Art by Clea Harris

Chapter 3

Correspondence

Outside of Claranel Caves

West Æshorenth, Æshorenth, Vol’Tyr

Caliz sat on the log beside the fire while one of the Nojern he’d forgotten the name of wound bandages around his shoulder. His armor and shirt were cast aside, leaving him in nothing but the tightly-wound cloth around his chest. Everyone at the camp was polite enough to not ask about it.

“I told you it wouldn’t work.”

“It didn’t like Ierish. I tried talking in Antrian, Agleshi, and Ierish, and it shot me after Ierish without a response.”

“Maybe it got sick of you.”

“I think it was talking in Kilio. But not the Kilio I’ve heard, anyway. I have an ear for accents, and it was off.”

“Well, you got farther than us. Look,” the Nojern patching him up yanked on his bandage and he winced, “you’re not going anywhere for a bit. When was your last sleep?”

“A while,” he admitted.

“Us too. Let’s hang around the fire, eat, sleep it off, and hit this when we wake. Besides, backup should be here by then. Let’s chat.”

Glam tossed one of her laced shirts at Caliz, and after glancing at his bloodstained shirt on the ground, chose to put it on. It was a little tight, but fit well enough.

“Alright, so who are you, then?”

The first around the fire was introduced as Brewmaster Filvendor, a man hired on ages ago to assist with the actual brewing of the meads when the operation got too large to handle. He was small and frail, and Caliz learned he had a rare degenerative muscle disease. He didn’t have long for the world according to academics in Teral, but despite this, he kept on living. Filvendor himself claimed it was because he pickled himself with mead. “The Arbiter[1] can’t take me when I got more booze than blood.”

The second was a Watcher woman by the name of Brewmaster Naevys, Filvendor’s successor. A short woman, stouter than the rest, she was hired on to train as the new Brewmaster, but on account of Filvendor’s lack of dying, they’d been doing the job in tandem for over forty wends now. Naevys claimed she was far from ready to take over, but the other three disagreed.

It was at this point Caliz asked how a meadery came to be run by four masters. Their response was that they hired other masters on to run the operation for them. The culture was built up and nourished by Glam herself, and Glam originally made all the meads while Akala sold them, but the operation grew beyond them. They hired Filvendor to make the meads on the day-to-day while Akala handled financing and sales, and Glam continued as inventor and taste-tester, as well as handling management. In short, they told Caliz, they were all masters (except for Naevys, who held the title but hadn’t proved herself yet). Akala was Master Administrator, Glam was Meadmaster, and Filvendor was Brewmaster.

“So tell me,” Caliz asked as he pulled a cigar[2] from a box in his pack, “what’s the story with these caves then?”

“Honestly,” Glam replied, “it’s not a long story. I grew up north of here, got a taste for mead early on, and ended up moving here originally as a fisher. It’s what my father did. When I got to Unalon, Rab was the only one making mead.”

“Mirabalar Gloris,” Filvendor clarified. “The other ‘Grandmaster’ of meads.”

“Ugh,” Glam glowered.

“Unalon’s known for its meads,” Filvendor continued, “but the first of the two were Claranel Caves and Gloris Estates, so they’re considered the ‘Grandmasters’ of the Mead Lords.”

“We’re not any better than the others,” Glam plied. “I don’t know why Rab and I are on such pedestals,” she groaned.

“You’re the old guard,” Naevys smirked. “You’ve been here the longest, so you’re revered.”

“I don’t see why. Age doesn’t matter in the mead trade. Well, unless you mean aged meads, but that’s Herkian’s wheelhouse.”

“What, of Herkian Vanilla?”

Akala laughed. “She hates that that blend is all she’s known for, you know. She makes incredible aged meads.”

“Ugh, but that vanilla is so good,” Caliz groaned.

“I’m surprised you know it.”

“I’m from the— Well, I’m from a trade city.”

“Gorenya, I assume.”

“You’re welcome to assume that, if you like[3].”

“Fair.”

“Herkian Vanilla’s huge. Anywhere with regular trade.”

