her hands clasped just below her navel, “We’re not slaves, sir. We are paid and taken care of. Some are here voluntarily, and others have the chance to pay off their debts.”

“Who the fuck are you?” She was ruining his point. It’s hard to debate the wrongness of slavery when one is trying to convince everyone else that they’re fine with the situation. That made him even more sympathetic to these people. To him, there was nothing sadder than being a slave and not realizing they’re a slave. She was about to respond with her name, but he didn’t give her the chance. “It doesn’t matter. Whether you know it or not, we’re all subservient to someone.” He side-eyed down the steps, then back to the Empyrean and Ateri. “Now leave so I can set these dicks right.”

Vatra looked to Iceliat, “Have you ever noticed his fondness for using words that describe us as genitals or an anus?” Iceliat raised his eyebrows while turning to look at Drogi. “I once heard that one way to know what’s on a person’s mind is the vocabulary they use persistently. I’d argue that Drogi’s mind is full of dicks and butts.” Iceliat chuckled.

“Hey! Shut your mouth you, di-Drow! I don’t need this.” He rolled to the sitting area eyeballing his drink. He poured a glass full and held it up for a moment. “Brothers and sisters,” he thought to himself, then he drank. His eyes closed and watered. He could feel the lukewarm amber coat his mouth in an earthy sheet. The sensation as it ran down his throat and into his gut felt like what a dry flower must feel like during its first rain in weeks. His shoulders sank, relaxed. He brought the glass to his lap and held it with both hands. He inhaled deep, exhaled slowly, then opened his eyes. “What now?” he said softly.

Iceliat and Vatra brought him up-to-date on what has transpired and what they have learned. Vatra had been exonerated of the crime of his parents murder. His uncle, though uncertain of the circumstances, welcomed him home and offered to hand over the property. Vatra declined, however, thanked his uncle and asked that he continue his lead until his next return. His uncle accepted graciously. The story of what transpired at the courtroom was still unclear and full of inconsistent details. Vatra suggested they stay at the estate for a day or two to clean themselves, heal, and re-supply.

The three sat silently, staring into the fire. Drogi had transferred himself into a cushioned chair. He noticed that both the other men had removed their boots and saw that each of their feet were blistered at the heel and little toe, and a few nails had broken. “You two need bigger boots.” They looked at him quizzically. “Your feet swell. It makes a proper fitting boot feel too small. The moisture from your sweat softens the skin and allows for an agitating friction.” Drogi had young soldiers with similar wounds. He remembered how he was once a father figure. He was a leader, of course, but more than commanding, he truly cared about his men. His thought was if you treat them like soldiers, they’ll follow you to war, but if you treat them like brothers, they’ll follow you to hell. His command was stern and kind. Vatra and Iceliat looked at each other and nodded in agreement that the statements made sense.

Drogi, still staring into the flames, sipped on his ale again. He had been nursing the same glass for an hour now. He didn’t like becoming inebriated anymore, it messed with his senses and made him sloppy. Drinking to forget was a temporary fix. Action was the only way to heal. “I once led a small team charged with finding a thief who stole from a room full of coins and artifacts from a royal family near the Stonefort. It was an impossible amount to be done by one man. I believed there had to be a man on the inside, maybe a guard or servant, who let the thief in.

He was last seen entering the Whispering Woods, so we tracked him through the maze of foliage and thorns. It was supposed to be a simple mission. I can still feel the mist on my skin and smell the petrichor in the air. We searched all night. We made camp and began again at sunrise. Immediately, we noticed one of us missing. Not missing. Just, not there. He was still in his makeshift tent, but his neck was cut and filled with gold coins. The bastard came in the middle of the night, not a single one of us heard him, and he killed one of my men. For three days we searched, and every day we lost one man. We changed how we slept, how we pulled guard, and how large of fire we would maintain. We even tried a night without sleep.

One of my men was stabbed in each lung and buried up to his neck. The dirt was the only thing maintaining his breathing. If we pulled him out we would have killed him by suffocation. I still don’t know how a hole was dug, a man was stabbed in his lungs, then buried, and all the while not one of us heard this happen. In the morning he was just a head. We thought he had been decapitated. It may have been a better way to go. There’s nothing we could’ve done either way. He either died by the elements or we would be the ones who killed him by trying to save him. In the end, we gave him ale and wine to fall asleep drunk and unaware. I had the remaining men move forward and away so I could,” he paused, “take care of my soldier.

