Lingering Shadows Part 3 - 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 leaned into the glass to observe the bird more closely. It came in so fast he didn’t have time to react and dive away as this winged creature broke through the window and tipped both him and his chair back and to the side. Lying on his side, he looked up at the flying ram that toppled him effortlessly. Broken glass covered the floor like a child going overboard with glitter for their art project. His weapons were too far away. His best chance would be to push himself upright and wheel out of the room seeking back-up. This winged woman’s wings flapped intensely, sending short bursts of gust knocking over small objects and sending papers fluttering.

He pushed upward as quickly and as powerful as he could muster. His chair landed with a tip to the opposite side almost dropping him again. He was able to turn and get one push in before he felt a jerk backward sending him down again. Two guards entered the room, swords drawn. They surrounded her and swung in unison. One was able to strike a wing, the other had their sword knocked back still in hand. The one who came closest to Drogi reoriented him with one arm. Immediately after, the woman grabbed him from the bottom of his chest plate and lurched him out the bedroom door. The guard on the other side of the room continued to swing, but the wings acted as shields, barely moving with each impact.

Drogi was lifted still in the chair. He felt completely vulnerable and defenseless. All he could do was curse and hammer fist at her hands. “Useless,” he thought to himself. He saw Iceliat enter the room baffled. His summon was already attempting to subdue the creature but to no avail. Before his next curse he was tossed out the broken window facing inward. An exposed glass shard sliced his leg and he flew by. The cut went unnoticed by him, but an average man would have felt like being sliced by a glowing, red-hot knife without the soldering that would, at least, close the wound as it melted flesh. Time slowed down and everything was quiet except for the rushing wind. During this moment of weightlessness, he was able to get a look at the woman’s face. “I know you,” he thought to himself. Time caught up and gravity had him facing upward seeing the constellations. He would have been able to name a few, but the impact of the ground left him seeing stars and breathless.

His chair bounced away from him as he rolled at an angle to it. The smell of dirt and grass was stained onto him. The wet grass and grit entered his wound, still going unfelt. He started to crawl to his chair. He knew he needed to get back indoors. One arm wasn’t working properly. He could tell it wasn’t broken, but maybe some kind of nerve involvement gave him temporary paralysis. Making it to his chair, he set it upright, sat up with his back to the seat. He readied himself to bump up, but saw the woman from his past diving at him. He reached overhead for the wheels and pulled the entire chair over himself with an exerted grunt. He created a temporary shell and felt the quick strike. Immediately, he felt the chair be lifted from him exposing him to the cool air again. He tried inching backward, but was grabbed by the shoulders, feeling claws dig deep into his pecs and rear traps. He wanted to yell, but he could barely take a breath in for himself. “This can’t be it,” he thought to himself, “not like this.”

Fifteen feet in the air now, almost inline with the window he was tossed from, he almost gave in to defeat. He was almost ready to stop fighting back. Every flap of her wings brought them inches higher and her claws deeper. His vision began to fade. Sound was disappearing again. Before fainting, he felt a sudden heat, a jolt, and a sudden whoosh of air.

Upon hitting the ground and losing consciousness, Drogi entered a dream or a memory. He wasn’t sure what, but he knew his brain was trying to process and conserve. Inside an open ceiling cave, five members of the Supreme Guard stood distanced away from Drogi and a woman. The cave was unscalable from where they were, and the only way out was the way they came in, a narrow squeeze about an hour away beyond a series of false entries and switch backs. Where they stood was the deepest, visible part of the cave. Moonlight illuminated what would be an arena. In the center was a hole wide enough to fit a small home. Within the hole was the deepest, unseeable part of the cave. Legends say it’s endless, but any one with basic knowledge in geography knew that was impossible. Water cascaded down from above them, creating a sparkling waterfall and misting the air, cooling the temperature by at least ten units. From above, the scene would look like a sky blue eyeball hence its name: the Cerulean Eye Caves.

At the lip of the endless hole, stood Drogi and Beatrix. She was a team leader of the Supreme Guard, under the squad leader Garreth, under Platoon Sergeant Eitie, under a slew of well-respected leaders. She was an Empyrean standing a head taller than Drogi, and much more slender and agile. “Under the supervision of my brothers and sisters, I, Beatrix, red team leader, challenge your right to lead by means of combat.” Of course, this isn’t how people talk, but there was tradition to be upheld. Speaking and challenging like this made it seem like both parties were acting under respect and sound of mind. This was how you knew someone was no longer joking with you as a friend, but challenging you as an accuser of poor leadership or morality.