“I know. I’ve watched that vanilla reserve quintuple in size. She bought it just to keep production up and costs lower.”

“I need to check that out sometime… Any damn way, you were saying, Glam?”

“I got here, got a taste of Rab’s meads, and, I mean, I respect the guy, we’ve been ‘rivals,’” she air-quoted, “for ages, he’s incredible, but his meads just ain’t for me. He specializes in the dark meads, the thick, hearty stuff.”

“So, you two are essentially a good pair, made to compliment each other, one light, one dark.”

“Exactly!” Glamour exclaimed. “That’s what I try to explain! We’re not ‘rivals,’ we’re perfect compliments. We serve different markets. You understand.”

“I do.”

“But what brings you up,” Akala prodded. “GGA member up for journeymanship, obviously, but why Unalon?”

“No choose,” Osa said plainly.

“Yeah, assignment. We’re up here ‘cause that’s where we got sent. Which, I mean, I’ve got no qualm with. It’s a gorgeous area. Nice to be back on Vol’Tyr, at least.”

“Back? From Chifundo, then? Aglesh area?”

Fuck. “Yyyyyyeah. Originally.”

“Then got lured in by the siren song of the GGA, shipped to Gorenya, met this lovely Ril, and got sent here?”

“Not quite,” Osa cracked her neck.

“I prefer not to talk about my past, if possible,” Caliz blurted.

“Makes sense for a GGA bruiser,” Akala laughed. “What’d you say, Journeyman of Stealth?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“And,” Glam broke in, “what was yours? Journeyman of Carnage?”

“Hell yes,” Osa smiled. “Fuck up.”

“She fucks shit up,” Caliz nodded. “I specialize in getting in and out unnoticed, and she specializes in… a show.”

“Art,” Osa corrected. “I do art. Death art. People art. Blood art.”

“She went to an art gallery in Kul’Karan,” Caliz shook his head, “now she’s convinced her assassinations are a form of art.”

“It is!” Osa glared. “Art… thought. Art slow, me… thod?”

“Method, yes, methodical.”

“Method cal. Sorry, Antrian…” She sighed and thought for a second. “Antrian… is not my… first language?”

“Very good!” Caliz clapped her on the back. “That was perfect!”

She smiled and nodded.

“She’s learning. She only speaks Antarri[4]. She’s picking up on Antrian, though.”

“She’ll need to work on Kilio here,” Akala said, “but there’s enough Antrian speakers to get by.”

“Yeah,” Caliz nodded, “so will I.”

“So, what’s your story then, Osa,” Glam prodded. “Do you mind telling us?”

She sighed, thought a moment, and waved at Caliz. “You.”

“I don’t want to tell mine.”

“No. You. Tell me.”

“I know, I’ve told you, but not them,” he muttered under his breath.

“No.” She gritted her sharp, angular teeth. “You…” She sighed angrily and shook her head. “You. Tell. Them. Me. Mine.”

“Oh! Oh oh oh. Sorry.” He patted her back again, and she slumped.

“Mead?”

“Yeah,” Glam laughed and grabbed the cups they had with them. “Luckily, there was a supply cart out here. We got a crate of mead and some food to keep us company. Here,” she poured a cup and handed it to Osa, who downed it in one gulp.

“Meh.”

“You gotta sip it, Osa,” Caliz showed by taking his cup and taking a sip. “Oh good gods, that’s nice.”

“Thanks,” Glam smiled as she poured Osa another cup. Osa took it and carefully sipped, and nodded.

“Yeah.”

Caliz smirked. “All right, guess I’m telling her story. What I know… You recognize the last name Viaxy?”

They all shook their heads except for Grymwold who nodded. “Cyrio,” he said sagely.

“Yes. Cyrio Viaxy, one of the most notorious pirates of the modern era. Never got over to Vol’Tyr much. Mostly Runnir and Milakria. I think he tried to hit Vol’Tyr and Kul’Karan fended him off. Not sure. But he was a big motherfucker. Huge for a Ril dude. And he owned a ship. Eventually, a sizable fleet of ships. He cut through navies, decimated docks that didn’t ‘pay their tax,’ he was a real monster of a dude.