When I caught up to my men, they had stopped walking and were looking up into the canopy. They told me they all heard whispering. Voices were calling their names and they each heard personal details no one in this area should know. They stared upward for so long they hadn’t noticed that another one of us had gone missing. When the whispers no longer returned we continued following the tracks. It would have made more sense to quit and regroup, but we felt like the perpetrator was just around the corner.

We found the missing soldier a few hours later. He had been strung up by one foot and anchored by one arm. His clothes and armor had been removed, neatly folded, and placed on a flat rock about thirty yards away. He was eviscerated. His torso had been cleanly opened and his organs removed. I still don’t know where they may have been placed. Maybe a bear or cougar got to it before we did. His trunk should have been hollow, but it held an antique lamp. It was lit like he was some kind of artistic streetlamp. With only two of my soldiers remaining, I accepted defeat. We tried to back track and leave the forest, but the tracks were visibly disappearing. We weren’t sure if we were following real footsteps anymore.

We had to stay in those woods one more night, and we were sure one of us would be missing by daylight. The armor was missing, but the clothes were pinned to a tree with large spikes. They were stuffed with dead leaves to look like a body was still in them. We checked. The body wasn’t missing, really. It was just in pieces. From every joint, my soldier was disarticulated. Every knuckle, knee, tooth, carpal and tarsal separated from the body. Worse still, there wasn’t a drop of blood to be found. On any of the bodies, in fact. All three bodies were drained of their life and not a drop was spilled.”

“Vampire?” asked Iceliat.

“Nope,” Drogi shook his head. “We found the blood later. All of it. The separated limbs and viscera were laid about in a way that led us to an exit. Close by, still within the woods, was a hollowed out tree stump that held the blood of all three men. Flies were buzzing around it, some drowning in it. A deer was drinking from the bowl of crimson. It stopped long enough to assess us as a threat. I think it could tell how fatigued and worn we were because it went right back to lapping up its free drink. Our feet dragged. The heads of the three men were set onto broken pikes at the exit and facing the clearing. Their eyelids were removed as if to mock them by showing them the field they’d never get to walk through.

We returned to the household who hired us. It turns out that nothing was stolen after all. One of the younger children of the household had stashed things away as a prank. I told them about how three men died, without the details. He told me how it was good news for me and my remaining companion, because now we didn’t have to split the money five ways. That is, if we received it in full. They paid us our hiring fee, but withheld some because we weren’t the ones to have found the missing goods.” Drogi took another sip. “He took his own life a few days later, my remaining companion. He hung his armor, folded his clothes like the ones we found in the woods, and wrote a note that only said ‘Expendable and replaceable. I love you, Sera.’ He was found by his toddler daughter in the morning hanging from his second floor bedroom balcony. He wasn’t wrong. I didn’t know it at the time. I chalked it up to duty. I lost four men because of a prank. Not one of them is remembered by the townsfolk, only by their direct loved ones.”

“And you,” corrected Vatra.

“And me,” Drogi accepted.

“Did you ever find out what happened in the woods?” asked Iceliat.

Drogi shook his head. “Everytime I tell the story, everyone gives me their own theory. Vampires. Imps. Dire wolves. The thing is, those creatures and beasts don’t kill for the sake of it. For the spectacle or string up bodies and place objects within them. We’re food to what’s out there. Nothing was eaten. Just desecrated.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Iceliat wondered.

“Hmm. I don’t know.” Drogi believed he had been reflecting on the past few weeks with this party and started wondering if anything similar was going to happen to this party. He wondered if, not only is he cursed, but if people around him get cursed too. “All I know is that I’ll never step foot into the Whispering Wood again.” He began to finish his drink.

“Well, of course,” Iceliat shared empathetically.

“Yea,” added Vatra, “because, you know, your legs don’t work.”

Drogi spit his mouthful into the air in a fine mist of yellow ferment followed by a tearful laugh. “You toad sucking son of a!” Iceliat joined in softly and Vatra looked back into the fire.

Once the men finished their drinks, they were all escorted to their rooms for the night. Vatra decided to stay in the study a bit longer. Iceliat was roomed just across the way in a room by the stairs. Drogi was escorted to Vatra’s old room, where he sat and looked into his reflection from the darkened window. The visions of the story he told rushed through his head. The faces of the lost men seemed to be in the reflection with him. He knew they weren’t there, but it was good to see them. They looked better than the last time he saw them. Especially now that they had their eyelids back. He leaned forward to touch the glass. The mens’ faces disappeared and he noticed a glimmer like black wings reflecting light. He squinted to better focus on this large bird. Not a bird. Something bigger. Something flying directly towards him. “The fuck?”

