Ptolus: Midwood - "The Dark Waters of Moss Pond"

By Wind 4, Tock Chandler can put it off no longer: He has to go to Skunkbottom Flats, north of Moss Pond, the source of the Moss River.

He grimaces and strains to pull his foot, which has sunk nearly two feet, from the muck of the semi-frozen marsh. Unfortunately, when he does, he is reminded how the area got its name: The bard is treated to a loud "poot," followed by an invisible cloud of noxious vapors enveloping his head, sorely tempting him to plug his foot back in the hole he's just made. Not that it would help, that's just the natural reflex. He's lucky, he knows: The smell is even worse in springtime, or in summer. He's just finished gagging when he feels a chill and realizes his foot is now bare, the nearly sentient mud claiming his boot.

"No, damn it," he moans. He notices the hole left by his foot slowly starting to fill in over top of his boot and in a panic, he thrusts his arm down after it. This causes him to lose his footing, though, and he plunges face-first into cold, smelly ooze.

He screams a string of obscenities, gradually sinking further with no solid ground in sight to halt his descent. Thinking quickly, he mutters a frantic incantation, and a majestic celestial monkey materializes at the edge of the muck. He looks at Tock inquisitively, an iridescent halo of innocence and purity encircling his monkey features.

"Help me, monkey!" Tock yelps. "Grab my hand and pull me free!"

The creature, without hesitation, grips Tock's outstretched hand, its mighty grasp and intense gaze reassuring the bard that everything will be OK, giving a mighty tug.

The monkey tumbles right into the mud alongside its summoner. From his expression, it appears in whatever celestial jungle he normally swings through, in search of celestial fruit, it has never heard the things that Tock Chandler says next. The bard insults the monkey for the remaining six seconds of the spell's duration. Six seconds, it should be noted, that would be better spent somehow trying to get free, as the intervening time lapse only serves to worsen the bard's plight, immobilizing him in the putrid, frosty sludge. His cries as he struggles are not unlike those a wounded deer might make. Perhaps a bit louder and with a bit more profanity.

The mud has almost claimed him fully when he hears a wretched sound coming from out of his line of sight. Something terrible slogs through the mud towards him, and he's even surer he's met his end than he was just a moment ago. He spits as much of the acrid mud out of his mouth as he can and begins singing what he believes must be his swansong.

"Lothian, you rotten ass,
I will not fall for this.
Let me sink, let me pass,
Your ring I will not kiss!

"You and your dumb believers,
You murder and restrict.
Like butchers with their cleavers,
Such pain you do inflict.

"I will not fall before you,
Even if here I die.
I'll find a path far more true,
For my dearest one and I.

"So Lothian, your test can rot,
Your warped mind is sick!
You're not the toughest I have fought,
So you can suck my --"

"What the hell?" exclaims the terrible slogging thing, now in close proximity, shocked to hear the downed antelope singing. "Tock Chandler?"

"SCIM! BLARGH!" Tock screams, his face only barely visible, "Scimitar Kem, you scumbag! Pull me up!"

Roebello "Scimitar" Kem considers this for a moment.

"All right, maybe. But first, what're you doing out here?"

"Gods damn you, Scim, quit joking arou--!"

Scimitar makes several gas-releasing squelches forward and, steadying himself, reaches into the mud for the scruff of Chandler's neck, hefting him out as much as he can. The bard gasps for breath, choking on bad vapor.

"I didn't steal anything from you, Tock. I wouldn't do that," Scim says, indignant. "I don't know where you live."

Tock fights to get an arm free, and when he does it latches onto Scimitar's forearm tugging on it with the kind of strength only the adrenaline of a dying man can grant. It's more than Scim expects, however, and now the rogue takes a slight spill, one knee bending, foot moving sideways and slipping to the mire. Tock frees himself from the waist up, and now the two of them face each other, both sinking, but upright.

Tock coughs away tears.

"How in the hairy Hell do you live out here?"

"Got used to it," Scimitar shrugs. "Figgered nobody'd chase me out here. Got a little place on more solid ground over yonder."

"Well, what do you do when you get stuck?"

"Never happened before now," Scim shrugs again and shakes his head, frowning.

"What AM I doing out here?" Tock half-screams in exasperation.

"Hell, I don't know," Scim answers, befuddled. "I just asked you that."

"Your brother needs help with some kobolds," Tock says.

Scimitar looks back at him, confused.

"He'll pay you if you come along," Tock finishes.

Roebello Kem perks up, suddenly interested.

"Let's get out of this mud!"

It's mid-morning on Wind 9 when Tock Chandler, Tosh Bergin and Renraw and Scimitar Kem set out for the ancient gnomish ruins of Treeline. Gax and her kobold armies wiped out the native gnomes of the Tulgey Wood five centuries ago, even as she evicted the dwarves from the city of Glangirn within Green Mountain.

Renraw is visibly nervous as they tromp through the woods. His brother Scim is outwardly flippant about the whole affair, but Renraw knows better: He's worried, too. As expected, Renraw had to pay both him and Tosh, and ordered them to shadow him from a distance, and above all, not be seen unless he and Tock are betrayed and attacked.

Treeline, today, is so ruined that one has to know it exists, and where, to even notice it. The gnomes of old built homes that blended almost seamlessly into the natural environment, and when it was laid to waste, the ruins became almost impossible to find.

But the Green Mountain kobolds remember, as do the gnomes of Wit's End.

As Renraw and Tock approach, they see Wormy standing in a sunny spot surrounded by a low line of ruined stone. From the size of it, it was likely once an important building in the ancient gnomish community. The kobold is again wearing the black goggles. Nearby, a heavily armed goblin lounges astride a large black wolf. The goblin holds the reins for an enormous weasel the height of a pony and the length of an oxcart.

Renraw smiles woodenly, stepping into the pool of sunlight.

"Ho, there, Wormy! Hello! Do not be alarmed, I've brought an associate with me. He also has business with your tribe and wishes to pay his respects."

Wormy looks blandly -- to the extent that either Tock or Renraw can read the expressions of a reptile -- at the pair of them.