“I believe he’s dead now. Not sure how, maybe he retired, that’d be something. But he fathered many children in his time.”

“I heard Ril don’t fuck for pleasure,” Glam leaned forward.

“Glam!” Akala chastised. “This is a guest.”

“He said it first,” Glam said with a smirk in her voice. “But they don’t, right?”

“No,” Caliz nodded. “I think he just got pleasure out of spreading his seed. Knowing he would breed a sizeable population. Osa’s one of those. She adopted his surname when she learned about him. Her whole tribe didn’t have surnames, I don’t think, but she took his. She joined the GGA on his notoriety, to some extent, and proved herself… fucking brutally. She’s a monster. Depending on your definition of art, she may not be far off. She takes it damn serious. Saw her in a fifteen-on-one fight once against some Havlin and slaughtered them all. Didn’t walk away clean, but killed ‘em all. It was nightmarish.”

“I fuck up,” she nodded.

“No, you fuck things up. If you fucked up, you’d be bad at it.”

“What?”

“‘I fucked up’ means that you did it wrong, screwed it up somehow. ‘I fucked him up’ means you really beat him up, you know?”

“Dumb.”

“Yeah, kinda,” he shrugged.

“Regardless of fucking up, fucking folks up, or just plain fucking, I’m fucking tired,” Glam nodded sagely.

Her sister shook her head. “Yeah, I’m done with this.”

“I’ll keep watch,” Grym said, staring into the distance.

“Yeah,” Caliz nodded. “Osa? You…”

“Yeah.” She nodded “Good.” She curled up into a flat coil and rested her arms on her body, laying her head on her arms.

“Outside. Fine. Yeah. I’ll just… Sleep… Shit. Over there?” He grabbed his pack and sidled off into the trees until he couldn’t see them anymore. He untied and laid out the padded roll, stripped, unwound his torso bandages, sighed, and slid into the bedroll. “Supposed to be in a guild bunk by now. Damn it. Stupid mead. Jobs. …Shit.”

“Caliz.”

“Gah!” He woke up bolt-upright into the eyes of a snake. “Osa.”

“Yeh. Bind up. Folk.”

“Folk?”

She considered. “B… Back up?”

“Oh! The guild backup. From town.”

“Yeh. Food. Brek…”

“Breakfast.”

“Breakfast,” she nodded. “Bind up.”

“Yeah, I’m binding, I’m binding.” She turned and slunk off into the trees as he dressed, grabbed fresh bandages from his pack, and wound them around his chest tight.[5] Donning the same white shirt he borrowed from Glamour, he collected the bedroll and pack, and sauntered up to camp.

Everyone sat around the fire in the same clothes they wore the day before, but two newcomers sat amongst them. As introductions were made, Caliz took a log and sat beside Osa.

The first introduced was ‘Lili Carver,’ a surprisingly short Moonfolk woman, short enough Caliz figured she likely had some form of dwarfism, just a touch taller than the Havlin. She wore a leather duster, guild-issue pants and boots, a fitted lace-up brown shirt, and wore golden rings lining the entire length of her long, pointed ears. Her hair was dyed a clear and visible brown to match her duster, and she wore white face-paint in long angular tendrils across her face, like stylized spider legs. She introduced herself as a crowd control specialist for the guild.

An apprentice joined her, another Moonfolk woman a little taller than the sisters with dyed hair, though hers was a rich frosty blue, probably arcanic dye given the slight shimmer. However, the longer he looked, Caliz swore her whole body seemed to shimmer a light turquoise, like snow. She wore a fur cloak, guild-issued clothes otherwise, and had simple turquoise facepaint a few shades darker than her hair covering her entire face. Caliz noted and appreciated the recent trend in Nojernan cultures of wearing face-paint. Made them easier to talk to.