Iceliat

Iceliat placed his gear to the side of the entrance of his accommodations and scanned the quarters. To him, it wasn’t the best guest room he’s stayed in, or provided, but it was clean and adorned with ostentatious decorations and filigree he had grown accustomed to. The room’s color scheme was gold leaf and crimson. Most of the furniture was made with a red oak frame that had been maintained with a polish and citrus cleaner. A bowl of potpourri consisting of dried lavender and chamomile sat on the dresser giving him an aroma that invited restfulness and relaxation.

His feet had dried and could feel the blisters sting to the exposed air. His skin cracked as he flexed and extended his toes, and his joints popped as he supinated and pronated his ankles. A servant had placed his boots by this room’s fireplace to dry. The fireplace was smaller than the den’s but it was sufficient enough to light and warm the room. Next to the flame was a large bucket of potable water, a rag, a towel, and a pouring cup. Not large enough to bathe in, but certainly a welcome sight. To be able to clean his skin of the dried sweat salts and dirt was a commodity he didn’t know he missed. A small container of salve was placed on the nightstand at the head of the bed. Once he washed up, he would apply the ointment to all his wounds, blisters, and blemishes. It smelled of eucalyptus and mint. He enjoyed the smell so much that he lightly coated the tip of a finger and dabbed the skin just underneath his nose. It seemed to open his airway and made his lungs feel like they hadn’t been inhaling fire pit smoke and other random particles over the past few weeks.

His body sank into the mattress and felt like he was being embraced by an old friend. The animal skins and furs that lined the bed offered warmth and a heavy pressure that eased his aches. He was ready to close his eyes and enter a world that couldn’t harm him. As he shut his eyes he was immediately startled by the sound of glass breaking and profanity coming from the direction of Drogi’s room. He jolted upward, threw on a robe, and grabbed his staff. He opened his door and saw Vatra, still in the den, looking into the hallway toward where the sound came from. Two guards rushed by and headed to the room.

Once they heard profanity coming from the room, Iceliat knew Drogi was in distress. There was a clear difference between Drogi being rude and being attacked. He could hear items breaking and heavy furniture being shifted around. Vatra stumbled to find his boots and grab his staff. Iceliat moved on ahead, running as fast as one could indoors, to check on the situation. Nearing the room, a guard was thrown out and slammed against the opposing wall. His body slumped into unconsciousness. He checked for his breathing, fingers at the carotid. He’d be fine save for the headache. He slammed the end of his staff into the ground and a faint red tornado began to form. The gaseous vortex grew into a semi-solid pillar, then began to take the form of a long armed, featureless summon.

Iceliat entered the room in time to notice a pale, hairless figure grab Drogi and his chair into the air with elongated fingers and claws. It was female based on the present and visible attributes: wide hips and breasts. She had wings that took a majority of the room. They were raven black and four in total. Her skin was spoiled milk white and covered in symmetrical purple tattoos that swirled at the muscle bodies and flowed past the joints. They seemed to be glowing and glittering with every wing flap and trunk turn. Drogi was bleeding at the point of contact with the claws. She threw him and the chair out the window with already exposed broken glass. Shards caught his leg and sliced his lateral thigh releasing a thin trail of blood. He was too far to be saved, but Iceliat tried his best to tame the flying beast.

The room was too small and cramped for anything to be done elegantly. His summon kept getting knocked back and blasts from his staff kept hitting surrounding furniture sending splinters, cotton, and glass throughout the room. A guard was in the room trying to swing a sword only to be flung away by the flapping wings. She had no interest in the men in the room and inched toward the window. Vatra had come in behind Iceliat, realized the issue with space and left. The guard had been knocked over by a desk thrown into him giving the flying woman space to exit through the window. Following, Iceliat watched as she landed near a crawling Drogi. He was alive, but hurt pretty badly. She attacked and he used his chair as a temporary shield before she could make contact. Iceliat sent the summon out the window to attack, but it was knocked away with every attempt. Iceliat tried to send a blast her way, but was interrupted by his summon being thrown back at him. He tumbled backward and the summon vanished like a drop of blood getting lost in a bucket of water. He returned to the window, ready to jump. Both she and Drogi were in the air, about five feet off the ground and climbing. He took the chance to send a blast, but she was too fast. At fifteen feet, Iceliat thought this was it. Drogi was going to be taken away. From his bottom right, came a flaming ball that made direct contact to this beast’s back, between the wings. It screeched in pain, arched back, and dropped Drogi. He hit the floor with a solid thud and laid motionless. Iceliat fired again making contact with the injured demon bird. It turned, fumbled, then recorrected its balance. Before leaving, it took a long look at the three men, taking in the details and remembering who would be the future target. She hissed and with large flaps that cut the air around her, she flew backwards into the darkness.