"You wanted this meeting, softskin. Speak quickly; we have more important things to do than talk to the likes of you."

Renraw clears his throat, nodding.

"For Wit's End to fall, so must Maidensbridge," he says, carefully enunciating his Draconic. "The humans recognize this, and this is why they've begun unmitigated hostilities. They do not even feel shame for what they do. They kill your people out in the open and make no bones about it. What happened out there is the talk of the town right now. If they had any sense or decency, they would do what my colleague does now: He, as a peace-offering, has brought you the possessions of those lost in the barrow along with heart-felt regret."

Renraw nods to Tock. The bard unveils stole off the slain kobolds in Fibber's Cairn. He offers them to Wormy.

"Has your leadership been made aware of my offer?"

Wormy nods for the items to be placed on the ground.

"The constable is the one-legged man with the bell tower on his house who spends most of his day watching us through a lens. The deputy is the man who shackled me. Insult me again, softskin, and see how I pay you back."

Renraw blanches, unsure what he's said wrong. His eyes dart to the goblin nearby, and he licks his suddenly dry lips.

"It is true, when we strike, the constable and deputy are targets," Wormy continues. "You cannot handle the constable, so you will kill the deputy. If you agree to do this, the kobold troops will ignore you, although you will still be in danger and need to leave area as fast as possible.

"If you agree to this, we will need to have another meeting, where we make preparations." Wormy looks at Tock and the goblin murmurs something, nodding past the duo into the woods, to where Renraw hopes Tosh and his brother are still with them. "They will need to be prepared, as well."

"Kill the deputy?" Renraw asks, smiling, "Of course we can do that!

"And I don't mind leaving the area, either. I'll need to make arrangements for my family ... home," Renraw pauses, realizing something. "Of course," he finishes, in the Imperial tongue. "Let's arrange another meeting, then, shall we? To discuss the specifics of the attack, yes? What works best for you?"

"A message will be sent with you for the time and place," Wormy answers, waving his hand as through brushing away an invisible object.

"Thank you, good sir. We eagerly await it. Let's go, Chandler," Renraw says as he bows, whips around, and begins scurrying away.

Tock's brow furrows in confusion, but he smiles, dips his head in respect and follows.

Renraw trots, dancing a bit as if he has to empty his bowels. Tock is about to whisper an admonition for the wizard to settle down when movement above them draws his gaze.

A tree branch dips, swaying under the weight of three kobolds above them. One of them waves excitedly at Renraw while another checks the sight on his crossbow and smiles a wicked reptilian smile.

"Oh, gods," Renraw mutters, his awkward trotting picking up speed.

Tock nods and smiles an uneasy greeting at the kobolds as he passes underneath them.

When they are far enough away, Tosh and Scim quickly rejoin the other pair.

"So what the devil happened back there, Kem?" Tosh hisses.

"Honestly," Renraw says, white as a sheet, "I've no idea."

It is the 24th day of Wind, in the 721st year of the Imperial Age.

Frost no longer coats the ground at dawn in Midwood, and humans, dwarves and gnomes have spilled out of their homes to celebrate barefooted throughout the barony, in the Feast of Frost's Leaving. Everyone seems to be wearing green in celebration of the coming spring and food and drink dyed green can be found on every table.

But while most of the commoners set aside these four days for revelry, serious work to prepare for the new planting season is already underway.

In Middleborough, the past month has been spent in preparation for the coming season. The commoners have been pruning and staking the baron's grapevines and plowing the fields of Midwood Farm, with the baron's strips of land being fertilized with manure.

In Foxton on Moss, most of the last weeks have been spent ripping out shrubs and other plants that have snuck onto the sheep meadows since the end of Moons, and shepherds are watching over their flocks as they give birth to the new generation of lambs. Likewise, the dwarves of the community have young colts being born, watching over the sometimes difficult labors of the mares.

And in Maidensbridge, where chicks follow their mother chickens around the muddy streets, Bailiff Russell Bailey is seemingly everywhere, with Renraw Kem in his wake, scribbling notes furiously at his master's command, tallying up seeds and the stores of dried apples, noting the supplies of remaining cider and whether all such supplies have made it through the winter intact. They roam the orchards, noting which trees will need special attention and jotting down who will be responsible for doing so. Katadid Leach trails behind them, taking down orders for this insecticide and that fungicide and frequently being distracted by interesting blossoms or bird calls.

Through the trees, Renraw can see the bright green mountain watching him. The long-awaited response letter from St. Feldin's College of Abjuration sits in the ledger like a bookmark, still unopened, as the bailiff had dragged him out of the house to work at the same time as he delivered it to the bookkeeper.

Later today, The Cat & The Fiddle will play host to a musical tournament, and the bailiff has announced the winner of the competition will receive a masterwork instrument, to be made especially for the musician and paid for by the baron. Tock Chandler watches as his competition warms up.

Already the gnome Heda Littlelark can be found on a barrel outside the tavern, playing her concertina and dancing a little jig, quaffing green beer between songs, to the delight of some of the orchard workers. Ebuferpaly Potentloins, in his first time back to Maidensbridge since he was so gravely wounded outside Fibber's Cairn, has been put to work by the bard, keeping her mug full and periodically lowering the number of coins in her hat, so that no one feels that they don't have to be too generous as she plays.

The head of Clan Glangirn, Argus Glangirn, and his thick-necked sons are in the hamlet as well. Argus sits on a bench in front of the smithy, bare-skinned where the straps of his overalls expose his thick shoulders, tuning his banjo and speaking quietly to Therurt Glangirn. They are eyed suspiciously from across the street by several dwarves from Clan Farrin. Constable Ward Bridger and Tucker Gallaway keep an eye on them both.

The kobold Fiddler has not shown up yet, and no one expects him to until closer to sundown. Although the Fordhams deny it, everyone agrees the music tournament's start time was pushed back to allow the kobold to attend, thus increasing interest and the numbers of the hungry and thirsty crowd filling the tavern.

Emmerson Grant listens to the music and revelry from the chapel across the muddy square. He has been informed the bishop will be visiting Maidensbridge sometime this week, and at the constable's suggestion, has been at work scrubbing away years worth of moss and mud, although the lichen between the stones and growing on some of the sturdier timbers resists all effort at removal.