“Beatrix, there was nothing to be done. The remains were too mangled to return home with.” Drogi was being challenged under the assumption that the men who died in the Whispering Wood passed because he was following bear tracks and not human. The only other survivor had hung himself, so no one was able to collaborate. The five witnesses were just that, witnesses. They were not there to judge or support. There was tradition that needed to be upheld for situations such as this. Beatrix shouted her challenge once more. “Beatrix, please believe me. Don’t make me do this.”

“You did this. You failed them all and will fail the rest of us.” Drogi, bewildered, knew there was no convincing her away from what she convinced herself, so he accepted the challenge. “As the one being challenged, you have the right to choose the weapons to be used.”

“I know how this works, Beatrix. You’re not the first to have fallen to me.” She furrowed her brow and spit on the ground. He sighed. “We’ll use short swords.” He felt broken. He felt like what she claimed, like he was failing the guard. Now, one more of his sisters was going to perish.

A guard approached them each one at a time presenting a ceremonial blade. It was as long as an average man’s arm from pommel to point. The hilt was wrapped in a leather cordage made from an Aluthean Bull, one of the most aggressive and respected animals. The cross-guard and pommel were made from gold mined in the Islands of Mara. The pommel was molded into a wolf’s head with its mouth open and tongue curled to hold a blood red tassel. The tassel was made of silk spun in the far east part of the continent separated from the west by the Bone and Thorn Desert. The red dye came from Imperian Cherries which could only be grown at high elevations under the care of the monks who know the care routine. The blade itself was made from the swords of every soldier who challenged or was challenged in this fashion. Drogi felt bad about the idea of Beatrix’s personal blade being melted down and having part of it combined with these relics. These swords would be useless in actual combat. The mixture of metals changed the integrity and durability for the worst.

Drogi took his sword and flourished a figure eight followed by a forward then backward wrist roll. This was how he would find the blade’s balance. Beatrix, having received her weapon, did a simple mid level side to side slash followed by a pierce. She had one of the most steady hands of any guard he’s ever met. It made for fancy sword work, but resulted in weak strikes. A recoil from Drogi would have her go numb from the reverberation. The guard returned to his spot with the other guards who were holding the other ceremonial weapons: spear, ax, broadsword, and dual daggers.

As per custom, the two approached each other with the weapon side arm extended to the rear. With the same free arm and hand, they shook arms by the wrist maintaining eye contact. “Are you sure you want to do this, Beatrix?” She snarled, stepped back three steps, took a side stance creating a smaller profile. Drogi’s eyes began to swell and he felt choked up. He thought to himself, “I don’t want to kill any more.” He took his three steps back, back rolled his sword, took a similar side stance, and pointed his blade at her as if aiming to throw it.

A guard of the five slammed his sword against his shield. A second guard joined in for the second in unison. Then a third. At the fifth slam, the fight would commence. The sound of the waterfall vanished. The slams echoed throughout the cave. His breathing, though calm, sounded like being inside of an inhaling whale. Beatrix was shaking with anger. Her dark gray skin was scarred from previous battles and falls. Her hair was shaved on the sides to the skin and the rest pulled back into a braided ponytail. A piece of her left ear was missing from an incident with a particularly violent pet tiger. Had this been a different life, Drogi would have found her beautiful when others would see her as a wrecked masterpiece. The fifth slam echoed.

Beatrix charged with battle shout and Drogi waited as if he hadn’t heard the final slam. His eyes grew tired as if they’ve seen this moment play out multiple times before. It had. As she charged, he imagined all the number of soldiers who approached him in the same way. She’s going to do a downward diagonal slash from her right to left, followed by a mid-transverse swing, and an overhead pierce. He knew that because he taught her that when she was still and ensign. Like clockwork, it happened exactly as he had anticipated. Without needing to block, he side stepped to allow the downward slash to skirt past him parallel to his body. He hinged at the waist allowing the side swipe for miss. Then he spun past her and behind her as she performed an overhead pierce. Back exposed, he used the pommel to hit her in the back of the head. In challenges past, this would sometimes knock out a soldier. Beatrix’s consciousness was stubborn, he thought.