In the rush of things, Iceliat hadn’t noticed that he hadn’t been wearing his boots. There were new cuts to the bottom and sides of his feet. He used his staff to dislodge the large pieces and cleared a path to the guard in the room. He was still alive and breathing, but it was obvious he had a broken humerus and a cut on his cheek that was going to need attention. The guard in the hallway was awake and rubbing the back of his head. He stood, obviously still seeing stars, and entered the room that a storm had just ravaged. He took the place of Iceliat and cradled his partner trying to shake him awake.

Iceliat returned to the den, sat, and began to pry the small shards and splinters from his feet. He used a nearby pitcher of water to wash away the mix of dry and wet blood, and used an end table’s runner to dry his feet when he was done. He poured a glass of water for himself and sank into his cushioned throne. He’d wait here until the others returned.

Vatra

Vatra stared into the fire, hoping they would tell him what his next steps should be. Over and over again, he saw the same image: a bird. He understood the Phoenix was a threat, but he needed to know the next step closer to home. He could talk to the fire as much as he’d like, but it doesn’t show you what you want to know, just what you should know. What “should be” didn’t matter to him at the moment. He had a single goal in mind and keeping up the charade was difficult with so many turns thrown at him.

He was growing impatient and almost decided to give up on the flames. His leg shook in angered anticipation. He heard glass shatter to his right. He thought that he had vibrated the floor boards so vigorously that glass shifted off. That was until he heard a slur of profane words coming from Drogi’s room.

He stood and heard commotion continue in that direction. He leaned over the balcony and shouted to the door guard to send two guards to his uncle, two guards to the room, and have all the service staff lock themselves into their quarters. The guard gave orders to a number of guards out of sight from Vatra, and heard a unifying “Sir!” Like clockwork, four guards rushed up the stairs. Two to Drogi and two to Vatra’s uncle. The door guard left to, presumably, alert the staff.

Turning back, he noticed Iceliat standing in the open door frame of his quarters and assess Vatra’s reaction. It was clear something was not as it should be. Iceliat ran out of the room with staff in hand. Vatra began to don his boots, stumbled forward, and landed directly onto his knee cap. Too urgent to feel embarrassed, he rolled and slipped on his other boot. He side-rolled, grabbed his staff, and ran to Drogi’s room.

Iceliat was standing in the doorway, barely having room for himself. A guard was passed out on the floor behind him showing signs of life by a rising and falling chest. In the room, he saw Iceliat’s summon trying to get close to the winged beast on the inside. “Is that?” Vatra began to ask no one. He believed this thing resembled the cause of the havoc at the courtroom. The window was shattered inward and left obstacles all over the floor. Vatra turned to head downstairs and outside. The town guard was still here, so he shouted for him to come with. The guard, without question, followed. They ran out and jumped over the railing of the front porch toward the side of the estate. Vatra was more nimble than he seemed. Around the corner he saw Drogi, bloodied, pull his chair over himself as the winged figure tried to strike. It grabbed the chair and threw it. The summon was attempting to help, but being thwacked by a pair of right wings was flung back through the window thumping into something or someone unseen. Drogi was in the grasp of the beast now, being elevated upward.

The guard came from the back and said in a shock, “That’s the thing.” Immediately, Vatra knew what he meant. The guard stepped back, almost ready to flee.

Vatra grabbed the guard by both shoulders and locked eyes with him, “We need to help,” he said. The guards were as wide as saucers, pupils as large as a snake whole. His eyes darted side to side, then to Vatra’s. He nodded and fixed his posture and composure. They quickly moved to the flying couple. Vatra shot a concentrated blast but missed by yard. With every flap a feather would fall from the sky and gently land with a spin. Vatra steadied himself and fired a burning blast. The beast screeched and dropped Drogi roughly fifteen feet from the sky as the blast burst the center mass of its back. More obsidian feathers, this time singed, began to spread and layer on the ground. The guard rushed to Drogi and began to pull him up and over his shoulder. Vatra continued to fire and miss. It seemed all his luck was in that final shot, but at least he could lay suppressive fire. From the window flew a light blue energy with a white tail finding its target without fail. The monstrosity centered itself and sized Vatra and the person, most likely Iceliat, at the window. Maybe feeling injured, the beast took off into the darkness gaining and losing elevation as it did.