Hazel Sawyer keeps an eye on her little sister and brother while her mother prays in the chapel quietly. Aspen has been acting especially distant lately, although she still put in a great deal of effort into her appearance this morning and has been rewarded with rather more attention from the local boys -- and young men -- than Hazel is comfortable with, even if Aspen seems to be doing little to encourage them. Reed, on the other hand, has gotten into a mock axe-fight with some of Tosh Bergin's seedy relatives, and the boy keeps asking the gnomes if he can play with their weapons. The gnomes always glance up at Hazel watching before refusing.

Emus has wandered back inside The Cat & The Fiddle, followed by his new friend, having drained his bladder of green beer off in the trees with Ragglus Chaplin a moment before. He's a bit too tipsy to notice -- or care -- that Ragglus has not returned with him.

At this moment, Ragglus is sober and getting more so by the second. A pair of beefy hands holds his wrists behind his back and blood is pouring down his nose and from his split lip. Erilon Farrin, the brother of the dwarf holding him, Dalarn, brushes the dirt from his split knuckles as he prepares to hit Ragglus again.

"Once upon a time, you bucket of crap, you had a lot to say about our sister's appearance, didn't ya?"

His fist sinks into Ragglus' stomach.

"I reckon it was Ciderfest," Dalarn volunteers.

"I reckon it was." Erilon hits Ragglus across the jaw with a double-fisted club. "Got anything smart to say now, boy, or is you only brave enough with a crying girl?"

The town center is crowded with rambunctious festival-goers, but Tucker has been doing his best to keep an eye out for pickpockets, a task made much easier by the fact that Chandler was in plain sight, showing his instrument to any young lasses who wandered near enough. Sometimes he let them touch it.

In even the best of situations, keeping track of dwarves would be no easy task -- it's easy to disappear into a crowd when you're only shoulder-high -- but with two fruitful clans milling about, he was having a hard time with an accurate head-count. From his position on the path to the cemetery, the deputy had a good view of the dwarves gathered in front of the smithy, and the clans were obligingly staying well away from one another, but even then it was hard to tell "That One With The Beard" from "That Other One With The Beard" and "The One With That Other Beard." Despite that, one side seemed to be, well, a bit short.

There had been a pair that was never more than an arm's length apart from one another, and they had seemed agitated about something ever since they arrived that morning. Not quite shifty, but definitely more tense than any of the others -- and that was saying something.

Making his way through the crowd, Tucker moves east toward The Cat & The Fiddle, looking for the wayward pair. He sees Hazel watching over her siblings and apparently threatening to tear someone a new axe hole. His uncle Russell is leading Renraw around, and though the seed counter looked to be engrossed by his ledger, he doesn't seem to actually be writing anything down at the moment. Emus stumbles out of the woods, adjusting himself, and calls something inaudible over his shoulder before heading for the door of the Cat.

Pausing a moment, Tucker looks in the direction Emus is coming from, then toward the Cat. He scans the crowd once more, then heads for the trees.

* * *

Ragglus gives a raspy chuckle that resembles a coughing fit more than anything. He blows his nose heavily to clear a path to better breathing, blood spattering the dirt around him. Raising his head with no small amount of difficulty, he stares Erilon straight in the eye.

"Girl?" Ragglus mutters in mock disbelief. "Could have fooled me."

He trails off, jerking his head forward suddenly to spit in the dwarf's face.

The taste of his own blood trickles down across his lips, Ragglus struggles in Dalarn's grip. For a moment, it looks like he'll be able to break free, but the dwarf's hands are like a vise on his wrists.

"Keep laughing, you piece of crap," Erilon snarls, wiping off his face and beard. He punches Ragglus in the face again, eliciting a spray of blood from his nose.

Struggling to no avail and fighting a losing battle with consciousness, Ragglus decides a change of strategy is in order. If the cowardly rock-munchers weren't going to play fair, neither was he.

"I DON' CARE HOW MUCH GOLD YOU TWO 'AVE!" he cries at the top of his lungs, hoping to draw some attention. "I AIN'T TOUCHIN' YOUR WEE DWARVEN WILLIES! I LIKES WOMEN!"

With a groan of irritation, Tucker double-times it through the trees toward the sound of Ragglus' shout.

Erilon punches Ragglus in the gut, driving the wind out of him, and nearly his breakfast.

His brother hears the jingle of Tucker approaching through the trees and suddenly releases Rags, letting him fall forward into the mud. Both dwarves step back, doing their best to look innocent as the deputy arrives, Erilon tucking his split knuckles beneath his thick brown beard, glaring silent threats at the human sprawled on the ground.

"Oh, hello, Deputy Gotaway," Dalarn grins. "We was just about to help our clumsy friend Rags here up out of the mud what he done tripped and fell into."

"Oh, give it a rest, you're not fooling anybody," Tucker says, glaring down at them. "Just because you're both three-quarters-tall doesn't mean that the pair of you get to pick on one guy."

The deputy offers a hand to Ragglus, who grips his wrist and pulls himself up.

"Now get your butts back to the party," Tucker says, jerking his head toward Maidensbridge proper. "Everybody's here to have fun today, and it'd be a shame if it were to turn out that all the gold you brought along for entertainment had to be paid out in fines. That's your father's wagon you rode in on today, isn't it? Maybe while you're playing around out here in the trees like a couple of elves, it'll turn out that you're parked a bit too close to one of the buildings, or that you're improperly hitched. There are a lot of laws it's easy to forget when you roll into a new town with nothing but a festival on your minds."

The dwarves murmur something darkly among themselves, then smile brightly, heading back to town.

"Don't worry, Rags," Erilon calls back, "You fall down again, we'll be right there to take care of you."

"Take care, fellas," Rags calls after the departing dwarves. "Say hello to that lovely sister of yours fer me!"

Ragglus turns and spits. He mutters something that sounds like thanks as he stalks past the deputy, his mood foul as he walks back toward town, intent on searching out Mother Bridger.

"LEACH!"