She performed a clumsy spinning, back hand slash. Drogi ducked. Then, unexpectedly, his chin met her knee. Usually, only the weapon was ever used. No one ever kicked or punched unless they were disarmed. Drogi felt his teeth clack, sending vibrations into his eye sockets. Stumbling back, Drogi readied his sword. Slashes and blocks were exchanged. Pieces of the weakened blade sparked and fell away or bent leaving little valleys. Beatrix was beginning to sweat as most of her effort was put into clean swipes. Drogi was more efficient and knew that these type of swipes led to his ability to telegraph the sword path. She was a good soldier, but she had much to learn about becoming a fighter. “Beatrix, stop this.” Drogi said with a side parry. “You’re tiring out.” Another deflection. “I won’t feel right killing you while you’re kneeling.”

She growled, “Then stop talking and fight me!” She attempted a double-handed downward sagittal slash. Drogi leapt back, having her meet the large, wobbling rock he was standing on. She grunted as her blade shattered leaving her with nothing but a handle and a blade in the shape of a pot with a single handle. She fell to her knees, all but defeated. Her eyes never left his. They were dark, almost black. Sweat dripped from her lips, forehead, and chin. Her hair had come undone with all the effort. She dropped what was left of her sword, sat on her heels, back of her hands resting in her lap, and looked up from a sunken ego. “Do it,” she said under her breath. Drogi stepped back to the same level and off to her side. “I said ‘Do it’!”

Drogi flourished his sword with another wrist roll and held the blade pointing down into the soft flesh between the clavicle and scapular spine. Her heavy breathing caused the tip of the blade to cut deep enough to bead blood. From here he could pierce down with little to no resistance directly into her lung. Drogi’s voice cracked, “I don’t want to kill you.” He pulled his sword away. “You’re a good fighter and have the potential to lead. The Guard would be amiss without you.” He tapped her on the shoulder with the flat of the blade, stepped back, and turned away. “She’s done,” he shouted to the five. “Take her and-”

“You’re weak,” Beatrix said while standing, weakly. “You’re weak and no use to the Guard. More of us would die under than beside you.” With one last attempt, she leapt to him. In one unprepared swing, Drogi slashed twice. The first swing cut through her cheeks, far back enough to cut the tendons holding her jaw in place. The second swing met her in the abdomen, piercing her diaphragm and compromising a lung. There was a quick hiss of escaping air and the sound of gurgling from blood entering the hole. Beatrix’s body fell into Drogi sending him backwards. Her head lay next to his. The sound of her open jaw swinging sounded like two pieces of raw meat being slapped against a board. She was choking on her blood both at the throat and what was entering her pleural cavity. A big inhale shot blood from around her chest and a large exhale resulted in a little sputtered fountain of blood projecting from her semi-exposed esophagus.

The two were laying on the floor now. Beatrix had rolled off of Drogi and held her abdomen and parts of her throat to no success. Drogi was on his back laughing. The five guards came down to help him up and complete the battle as tradition dictates. No one touched him. They watched as blood pooled underneath him. He saw and said, “What’s the matter? Have you never seen a man lying in someone else’s blood before? Look at-”. He stopped and sat up. His trunk worked fine, but his legs felt different. Almost like they were floating and falling through the floor all at the same time. A guard pointed to his back showing a broken shard of sword wedged into the base of his spine around belt line level. He reached behind and felt the protrusion. “No. No, this is a temporary thing. We’ll take it out, the swelling will go down, and everything will go back to normal.” He attempted to shift his legs, but failed. He watched his legs lay flaccid on the ground falling to whichever side he leaned. He looked back to Beatrix, still alive but sounding like she was laughing with a sword stuck in her throat. Drogi sat still trying to convince himself everything was going to be ok. “Go on. Finish this so we can all return home and get me to the infirmary.”