Vatra’s heart was racing. He could hear his heartbeat over the night’s wind. He could feel every thump down to the bone to the point where his teeth chattered. That was a powerful beast, and he was certain if it decided to approach him, not even his Lich form could save him. He loosened his grip on his staff and planted it, using it as a walking stick. He leaned against it with both arms and dropped his chest in fatigue. He was finally able to gather himself and replay everything that had transpired. “Why Drogi?” he thought to himself. He stood, stretched his neck side to side, then made his way to the estate’s entrance. Though he wasn’t injured, it felt like this was the first time using his legs and ached with every step.

Drogi was placed on a sofa facing the fire. His legs were elevated and draped over an armrest. His breathing was labored, but a breath none-the-less. “Tell the servants that it’s okay to come out. Have one of them bring salve and something to stitch his wounds. Have another one tell my uncle and his guards about the all clear.” The town guard clicked his heels and set off. He must have not known where the servants quarters were because he ascended the steps. Before he could stop him, Vatra was certain he’d find a guard up there and relay the message. A moment later, a house guard descended the steps two at a time and clumsily bumped his way through the doorway.

Vatra turned to look out the door before shutting it. Nothing but stars and the streetlights were visible now, no sense of danger, but he could feel something in the distance watching. A tingle rose up his spine. Stepping back, he shut the door, and slid the lock into place. He knew whatever that creature was earlier wouldn’t even notice the lock when and if it decided to break in. His heart had finally returned to a resting pace. He ascended the steps to check on Iceliat and the others who were in the room. Iceliat and a house guard were sitting in the den. The town guard was standing in the doorway of Drogi’s room assessing the destruction. The house guard noticed him and stood at attention, woozy from a potential concussion. Vatra told him to sit and rest. Hesitantly, but grateful, he obeyed.

Iceliat was sitting in the same chair from when it was just the two of them. His legs were in a figure four as he sipped a drink. His bloodied feet left trails that led directly to him. His feet were scabbed over now to the point where it looked like he was wearing a black, fitted sock that had little compartments for each toe. He seemed indifferent, but still asked, “Drogi?”

“He’s alive. Barely. I’ll have someone stitch him up and put some salve on his wounds, but I’m not sure of the outcome.”

“He’s too stubborn to die.” He repositioned. There were most likely wounds on his back and rear that prevented him from finding comfort. Vatra offered to have someone come and pluck the splinters from the hard to reach areas. Iceliat declined with “My body will push them out eventually. No need to expose anyone else to my mess.” Vatra shrugged in acceptance. “Was that your blast that hit her?” Vatra nodded as he poured himself a drink. “You may have saved him, you know?”

“Yeah. I didn’t really think it through.” They both laughed softly to themselves. The house guard had passed out missing out on the banter. “Your blasts from the window?” Iceliat nodded. “I’m sure that’s what actually had her retreat. You may have saved us all.”

Iceliat shrugged. “Yeah. I didn’t think it through, either.” He went to uncross his legs, stopped with a wince, then slowly extended both legs straight ahead of him. The fire revealed two swollen feet, red and pulsing. Vatra would have again offered a service, but decided against it. “Any idea?” Vatra shook his head and compared what he had seen at the courtroom. He wanted to be sure of the facts before sharing inaccurate details. Iceliat chimed in, “I believe it was the same thing from the courtroom.”

“That’s right, you were there,” Vatra said. He was more surprised about his presence rather than the statement. Iceliat had mentioned that he saw something at the church earlier, and he wasn’t sure how he should react. So, he pretended that he already knew.

Iceliat nodded. “We both were. I was the only one to see anything from the window. Drogi was my step stool and kept talking, so I couldn't understand what was being said.” That comforted Vatra a little. “I saw the jury’s room door burst open and saw the form of what I believe was just here. I’ve never seen anything like that before. You?” Vatra shook his head and shrugged. “I thought it was a harpy at first, but they aren’t that strong or durable. What we hit her with should’ve killed her. Or, at least, floored her.”

“It seemed to focus on Drogi, didn’t it?” Iceliat perked up while recollecting the events. “Everyone who was there attacked, but they were only pushed back. She could have attacked any one of us, killed some even, after he was tossed out the window, but she followed him. I believe he was targeted. I think Drogi knows something.”

Author Credit

Sean Kuttner