Katadid Leach starts at Bailey's shout, and finds himself looking into the bailiff's angry face. Kat looks down and sees his hand clutching a flower just about plucked free of petals. He didn't even remember it getting there.

"What did I say earlier?" Bailey sighs, when he only gets a mumbled response from the apothecary. "I said to check with your father to make sure we have enough Undermile Moss on hand. It's been an unusually long winter and Mother Bridger thinks that may mean a wet spring. We don't want our crop to rot as soon as it hits the ground after a storm.

While Bailey's attention had been on Kat, Renraw has broken the wax seal of the envelope with his envelope and scans the letter as furtively as he can.

"Do you want me to make you write this down?" Bailey asks Katadid, trying to keep his frustration in check.

Kat shakes his head.

"I can remember."

A skeptical look on his face, Bailey turns and goes back to barking directions to Kem. Kat simply tears the last petal off the flower. The petals number six; they used to number nine.

Kem's job requires a great deal more attention then Kat's. Renraw has a constant stream of numbers being rattled off toward him whereas Katadid is only needed after this data was collated and if a special problem becomes apparent.

Bailey was currently walking up to the Coopers' place, where the eternally drunken Miles Cooper lined up his barrels filled with apple seeds with a red-faced sulk and bleary eyes. He hands his tally to Bailey and they confer for a bit.

Katadid's attention soon wanders, spotting Hazel with her brother, and realized he has another set of notes to give her. And nearby, he sees a group of gnomes, and idly wonders if Bufer is among them.

He taps his foot while knocking on one of the barrel's rings, and peers over Renraw's shoulder, as he finds the ordered rows of numbers comforting. His eyes fall on the letter Renraw has surreptitiously opened.

"Anything?" Kat whispered. He cranes his neck forward and reads reads:

"Renraw:

"I suppose I should be shocked that you have the temerity to write me, particularly given your outstanding debts, both monetary and potentially criminal (the magistrate still wants you to appear before him, and should you return to Tarsis, it will certainly happen), but by now, I know better than to expect good taste or sense to check your hand.

"In answer to your question --"

"HEY!" The bailiff barks. "You two, get back here and get back to work. If you sneak a peek at that letter again, Young Kem, I'll just confiscate it until we're done."

In a fit of silent righteous fury, Renraw shows Bailey the note, crumples it in his hand, and crams it into a pocket.

"Now, then," he says, making a contemptuous show of readying his quill to resume his duties. "Where were we?"

Instantly, Katadid is bored again, and begins tapping the barren trees. He looks across the river past the cemetery and to the revelry starting to warm up at The Cat & The Fiddle. Normally, Kat would avoid large crowds but he finds the music and knowledge his friends are in Maidensbridge tugging at him.

The constable and Renraw begin moving again, and Katadid follows after them, dragging a stick through the wet earth behind him.

"There, we're done," the bailiff says finally, at the end of a row of apple trees. "Now, mind sharing what's so important about that letter, Kem?"

"It's nothing," the bookkeeper tersely answers, then thinks better of stonewalling the bailiff. "At least, it's nothing now. It looks like returning to university is a long way off. It's very frustrating, you know. And so I think, if we're done here, that I'll go drink myself to the brink of death."

Katadid wanders over with a raccoon skull he found in one furrowed row, hands covered in wet earth.

"Yes, the answers ... I think ..." Katadid looks toward Bailey and shrugs. He wanders after Renraw, playing with the raccoon skull.

Once out of earshot of the perplexed bailiff, he whispers loudly to Renraw.

"School? Sorry."

"It's about more than just school, Leach," Renraw replies in a normal voices as he slowly ambles towards town. "It's about a different life. One away from here."

"There are things here," Katadid replies, realizing that the answer won't satisfy the older wizard. "The Letter? Statues? Questions, maybe."

"Tell you what," Renraw sighs. He reaches into his pocket, fishes out the crumpled letter, and holds the balled-up paper for Kat to see. "I'm feeling strangely generous. Buy me my alcohol for the day and this letter is yours."

Katydid nods eagerly and fishes into his pockets. Herbs and other crumpled notes spill out to the ground below. Finally, he retrieves what he was looking for and pulls out an entire gold piece Renraw wouldn't have bet Katadid had.

"Five pitchers of ale, five pitchers of cider, five pitchers of cheap wine, five shots of vodka or one bottle of brandy," he rattles off.

"Brandy, now there's a thought," Renraw says as snatches the money from Katadid's muddy palm. "Do let me know if you find anything interesting, old boy."

Taking the crumpled letter from Renraw's hands, Katadid eyes dart across its contents eagerly as they walk. He continues from where he left off:

"In answer to your question, in ancient days, Kem was perhaps the greatest magocracy the world has ever known, but in time, their rule grew cruel, and they made pacts with beings wise men would avoid. Eventually, they and the Cthorn made war upon one another, and the world still bears the scars of these Wars of Fire. Had you paid better attention in class, none of this would be news.

"What is not discussed in most classes are the theories that some of the ancient Kemite mages survived, or at least, some of their 'lost' magics may have.

"Of the Great Lost Crafts, three may have survived the Wars of Fire and the destruction of Kem. It is possible that more pre-destruction crafts, of which we have no record, may have also survived.

"According to legend, the Wars of Fire were foreseen by the greatest of the Kemite and Cthorn seers, and three great exoduses out of Kem occurred before the wars began in earnest. Two of them, whom we know only as the Namers and the Binders, went south across the sea, settling in Uraq or perhaps the Distant South. What their magic entailed and what happened to their practitioners are both unknown.

"A number of the Shadow Mages, however, are known to have traveled north, along with their owl-headed servants, into the still-wild Prustan Peninsula. Being as close to Kem as they were, the Shadow Mages sought to research new magics that would hide them from their fellows and the Cthorn and prepare new defenses against them, should the coming wars sweep northwards and seek to draw them in.

"Turning away strictly from the study of shadows and shadow magics, these mages began experimenting with mirrors and mirror magics. Eventually, it is said, they made some great discovery, unlocking the doors inside every mirror, enabling them to travel to unknown destinations and hide from their countrymen and the Cthorn. The few references to this splinter magocracy refer to them as the Invisible Kingdom for this reason.