“Hob’s apprentice,” Lili started in her high-pitched thick Terali accent, “Alara, is also an apprentice in the Mage Tower. Something to prove, this one. She’s a spellslinger like me, but is better at the direct force. Bosses figured with a Journeyman of Stealth and a Journeyman of Carnage, we’d have a fine party for helping out the Claranel Sisters.”

“Farrow sent her apprentice? Didn’t even send Faelana?” Akala whinged. “Any of the higher-ups?”

“Farrow, and the guild at large, are big on giving our chance to ‘prove ourselves,’ ya know,” Lili stated matter-of-factly. Caliz, Osa, and Alara all nodded their heads in agreement. “Figured it was a good chance for his apprentice to work with one of us. A few of us,” she nodded at Caliz and Osa.

“We’ve had a close relationship with the GGA for decks[6] and they send us trainees.”

“Well Aatua’s shiny tits[7],” Caliz spat. “Guess you don’t need us newbies after all.”

“Ah Caliz, no place shit guardians, you, me.”

“Seems you’re right, Osa. Just no need for our waste of space. Our utter lack of Mastership status. I mean, I guess you guys aren’t good enough either.”

“Guess not, Adventurers,” Lili shrugged. “Looks like Gorenya sent you up for no good reason. I’ll go tell Farrow that you didn’t want the guild’s help after all, just needed a personal favor.”

“Alright, alright,” Glam stepped in. “Akala, shut your mouth.”

“Glam, you—”

“You’ve helped plenty, Akala. Sit down. Now Guardians[8], you’ve made your point. I apologize for my sister’s uppity-ness. We’re all a little tense here. Our business is on the line. You’re all capable Guardians, or you wouldn’t be here. We’re happy to have you.”

“We’re in debt to trainees,” Akala muttered.

“Would you—” Glam tightened her mouth and stared down at her. While Caliz couldn’t see her face, he saw her Moonmarks[9] flaring up, thick tendrils of jagged-looking silver racing up her cleavage, neck, then face, even hitting her hands, though strangely not her arms. A subtle silver glowed under her shirt as well. A complex sigil carved itself in the air just a centimeter or two off her forehead, winding silver lines around in a loopy, mandala-like pattern with two long curving spines of silver jutting out to the left and right.

Glam grabbed her sister by the arm and dragged her into the trees out of ear-shot (though decidedly not far enough). “Look, you puffed-up little shit-kin. We’re getting all the fucking help we can get. Why are you wasting my and everyone’s time bitching about—”

“You don’t get to fucking talk to me that way you skywalking glowstick.”

“Oh, you wanna talk about these? You wanna go there, with pin-pricks up here?”

“Oh don’t you—”

“You wanna talk about your itty bitty shitty little horns you—”

The sound of smacks and blows and insults followed as they continued out of sight, and the rest sat awkwardly around the fire.

“So,” Filvendor offered, “How’s Farrow these days?”

“So.” Glam sat on a log around the fire, near the rest. Her Moon-mark still flickered a bit as the tattoo-like silver tracks dissipated from her skin. Her breath was still a bit short. “Apologies. Not very professional.”

“Sisters,” Alara nodded sagely. “I understand.”

“You understand,” Glam sighed. “Right. So, Miss Carver. Miss… I’m sorry, your apprentice.”

“Hob’s apprentice,” Lili corrected. “I’m a Journeyman, I don’t get an apprentice. Her name is Alara Skagit.”

“Right. Miss Carver, and Miss Skagit. Thank you for coming. I appreciate your coming. We all do. Is Farrow aware of the situation?”

“Not entirely. Just that there’s trouble. An invasion?”

She sighed again. “Mister Hats’ik, would you mind?” Glam got up and wandered to the tap, drinking horn in hand.

“Yeah. So, basically we got a full-scale invasion. Something’s in there, it speaks a broken Kilio, like an old one, my guess. Big guy says they’re big upright lizards.”

“But they’re folk.”

“Yeah.”

“So, like, Ril?”

“No, he says they got legs, and not snake mouths, like lizard mouths.”

“So, something we haven’t encountered before.”

“Right.”

“And our job is to wipe them out?”