Leaving the blade in, two guards pulled Drogi to a rock steady enough to support his back. His feet were pulled in into a butterfly position so he would remain balanced. They brought a large shroud colored blue with gold trimmings. They cocooned Beatrix’s body in its entirety and used a brooch with the Supreme Guards emblem to pin it all together. The five knelt semi-circle around her, each placing a hand on her body. Drogi couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he followed along anyway. “Rest now, sister. Your time in hell is done.” This would be said for a total of twenty repetitions before two men lifted her body and dropped her into the dark void. Drogi didn’t stop it. He let tears fall from his eyes. No noise. Just beads of sorrow falling into his lap.

Iceliat

It’s been ten days since Drogi was injured and he remains unconscious. Iceliat’s feet have finally lost the remaining scabs on his feet and had multiple new cross shaped scars on his posterior side. Despite being unsightly, they reminded him of his mortality. He’s been living for hundreds of years and has never been in a situation where his life has been at threat this often. It hasn’t been until now that he truly felt alive. He’s lived long enough to watch others live a full life, having relationships, experience grief and joy, backstab and love one another. He’s witnessed children grow into contributing members of society or peddlers who lurk in the shadows. He’s witnessed how war and politics shape the country. He has witnessed city borders extend beyond quaint townships. Through it all, the only foreseeable thing was that everything was undetermined. People are a bag of variables and their interaction can be as random as a deck of cards shuffled.

Regardless of the town he is in, Iceliat would spend an hour or two at the docks. He knew that his shipments were in constant motion and he had a vessel in every known port. He used a countersign only he, his family, and ship captains would know about. He’d approach and the captain would simply state: “These flowers aren’t for sale.” To which he’d respond with: “The sparrow is resting.”

It was in times like these, he would get up-to-date news on his family affairs and business transactions. He and his family have been in the slave trading business for two hundred years and have found a working system to maintain the facade of being decent people in the eyes of others. The ships were built to have a trick wall. The walls in the cargo hold were lined with artificial and real flowers. A side business was to have people living on the street sell the flowers for a cut, while the real work was done in the vale of night. Picking certain artificial flowers disengaged the locking mechanism revealing about twenty people sitting on benches side-by-side. There was room for sixty, but his family thought the very least they could do was provide decent commodities before they were traded off.

The story Iceliat was told, every year by an elder, was that the Ateri weren’t always around. Their beginning was similar to every other race. Prehistorically, they were humans in tribes living on the opposite side of the continent from the orcs and adjacent to the natural elves. Over time, all the races would centralize toward the Fertile Ocean. The more each race prospered, the more room they took. The more space taken led to less resources being available. That’s when civil unrest began and wars started over food and space. The orcs were brutes and physically the strongest. It would be a mistake to be within arms reach of one. The elves, though easily taken down by force, were quick, nimble, and sneaky. Their relationship with nature allowed them to blend in with the surrounding environment and demonstrate adept animal control. The humans were a middle ground between the other two. They were strong, but only about one-fifth the strength of an orc and three times stronger than an elf. They were cunning and great planners, but could not manipulate or interact with the terrain like the other races. It was a battle that would never truly have a winner. Instead of claiming the Fertile Ocean for themselves, each race would mutually retreat away. In dire times, small groups were allowed to hunt in the surrounding wood, but no one dared making the shores a permanent residence.

Through the millenia, all three races created sects within themselves. A tribe of intellectual humans discovered and developed an artifact known as the “Gift of Kings”. Those who believed in a more aggressive approach became the Empyrean. They wanted to protect their own before allowing others to get close enough to harm them, so they always strike first when provoked.Their skin darkened into a grayish blue and became so enamored with control they eventually gained the ability to become a manifestation that is death and foreboding. On the other end of the spectrum, came the Ateri. Rather than seeking control, they strived to evolve with their surrounding environment and allowed nature to do what nature does. They used their wits to thrive with the civilizations surrounding them and remain financially stable so that they’d never be in a state of want again. They entered the slave and servant trade because they knew there was profit to be made in people being lazy and wanting to have power over others. In the beginning, they all had an issue with the morality of the idea of one person owning another. Now, after living hundreds of years and seeing how expendable people are and how little impact their existence had in the world, they became indifferent to ethics. To the Ateri, it was purely business, and this was the only source of income that would never run out. Humans were beneath them in their eyes. If the supply ever becomes too low, Ateri women give birth to human children, so there is always that as a back-up source, and children are worth more as they are much easier to train than a human with unfavorable habits.