"But it is said they also enslaved those whom they found on the far side of the mirrors and sought to bind them as guardians and soldiers of their own. It is unknown how long this state of affairs lasted before their mirror-servants rose up and turned on the Shadow Mages, killing most of them and driving the survivors and servants into hidden places, shattering their mirrors behind them.

"Or so it would seem.

"The cache of mirrors you found are likely tied to locations that the Invisible Kingdom used as refuges of some sort, although I doubt they reach the lairs of the Shadow Mages directly. More likely, they lead to another catacomb, almost certainly better protected and guarded, which in turn protects another set of mirrors.

"Researchers of the modern age from St. Feldin's, the Inverted Pyramid and Redhurst have all found suggestions that some knowledge of the shadow magics still exists in the ruined lands of Kem. It may be that you can find the means to unlock the mirror doors there, and thus begin the dangerous task of pursuing the shadow mages through their mirrors to their hidden fortresses.

"But beware: The mages of Kem did not resign themselves to death. It is likely that, even now, some have survived that war thousands of years ago. In what form, I cannot say, but I doubt the years have been kind to their sanity, and they were cruel and half-mad, even in life.

"I look forward to future correspondence on this matter in future and would urge you to recover the mirrors –- or discover another such cache -– for study by university scholars. This is not a task for apprentices not yet halfway through their training.

"I await your response. Go Ermines!"

As Emus Graymullet wanders back into The Cat & The Fiddle, he notices Mother Bridger off to one side talking with some of the other ladies from the town as well as the wives of the farmers who live more than a day's ride away. From the conspiratorial tones interspersed with peals of laughter, it's obvious they're gossiping.

Slightly drunk, Emus ambles over to Mother Bridger and politely butts in.

"Mother Bridger, ma'am, I just wanted to thank you again fer patchin' me up after that incident with the kobolds a few weeks back."

Mother Bridger, clearly a little uncomfortable with the praise, inclines her head in acceptance of the kind words.

"Why, you're welcome, Emus. Thanks for stopping by to say hello. Are you doing all right?"

"Yes'm. Also," he continues, digging a small pouch out of his pocket, "I've collected these fer you. I thought that they might help to replace some of the herbs and rarer plants that I might've caused you to use."

"Oh, Emus, that really isn't necessary, but thank you all the same!"

The conversation lulls at that point as Emus looks off to one side at the wall, and Mother Bridger looks around to see if her friends are still behind her. The uncomfortable silence lasts until Mother Bridger notices the unusual carving at the end of Emus' greatclub.

"That's a very ... interesting decoration, there, Emus."

Emus looks up at the end of his club, considering it.

* * *

"That doesn't look anything like me."

"Hee! You've never seen yourself when you've gotten really angry."

Bobbil Sue Glangirn passed her brother his greatclub. Carved into the "hittin' end" were twin images of a dwarf, supposedly Emus, gritting his teeth in rage. The faces were on opposite sides of the club, and the tip of the club and the areas around the faces were carved to look like dwarven hair and beards flowing into each other, connecting the two carved faces. The beard below the faaces didn't go down very far, to allow for future carvings.

"I can make the relief deeper, if you want."

"Nah, I don't want anything breaking off when I'm hitting things with it."

Bobbil Sue took the club back to finish her handiwork.

"Um, does this have anything to do with that?" Bobbil Sue pulled Emus' shirtsleeve up a bit to reveal part of a tattoo. Emus promptly pulled it back down.

"Maybe. I'm not sure."

"Are you going back to ... them?"

"Heh, naw. Vered wondered the same thing when I asked him to ink me. He was real disappointed to learn otherwise."

"Then what's this all about? Your tattoos, and this totem and that dog. Emus, you've been acting all weird since you woke up from that attack, and I'm worried about you!" Bobbil's words spilled out in a rush. "You say you're not going back to your old friends, but I don't understand all this druid stuff you're getting into! And now you're going around in old burial mounds and getting yourself involved with the gnomes and humans."

Emus sighed.

"Look, I know you don't want me to go back to the way things have been. But I'm learning things about m'self, and I don't think I'll ever entirely get rid of who I was. But Theran and the other druids, they're teachin' me things, and it's helping me control the rage. Not just stampin' it down, but to use it when I need to.

"And then those fool kids went and almost started a small war with the gnomes and kobolds here in Midwood. Those kobolds would have killed Bufer, and then the gnomes would have had their contraptions all over the woods. And the humans wouldn't have stayed idle, either. But the way things is right now, it's all balanced. Everyone stays apart, and the Tulgey Wood don't get too torn up.

"And my fightin' and what the druids are teachin' me, they're helping me keep everything balanced."

"Balanced? Emus, you almost died? Your friend DID die!"

"Yeah, and then they brought him back. That was something else. That boy ain't exactly got his priorities straight, but he's got this faith that ya can almost see. His people recognized that. Heh. It's not like anyone would have done the same for me." He chuckled.

"You know, I think Daddy was really proud of you when he heard what you did. And Granny actually cracked a smile."

"Heh, say goodbye to everyone fer me. I gotta git back to Maidensbridge. SKEETER!" Emus called for his dog. The coonhound's head popped up out of the hole he was digging and he came running, ears and tongue flopping wildly.

"You leaving already?"

"Yeah, I owe Mother Bridger some things."

* * *

Emus looks up at the end of his club as if considering what is carved there.

"My sister carved it. Pardon me."

Emus turns from Mother Bridger and heads over to the bar.

Father Emmerson Grant has scrubbed the moss and the mud off the stone steps leading into Maidensbridge Chapel every day and has yet to see signs of improvement.

He has considered going to Heath Leach and ordering any type of alchemical concoction that could remove it, but he is not too interested in having words with Katadid (or Renraw, for that matter). He will have to, once his ministry begins, but for the time being, he's trying to remove decades of moss and mud by sheer force.