“Our job is to get their primary mead culture out, and preferably a few artifacts. If we can clear them out, great, it’s all jam, but we mostly just need those.”

“What artifacts?”

“I’m not actually—”

“My family crest,” Akala Claranel reappeared from the trees. “Our family crest. The shield. It’s been passed down for generations, the Claranel Bulwark. It’s a tower shield emblazoned with our sigil.”

“That,” Glam stepped in, “and its accompanying axe, a double-blade with jagged points. Red ribbon tied around the hilt. There’s an old bottle in there too; our first bottle of mead. Still corked, aging in my office. Should be on a shelf.”

“Of course, this is if their numbers are too great to repel,” Akala continued. “If you can kill them all, do. You are Guardians, after all.”

“That we are,” Caliz nodded. “That we are…”

“So,” Osa sat up, “Get in, smash guys, get stuff, get rest stuff, leave. Maybe kill all. Easy.”

“Sounds easy,” Lili cracked her neck, “we’ll see how we do.”

“Miss Skagit,” Caliz asked to the young apprentice, “you’re a mage?”

“We’re both mages,” Alara nodded, “Lili and I. I’m just trained in the Mage Tower. I cast cold, and just a teensy bit of force. She’s innate, something else.”

“Mostly,” Lili laughed. “But we’ll get to that.”

“What’s your range?” Caliz inquired.

“No range,” Lili smiled, at least Caliz thought she was. “I’m… a bit of an oddity. Not Pact certified, highly specialized.”

“Right,” Caliz nodded, not understanding at all.

“But again, we’ll get to that. We have a job. Come on.” She got up and led them to the clearing. “Caliz, you’re the only one that’s entered the field.”

“Yeah, right up to there,” he pointed out.

“Arrows,” Osa confirmed. “Where shot him.”

“Bolts,” Caliz corrected, “but yeah.”

“Yes,” Lili nodded, “The tree-line is wide, it’s a big clearing, so my thought?” She whipped out a spyglass and surveyed the cliffside. “Okay, so there’s the main entrance there, but then the side-entrance. The stables, my guess. The arrow-slits flanking the door are manned. It’s shady, I can’t see in there well, but I see glints of armor.”

“Or scales,” Caliz offered.

“Or scales. So, my thought is we circle around, sidle up the side. Sneak in the stables, go from there. Do we have a map of the place?”

“No.”

“Then we draw one with descriptions from the Mead Masters, and we go straight for the prizes. Get in, get the stuff, get out, little bloodshed as possible. Figure out exactly what we’re up against, and once we know how many there are, either handle it ourselves, or holler for backup.”

“All right, Carver. Let’s draw a map.”

[1] Ik’Thar, god of war, battle, bloodlust, and arbiter of the dead. Sometimes life, depending on which temple you ask.

[2] A Milakrian candela-wrapper green cigar he spent his first paycheck on in Killara. He loved them dearly, and was worried what would happen when he bottomed out his stash.

[3] He was most recently from Terathor, capitol of the Separatist Union of Antra. Previously, from Chifundo, the Ironborn Milarics’ ancestral homeland. But he wasn’t about to tell anyone that.

[4] The language of the Ril of most of Runnir. Normalized by the Antarri Empire, which has fractured in the last few hundred turns.

[5] He wound them as tight as possible both to keep his breasts secure in combat, and to keep them out of sight under his shirts. Quite frankly, he wound them too tightly, which caused problems with circulation and breathing during combat. It was something he was frequently called out on, but he continued to do so out of sheer vanity and belligerence. Remember to bind responsibly, dear reader, should you be the binding type.

[6] Decaturns, meaning 10 turns.

[7] Aatua is the God of Light and Sky, also Sound and Weather and sometimes agriculture.

[8] Reminder: GGA stands for Guardian Guild of Ashes. ‘Guardian’ is a common moniker for members.

[9] Moon-tracks and one’s Moon-mark only appear under exertion, be it mental, physical, or emotional. They’re always there, just non-visible. When they appear, they glow a stark silver, visible even in the dark.