This was all told to him by an elder. If all true, he wasn’t very proud of his tribe or family’s history. Being in control of someone’s life or fate is not for a mortal to decide. Iceliat thought of his life more as a gift of longevity, not as being invincible. Something Iceliat noticed within his own kind, is that even though they live for centuries, their memory isn’t as sharp as they’d like to think. It’s uncommon for people to recollect memories a week ago, he couldn’t imagine trying to remember two lifetimes ago. For Iceliat, it was best not to try, rather he would focus on the present and plan for the future. Despite knowing the wrongs of true slavery, he also understood the impact it would have on the economy and society if there were to suddenly be nothing but free men. This world is built by prisoners fighting a wealthy man’s war.

The ship Iceliat was inspecting was well kept and, for the most part, free of barnacles. Corners were reinforced with metal joinings. The deck, rails, doors, and steps were all coated in a wax to prevent water damage. Worst thing for a ship of this type was to have water enter the openings within the wood as it entered a freezing environment. The ice would expand and make the wood swell and splinter. This happening enough times would result in gaps between slats or nails being loosed away from the frame. Iceliat made sure the product, the people, were being treated well and fed to maintain their health. All buyers were vetted. They were required to provide references and proof that they had the means to care for the servant to continue a relatively humane decency. If it was discovered there was a history of abuse after the sale, the sellers would hire mercenaries to free the servant, kill the master, and provide the servant enough coin to make it two towns over. If a reference was involved, they would also be paid a visit. The mercenaries were normally orcs hired through a series of middlemen, never tracing back to any particular house of an Ateri. Despite the circumstances, these were still people, and all life is sacred.

Once everything was proven to be in order, Iceliat and the captain would exchange any news found pertinent to share. Iceliat’s family knew of his actions and dangers, but they accepted that this was his path for the moment. There were no clear motives yet, but he preferred it that way. No one needs to know his business until he decides it’s their business to know.

A young, human girl walked by with a large woven slat waterproofed with palm fronds. She was shouting and pricing her wares. She was selling shellfish, oysters, and clams. Iceliat called her over, inspected the delicacies, and paid her a griever for one oyster. She shucked it open for him, finding an asymmetrical pearl held in place by a transparent membrane. “It’s your lucky day, sir,” she said, handing over the shell. He plucked the pearl from its nest, smelled the soft innards, found it pleasing and gulped it down with a slurp. He felt the slimy pocket of salt trace down his throat leaving a cold trail. It made his mouth water. He paid for the entire tray, offering an Esper for the lot. She held the coin like it was a precious stone. Her eyes widened, “S-sir. This is too much,” she said softly, almost sounding as if she were guilty of something.

The captain interjected, “Don’t argue when you’re winning,” he said.

The girl took a step to turn, then turned back, “My tray, sir?”

“You’ll buy a new one,” the captain corrected. The girl nodded and took off before anyone could decide to change their mind. Iceliat shuck an oyster and handed it to the captain, then one for himself. They clinked the shell, indulged, then threw their shell into the water. He told the captain to share the tray with the crew and offer at least two per person hiding. Without questioning the command, the captain grabbed the tray from the barrel it was laid on, walked onto the ship and gave the order to one of his men.

Iceliat threw the captain a bag of his loose griever, “Drinks for the crew.” The captain caught the bag underhanded, nodded, and they parted ways. That would be the first and last time they’d meet.

Vatra

Vatra remained within the estate for the most part. He wanted to be present when Drogi finally woke up. The stitched wound on his leg was healing well and most of the thread had been pulled out. The room where the incident happened was cleaned and the window repaired. Drogi was resting on the bed he hadn’t had a chance to enjoy their first night in town. He was lying under a thin layer of skins and furs. Nightly, his dressings were changed and a new application of salve was given.

Vatra would regularly go into town for short periods of time. He carried a bag of griever and offered the children of the street job opportunities. They were his informants in a way. He nicknamed the group his “Silent Snakes”. All they had to do was live as they normally do and listen more intently. People always talked around them and paid them no attention. The ones that hit or insulted the children were the first to be ratted on if they had anything mischievous of note. The children knew better than to lie and create false accusations. The last child to do so went missing, as did the ones who asked about their whereabouts. The seriousness of their job was paramount. Vatra had this system in place for years, so when a child grew to be in their adolescence or adulthood, he would offer them jobs within the household. They were his guards and his servants.