He looks around the chapel. It took him a while to clean up the area where Ragglus had been squatting. Hopefully, the cots Emmerson is building at the forge to tend to the sick and infirm will be ready soon. Not willing to separate the man from the house of Lothian, he plans to give Ragglus one cot and a small cupboard for his items every night, should he come back to the chapel and ask for it.

A bit more scrubbing and he'll be done for the day. A quick cider at The Cat & The Fiddle will serve him just fine.

* * *

Hazel Sawyer watches Reed play at fighting, waiting for a break in the action to show him a better grip. Aspen's laughter floats over the boys around her, and Hazel glances over to check on her sister. One of the Bridger boys has his hand on her shoulder; Hazel catches his eye and slowly drops her hand to the axe hanging at her waist. She grins.

She waits for the boy to step back before returning to her brother. The mock fight pauses when Reed's axe slips out of his hand; Hazel is glad to see her brother move away rather than trying to catch the weapon. If he's learned nothing else, at least he knows not to reach for a falling blade.

Hazel takes a few steps forward and nods at the Bergins.

"You reckon Tosh'll be in town tonight for the music?"

The Bergin gnomes just shrug in response to her question, and begin juggling their hatchets, which gets her little brother dangerously excited and eager to try the trick for himself.

Hazel snorts in exasperation. She's not so oblivious as to think the gnomes just like the music; if they're at The Cat & The Fiddle in such a large crowd, no doubt some folks will go home with lighter purses than they thought. But Tosh is a ready wit, and she hasn't seen him in weeks.

She catches a glimpse of Bufer over by the tavern already; once her mother's done praying, Hazel hopes to talk to the gnome, just to reassure herself that he's healed up. If she wasn't on baby-sitting patrol, she would have been over there by now, listening to Heda play and waiting for the contest to start.

* * *

Bufer absent-mindedly hands a full tankard up to Heda as the crowd surrounding them bursts into applause. He scans the faces in the audience, as several of them step forward to wish Heda luck in the evening's competition. After a moment, he sighs in disappointment, then raises his own mug of green ale to take a swig.

He can feel the object in his pocket burning a hole straight through, egging on the dire butterflies that appear to have hatched in his stomach.

Patience, he tells himself. It'll all be over soon enough.

Lowering his mug and licking his lips, he glances up at Heda.

"You think Fiddler's actually bound to show this time?"

"Probably." Then she grins, shaking the stiffness out of her fingers before playing her next concertina tune. "If the kobold wants to keep being humiliated, I'm glad to oblige."

* * *

The weather has improved slightly, and snow no longer covers the ground, but a chill still lingers in the air.

The chapel's stone floor has sealed the cold up within itself, and as Emmerson scrubs and scrubs, he feels it in his bones.

He'll evaporate the wash water off with some fire and perhaps he'll finally go to the Leaches' for some drying herb powder. A coat or two of whitewash and the chapel will be as good as new.

As he washes his hands, he goes over the list of things left to do.

"Lothian and St. Cuthbert mantelpieces are already on order. Icons ... commissioned as well. Perhaps a new copy of the Word of Lothian? I shall write Middleborough for one."

In the chapel, as Emmerson cleans himself up, Rosalind Sawyer finishes praying, saying a few quiet words to the small idol of Estanna placed in the chapel this day, garlanded with the first flowers of spring as well as green sprays of pine branches. She nods wordlessly to the small idol of Valarian placed beside Estanna before her husband helps her up. He uses one hand to shake out his magnificent wolf's pelt cloak.

Jack has spent the morning cleaning it, getting it ready for the celebration. There's to be a dance in the orchard this evening, under lanterns hung from the trees and after a long winter at home, and he's uncharacteristically vain and excited about the event. He looks oddly at the paladin going heavily armed and armored on a feast day, but shrugs to his wife. They have other things on their mind.

On the way out the door, Emus' new dog, Skeeter, greets Emmerson in the traditional dog way, with a nose to the crotch.

Hearing the chapel door open, Hazel turns with an expectant smile, but it's just Emmerson coming out. She nods to him as he passes, but finds she has little to say to him these days. He's been different since the forest. Her mind supplies a picture of his body laid out on the forest floor, and she hastily finds something else to think about.

"Reed, c'mon." She steers him away from the juggling, shaking her head at the gnomes even as she glances back for another peek at their smooth motions. "Da wouldn't want you getting any ideas."

Although it's more the thievin' than the fancy tricks, she adds silently.

She keeps one arm firmly around his shoulder and walks over to the crowd around Aspen, who's near half a dozen boys, but none are the boy she's mentioned to Mama lately.

"Lining 'em up for the dancing already, Aspen?" Hazel eyes the preening lads, glaring at one or two who seem a bit old to be courting her little sister. "You should save a turn or two for Da and Reed, don't ya think?"

Reed hops about and swings his feet in the dirt, raising dust that clings to everyone's finery.

"I ain't dancin' with any girl. Dancin's for courtin', and courtin's fer makin' kissy faces, and tha's where babies come from."

"He's got the finer points down, that's fer sure," one of the young men says as the other boys chuckle. "So I'll be seein' ya for that dance then, Miz Sawyer."

Aspen's answering smile is thin.

"Well, I suppose I might --"

"If she gets tired of boys her own age and wants someone past his prime, she'll be sure to come runnin' to you, Jacob. Until then, she's got family affairs to tend to." Hazel jerks her head toward the chapel, where Jack and Rosalind Sawyer are emerging after prayer.

Jack's smile turns stern as he takes in the crowd of boys appreciating Aspen's dress. He was certain she'd had a cloak on when she left the house, but her neckline is clearly visible clean out to her shoulders. Leaning down brings his mouth to his wife's ear.

"I don't recall that dress looking like that last year, Lindy."

Rosalind lightly squeezes her husband's hand.

"I told you not to worry, she's fair settled on the Cooper boy. You 'n' Hazel just keep the wolves off 'er tonight, an' she'll get that boy's mind on a proper wedding." She grins at him, her eyes glittering. "Worked for me, didn't it?"

Aspen, following Hazel's gaze, gives the boys an apologetic smile and heads toward her folks. Hazel grabs Reed around the waist and flips him over her arm; when his hands reach the ground, she shifts her grip to his ankles and helps him balance upside-down. She suspects he's sticking his tongue out at the older boys as they depart, but she's too busy keeping herself from stepping on his hands to notice.

"Thought I might head over to the Cat, say howdy to some friends," she calls out as her parents approach. "You need me to keep an eye on this possum, here?

She waggles Reed's feet a bit, sending the boy into a fit of giggling.

Her father nods.

"Aye, keep him out of trouble, if you would. Your sister insists on showing us the new dance step that 'everyone' is doing in Tarsis this season before tonight."

Aspen's expression suggests she had intended to show the step to her mother, not her father, but she goes with her parents, scowling all the way.

* * *

"Are ya nervous?" one big-eyed brunette asks Tock. He's pretty sure he should remember her name, but that's not one of the parts that interest him.

"Nah, I'm not," he says, looking up from his banjo. "I ain't really here for some prize or contest or nothing of that sort. I'm here for the music. These little things, they build their fancy machines to make music for 'em, but I like hearin' a man or a woman or a dragonchild just make music from their very souls."

"Y'mean the Fiddler? My pa says his type is killers." This one is a different brunette, with green eyes and freckles. Jenny Linn? Paula Sue? Damn it, how come they all got two names? "Your pa wouldn't know a dragonchild from a dire weasel. He ain't left his house further than 10 yards long as he's been alive. Otherwise he might have seen something a few nights ago."

The girls giggle, especially the freckled one in question.

"What about the ones that killed the Emmerson boy and nearly killed that dwarf and the gnome?" This one had a sharper look and he remembered her as Lucy Middleborough.

"Listen, you don't back out on a deal with the dragonkin. They got old blood and old ways. You don't lie to no dragon and you don't cheat no kobold. Doc Asshigh'd not suffered a scratch hadn't those damn fools tried to get killed. Damn Emmerson always was a self-satisfied prick." Lucy looks like she knows something more so Tock changes the subject. "But this ain't no night for talkin' about uptight guys who could just use a bit of attention from one of you lovely girls, if'n they weren't so damn stupid about ya. This is a night for music. Would you girls like to hear a new song?"

Emmerson scratches Skeeter's head.

"Hail, Skeeter. Your master around?" The paladin looks around and spots Emus at the bar and Tock holding court on one side. He turns to the gnomes by the front door. "Master Potentloins. Mistress Heda, I hope the competition is yours by the end of the night. Those other bards are not even in your league."

"How now, lad," Bufer says to Emmerson, looking over the paladin's armor and sword with a smile and a crooked eyebrow. "It's good to see you again. Looks like your people done fixed you up right well since the last time we saw one another."

He pauses before continuing.

"I understand in return that the Bishop's tasked ye with restoring the chapel and saving all us heathens from ourselves," he continues. "That's an awful big job for one b -- I mean, for just one man, lad -- and an awful big building for just one god. I was wondering if maybe we could talk, later, about a way you an' me might be a help to one another, and our kin, one novice priest to another."

"Big job is right. I am deeply honored by the task," Emmerson smiles "However, I am at a loss on how to proceed. The bishop said he'll be in Maidensbridge within the next few days. I'm certain I'll get my orders from him then, but I hope there can be an understanding between our faiths and even help each other like Bahamut and Barchiel the Messenger did when Lothian ascended."

Emmerson takes a seat.

"Bufer, I wanted to tell you about that day: I regret that things got so out of hand the rescue damn nearly killed us all, but I had the feeling that Pick was not going to let you out of Green Mountain alive. I know she brokered a deal with Hazel, but just as Emus and I were not part of the deal, the rest of the kobolds in Green Mountain were not part of Pick's deal. You could have died by kobold hands that day and she would have kept her word intact. I was unwilling to let that fate befall upon you."

"I've never doubted you an' Emus had the best of intentions," Bufer says, straining to be heard over the din of the crowded tavern, "But for an aspiring cleric, you have a thing or two to learn about faith, lad. Don't ever think I don't appreciate what you tried to do, but if you'd had just a thimbleful of faith that I knew what I was doing, I expect things might turned out better for you, at least, if not for me.

"As to the other thing: Well, it ain't never been a secret how I feel about 'The Church,' capital T capital C, that's for sure, but it's not every priest of Lothian who would talk about an understanding between faiths, least not without a dagger hid behind his back. And it's good that you're already thinking that way, lad, because take a look around."

Bufer turns and gestures expansively toward the throng that's gathered in anticipation of the tournament to come.

"Humans, gnomes, dwarves. Even a kobold, likely as not, come sundown. Maybe even more, some day. This is your flock now, lad, even those who'd balk at the idea. Hell, especially those. The world ain't like it used to be, back when the Empire was whole, and Maidensbridge ain't no different, even if it's been a little slow to catch up. It's gonna take a broader view of things than Bishop Lemon possesses to minister to this rabble. An' that's why I want to propose somethin' to ya that you're like to find a little cosmopolitan but hear me out."

Bufer leans forward eagerly, his eyes dancing with excitement, and brings his hands together, steepling his fingers.

"What if we brought it all together under one roof, you and me? Lothian, Glittergold, Yurabbos, Hanseath. I'm sure if we get Emus and Therurt to put the word out, we can find ourselves a dwarven cleric who's lookin' to stake a claim. We have services for all of 'em, anyone who'll come, even the kobolds, if they have a mind to. We make our chapel the real, honest-to-Garl, beatin' heart of Maidensbridge as it really is, instead of some blasted humans-only club for the 'saved'. I could move down here permanent, help you put the place back together, the way Maidensbridge needs it, instead of some glockenspieled monstrosity that Lemon's bound to inflict on ye."

Emmerson waves to Ella for a round of ciders and maybe some food.

"You have an interesting idea, but I need to know what the bishop's thoughts are."

Seeing Bufer's face and recognizing the debate to come, Heda is grateful when a cat paws at her ankle. She hops down and follows it inside The Cat & The Fiddle. There, she meets a man at a table, his back against the wall, and he leans in to speak quietly to her. After a moment, she begins picking out what is clearly a tune she's not entirely comfortable with, and the man sings in a foreign language. The difference between the sunlight outside and the dark tavern inside keeps Emmerson and Bufer from seeing any more.