The guard who shared that he saw Vatra escaping out the window after the murder of his parents was still on staff and all concerns were addressed without qualm. This guard, Ekern, had known Vatra since before the Silent Snakes were formed. They were close in age and, once, similar in class. When Ekern’s family lost their business from his father dealing in illegal activity. His father went missing not long after. Most likely taken by those he owed money too, but nothing of certainty. Ekern, his mother, and his sister were on the streets for years. His mother eventually passed from malnutrition and his sister from exposure. Ekern was close to death before a child Vatra walked through town with his parents. They were visiting shops his father had invested in and shared business dealings. Vatra, seeing a swaying boy who could have been a sibling, reached into his side bag and threw a half loaf of bread into his lap. Ekern was having trouble maintaining his balance and keeping his eyes open. He may not have noticed the bread. Vatra separated himself from his parents, despite their pleas, and knelt by him. He tore a piece of the bread, poured water over it, and placed it into Ekern’s mouth. He had to push past cracked lips to expose a dry and scaled tongue. The sugars of the bread spread and brought a glimmer of life back into his eyes. He looked up and noticed young Vatra being pulled away by an accompanying guard.

There would be days when Vatra would sneak out and visit Ekern. He provided a loaf or apple when he could. Ekern eventually would start to decline believing that he’d be in his family’s debt, but Vatra informed him that they didn’t know, nor would they approve. It was in Vatra’s nature to not care, that is the Empyrean way, but he saw himself in the starving Ekern and something in him clicked. When the boys grew more confident, they would sneak onto the estate and watch the house guards train. Vatra had little interest as he was more of an intellectual and thought distance was the way. Ekern wanted to be directly in the battle. He would say that if he were strong enough when he was younger, he could have saved his dad and his mom and sister wouldn’t have ever died. Ekern didn’t know whether or not he should hate his father. If he was dead, he’d forgive him. If he was alive, he’d probably kill him for never coming back for them. “One day, I’m going to be strong,” Ekern would say daily.

“I know,” said Vatra without looking at him. “You’re already one of the strongest people I know.” He didn’t see it, but he knew Ekern’s eyes would swell before he wiped them on his sleeve. Vatra could tell the confirmation and confidence filled him more than any loaf of bread could.

As adults, the two were almost inseparable. The Empyrean and the Human. When others saw an elite member of society and his guard, Vatra only saw a brother. In public, everything done, said, and seen was professional. In private, they were the immature kids they were a decade and a half ago. They shoved each other and would throw food at one another. His parents still believed humans to be beneath them, so they knew better than to seem too familiar within each other’s company. Ekern held no resentment. They both knew how real and innocent their relationship was. No amount of projected hate would falter their friendship.

The true test came when Vatra’s father, Ild-Nar shared his methods of dealing with his business associates who have been skimming money or forging improper accounts. He was informed that they had been overcharging for tincture and tainting it with Poison of the Drow. Their plan was to sell the mix to a sick person, who would become even more sick, return for a more expensive tonic, and repeat the process until the client is indebted to the shop. The problem became known when someone died at night from a common remedy that typically doesn’t have side effects. A client brought the item to one of Ild-Nar’s personal guards expressing their concern. Ild-Nar being an adept alchemist, could smell something was amiss. Pouring it into a clear container, his eyes were able to pick up a faint separation in the liquids, like oil to water. This was all the proof he needed.

Ild-Nar had an extra building on the edge of town. It is small on the outside and unsuspecting. A dried, thatched roofing with a solid wood, stone, and mortar shell. Not many people were interested in a one bed, one bathroom house as many families maintained the multigenerational household lifestyle. As far as anyone would have known, this house was meant to be rented out to travelers. Inside the house there was also nothing to gawk at. A simple living room with two rocking chairs facing a small fireplace with a chimney and a small, round table in between. The bedroom held a single twin bed made of a chipping oak. The mattress was covered with wool and burlap sheets, and held a single straw-filled pillow. A cabinet with three drawers and a single drawer end table took almost too much of the room. The bathroom was simple in nature. It held an elevated waste hole that led to a catch that could be pulled from the outside to be processed and burned.

The secret of this house was inside the bedroom and behind the cabinet. There, concealed a hidden door that would only open if the drawers were opened in a certain pattern and depth. A wooden pin would drop exposing a pressure point only reachable by removing a specific knob and using its modified nail to apply the appropriate pressure. The cabinet would then disengage and hinge away from the wall, exposing a spiral staircase to, what Ild-Nar would call, his collection. In here, multiple glass lanterns would need to be lit revealing a wooden, tilting table that was modified to clamp hands and feet down in place. The clamps were made purposely tight to promote numbing the hands and feet, for they were normally the first to be removed. Underneath the head of the table was an open grate that led to the town rudimentary sewer system. This is where the prisoner would be flipped upside down so their blood would drain and keep the rest of the room as clean as possible. On the wall, hung multiple instruments commonly used for farming, carpentry, tailoring, and meal prep. Also, there seemed to be modified versions of the same professional items that looked excessively altered and made to look more menacing for no other reason but to invoke fear.

Ild-Nar had his two main guards bring the poisoner down here, stripped him bare, and pinned his arms and legs into place. By the time Ild-Nar had arrived, the man’s hands and feet were swollen and blue. He undressed completely and donned a leather apron, a glass face covering, and leather gloves used for smithing. Before saying a word, he made sure the man was awake. Using a nine inch, rusted skewer, Ild-Nar pierced through the man’s bicep from the inside and out the side. He jolted up in a combination of fear and confusion. Mid-scream a guard would place a wooden dowel into his mouth with a strap to the back of the head. Ild-Nar would share his thoughts. How he felt betrayed and broken-hearted. The man was sweating, crying, and had already felt a warm stream down his leg as he shook. Grabbing a pair of shears, he placed them into the man’s right hand, barely being held with what must’ve felt like a sleeping limb. He told him if he dropped them, he’d cut off his fingers one joint at a time. He then grabbed another pair of sheers and placed them in his left hand, saying that if he closed his eyes he would cut his eyelids off. He then grabbed a blade the size of a hand and balanced it on the man’s head. “This one,” he’d say slowly, “this one's for your family if you decide to pass out on me.”

Three days later, there was a tincture shop for sale.

Vatra heard this story from his father after multiple pitchers of mead. At first, Vatra didn’t believe a single word, but knew of the shop he spoke of. Husband, wife, daughter, and son were all gone to “migrate east”. When he asked if his mother knew of this, Ild-Nar only got out “She’s the-” before passing out and dropping his final drink for the day.

Ekern was the door guard the day this story was told. Like a good soldier he stood at attention, but nothing could stop him from thinking the absolute worst. When his shift was over, he and Vatra met in a local tavern that no longer exists, as it had been sold and renovated to be what is now the Horsehead Inn. They had a permanently reserved table in the shadows beneath the loft. They sat for hours, both hands wrapped around a growler still full. Any time the server tried approaching, Vatra would silently shake his head to approach no further. He could tell Ekern was connecting imaginary dots. They were unsure of Ekern’s original last name, so it was hard to pin down the fact as to whether or not his father worked for Ild-Nar. None-the-less, his family or not, Ekern couldn’t handle the people of this town disappearing under mysterious circumstances and this may have been their fate. Ekern finally looked up to Vatra, eyes red and swollen. “Do you think he did it?” he asked.

Vatra’s breathing was constricted. “I can’t say whether or not he killed your father, but he did kill someone’s father, and there is a good chance he killed many others.” Ekern nodded with a kyphotic posture. “That was more than a drunken story.” Ekern continued to nod, sweat, and tear. “Let’s make it through the night. Try to clear our minds. We’ll ask around tomorrow to see if anyone can collaborate. I’ll ask my mother what she knows.” He took a deep breath. “There’s nothing I can do to comfort you, Ekern.” He moved to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “But, I’ll sit here with you, and if you need anything, I’m here.” This broke Ekern sending him slumped over the table, head resting on his forearms. All Vatra could think to do was put an arm around his brother and look into a fire across the room.

Silently, Vatra watched flames flicker like knives being juggled.

Author Credit

Sean Kuttner