"We'll come find ya'll later, Da." Hazel lifts a hand in a parting wave, leaving Reed's foot flailing about in the air. The boy wriggles his other ankle out of her grasp and manages three "steps" on his hands before flopping down in the mud. He grins slyly and raises an arm to his sister.

"Help me up!"

Hazel makes a show of leaning over to examine the offered hand.

"Hmmm, you're on your own, mister. Didn't we just dump you in a washtub this morning?"

"Back to normal now!" Reed jumps to his feet and wipes his muddy hands across the front of his tunic. "I was too clean anyway."

"Mm-hmm. Wouldn't want any pretty lasses gettin' the idea you were the dancin' type."

In unison, Hazel and Reed scrunch up their noses and stick out their tongues: "Dancing, yuck!"

"Let's go, wee beastie. If we head over to the tavern, we'll pass the dwarves." She nods her head toward the smithy. "Might even see more exciting weapons."

Hazel catches her brother by the collar before he can dash off into the crowd.

"I said see, not touch. You stay by my side like a familiar or I'll turn you over to Da for the night, and ya know he won't be happy if he has to miss a dance with Mama because he's busy tanning your hide."

A slightly more subdued Reed shadows his sister toward the tavern -- subdued meaning his bouncing, bobbing and weaving through the crowd is confined to a five-foot radius. Just past the smithy, Reed's bouncing orbit stops. Hazel half-turns her head, knowing a quiet a Reed is a dangerous one, and thus isn't knocked completely off-balance when his weight thumps into her back and his arms lock around her neck. A moment's juggling -- oof, he's getting too heavy for this -- and a small foot digging her axe into the side of her leg later, Reed is secure in his new perch.

"You're lucky I haven't got my pack on under my cloak today." Hazel dodges to avoid stepping on a wandering toddler whose mother is trailing after her. "This had better not be some secret plan to smear mud all over me."

Fingers swipe across her cheek in response.

"I don't get a matching one for the other side?"

Reed obliges with a swipe across the other cheek.

"Now that we're both fashionably attired, what say we find a seat," she says as pushes through the crowd outside The Cat & The Fiddle, Reed's feet swinging against her hips and occasionally delivering an accidental kick to folks too slow to clear a path, "And say howdy to some friends."

"I shall ask the bishop to grant us an audience," Emmerson is saying as the Sawyers approach. "We'll need to discuss matters with great care for it."

"Of course, of course," Bufer says with a sly wink. "'Great Care' is my third-from-middle ... oh look, it's Hazel!"

Waving them over, Bufer kicks out the chair opposite his, in what he probably thinks of as a gallant manner.

"Afternoon, lass!" he says brightly, raising his mug as they near the table. "Good to see you again! I hate to be the one to break this to ye, but you appear to have a mud demon of some sort growin' outta ye."

"It's a terrible, terrible affliction, Bufer," Hazel nods solemnly. "Thankfully I have the cure for it right here."

She sets to tickling behind Reed's knees with single-minded intensity. Her brother squirms and squeals, trying to protect himself without losing his perch, but finally drops to his feet.

Hazel takes the chair Bufer offered, leaving the neighboring one for her brother, who promptly flops into it and tries to balance it on two legs. Hazel keeps an arm ready to catch the chair in case it tips too far.

She nods affably to Emmerson, but her eyes are scrutinizing Bufer.

"You look well, that's good. That you're better, I mean. I'm sorry about," she shifts her eyes toward Reed before continuing, "Um, that thing."

Bufer blinks in surprise, then shakes his head at Hazel.

"Seems to me I should be the one apologizing to you, lass. Heda told me what you done for me. Couldn't have been easy carryin' 60 stone all the way back to town on yer back. I'm grateful. Thank you." He bites off the rest of what he was going to say, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about the presence of Reed and Emmerson.

It'll have to keep until later, he thinks, fiddling with the object in his pocket.

Instead, he turns his head and scans the crowd for Heda, trying to see if she's still playing for the stranger who makes her uncomfortable.

"So Tiberius never showed after all, huh?"

"Tiberius," Tock snorts, walking up. "I told you not to waste your time with Lothianite crap. I'm surprised at you, gnome. I thought you at least had that much sense. But I guess you had your reasons," Tock says, shooting a glance at Hazel. "I hope you guys enjoy the competition. I don't think I'll win, I'm no Fiddler, but I wrote a song especially for you all. How's the High and Mighty treating you, Grant?"

"Kindly do not address my god that way," Emmerson says, glaring back at the bard.

"I try to address him as rarely as possible, and never kindly."

"Except when you're in front of the constable. Then your bowing and scraping knows no limits."

"Of course, dear dead one, it's fun to lie to idiots."

"Not as much as watching hypocrites contort."

"Oh, dear, the Lothianite is upset. Please, please, don't die on me. Or, you know, burn me at the stake. If there's one thing Lothian hates, it's someone with a brain and an independent will."

"Hardly. Lothian hates cowards. And it is true, I have died," Emmerson says, his hand touching his neck reflexively. "And that was because I preferred to risk -- and give -- my life rather than let evil triumph. I would have done the same for anyone in Maidensbridge. I'm sorry you cannot comprehend what that means. If you have business with this table, state it. If not, go somewhere else. Kindly or not."

"You endangered the gnome's life, and your church persecutes anyone it can. Lick your bishop's boot, boy, and bring further shame to your fine family. Enjoy the song. It's dedicated to you three." Tock turns, and spots Renraw at the bar with Katadid. He stalks off to greet them. "Ren!"

"Tock, wait!" Bufer calls after the bard, but Tock either doesn't hear him above the din, or chooses not to. With a sigh, Bufer turns and fixes Emmerson with a look. "Hardly the reaction of an aspiring priest, there, lad. Tock was just stirrin' up the pot, same as he always does. If you get your nose all out of joint every time someone questions your faith, you're gonna have a tough row to hoe. 'You get more converts with honey than a mace to the head,' Master Barennackle always says."