DoT: An Arrival at Port, part two

When they'd paid their fees and the clerk had departed, Tenebrous turned to her First Mate, Faithless Wanderer, a Tiefling. Despite his name, he was reliable. "The crew goes out in shifts, and they stay together in groups of at least three. If there are any incidents with the locals, I will be most displeased."

Faithless nodded. "I will make sure they know it."

Tenebrous made a point of walking down the ramp, then up the dock and along the streets of the Island of Hinnom until she reached the ancient tower at its center. She stretched her hand out, caressed the eldritch material that made it up, and nodded. This place was everything it was said to be. Doubtless there would be more to be learned, but she could address that as she made her trades. Wooden beams and planks were not so common here, and hers were... special. And that was before anyone addressed her other offerings. 

She surveyed the inside of the tower, then launched herself into the air, tracing her way along the outside. The winds here were strange, unpredictable, but she welcomed the challenge. When she landed in the upper city, she knew she had won. Someone up here would want what she had to offer. 

She even had a lead on who that might be... 

DoT: An Arrival at Port, part one

Tenebrous Orlok stepped off the ramp of the ship as the Docking Clerk approached, two guards at his back. She didn't find them especially threatening -- merely a human and a dwarf, and what could such as they do against her? -- but they represented the authority of the island's Council, and its combined capacity for violence. So she waited, and presented the ship's manifest to the clerk. 

"I'll need to examine the cargo," the human said, looking with only faint curiosity at the tips of her wings where they rose over her shoulders. 

"Of course," answered Tenebrous. "Welcome aboard the Black Diamond." Her smile was charming; she knew because she'd practiced it. She was memorable enough in herself; she didn't need additional attention, especially with what her ship actually carried. 

"We'll confirm the cargo, process the fees, and be out of your hair as quickly as we can manage," said the man, with a small but respectful nod. 

"Follow me, then," Tenebrous told him. "I am in no hurry, but my crew are eager for shore leave and this must be settled first." 

Music: Drink

The Jazz Butcher:

...Because a lot of us are going to have to deal with visiting family in the next few days. 

DoT: An Unscheduled Meeting

Gazin held up a clenched fist as Vallista entered the outer office, her curled fingers forward; it was their private sign for intruders. Then she held up one finger, so there was only one of them. Vallista tilted her head, and Gazin looked up at the ceiling for a brief moment. Ah. Somebody from Upstairs. There were other gestures for a danger, a discreet visitor, and a messenger. 

Though they'd practiced this, it didn't come up often. Most messengers would wait out here; and Gazin was perfectly capable of dealing with most dangers herself. A visitor from Upstairs was most likely to be able to go directly to Vallista's office and tell Gazin to say nothing. Whoever it was doubtless intended to surprise her. 

Unexpectedly, Gazin touched her throat as Vallista walked past her. What in the hells? "No visitors," Vallista said aloud. "I need to go over the accounts, and I don't want to be interrupted." She figured it out a moment later: there weren't that many people from Upstairs who would make an unannounced visit like this, and that touch to the throat had to indicate Ramantha The Voice. 

That guess was confirmed a moment later when she opened her door and saw the halfling sitting in one of the chairs beside her desk. Vallista kept her steps as smooth as her expression, closed the door behind her, and bowed. "Ramantha," she said. "Welcome."

"This isn't a social call," said the Voice. 

Vallista shrugged. "I welcome your arrival nevertheless."

The Voice tilted her head, studying Vallista for a long moment: questioning, measuring. "Your people were brawling with the Panthers in the central tower." 

Vallista crossed to her desk, turned her chair to face the halfling, and sat. It was her own office, after all; it wouldn't do to seem timid. "This is true," she said. 

"Over your father's death?" asked the Voice, shifting in the chair to face her.

Vallista considered her next words carefully. "I don't believe the Panthers had anything to do with that. Lynna Catseyes and my father were rivals, but it was a respectful rivalry."

"Then why?"

Vallista sat back, relaxing. "Because Lynna and I agreed that it would be better if people thought we were feuding. It gives our troublemakers a chance to scrap, which will keep them settled for a time and prevent any... uncontrolled  conflicts from arising. It might even teach some of them the cost of such infighting."

Ramantha the Voice nodded slowly. She was an imposing woman when she wanted to be, despite her lack of size. "And when I speak to Lynna next, she will confirm this?"

Vallista nodded. "Yes. How much explanation would you like?"

Ramantha considered. "I think I see the shape of it, but do continue."

"As you wish." Vallista leaned forward, attentive. "Someone murdered my father. Very likely someone arranged to have my father murdered, as someone also arranged for a rogue crew to be present when it happened. This same crew staged a successful robbery in my territory some time back, and earlier robbed a courier for the Mist Eyes."

"You're sure of this?" asked Ramantha. 

Vallista nodded. "I've spoken with them. They aren't Guild, and they aren't native to the islands. They've given me information on who is blackmailing them, and so far everything they've told me has borne out. Somebody pulled in outside talent to cause trouble between the gangs."

"You should have come to me with this knowledge," said the Voice. 

Vallista shook her head. "People would have noticed, known. It was better to wait for you to come to me."

"Ah." Unexpectedly, Ramantha smiled. "Your father's cunning and discrimination. You fear this is orchestrated by someone within the Guild." She paused, then added, "...Someone with access to information."

Vallista Greycloak nodded. "I fear it's someone Upstairs."

"Disturbing news. Have you no fear that it's me?"

"I would never accuse you," Vallista said carefully. "You are the Voice, and my best chance of bringing in someone from Upstairs without alerting whoever might be behind this. It seemed worth the risk to tell you."

"This is...  most unexpected. I came here expecting to have to discipline an unruly new gang-leader." She settled back, then sighed. "Of course it would be more complicated than that."

That was a sentiment Vallista could sympathize with. "I've been telling myself that same thing since before my father died."

"...What of this rogue crew?" asked the Voice.

"Cedric Bloodblade and I met with them, just a few days past. They spoke to us of being jailed and blackmailed, and they attest that they have never murdered anyone in the Guild. Cedric is of the opinion that they have to pay, but they can pay by making amends -- and since I need their information and possibly their help, I agree. We haven't said anything in public, obviously, but we consider them authorized contractors."

Ramantha nodded slowly at that. "And what does Cedric get out of this?"

Vallista shrugged. "It seems the Red Blades really have moved against the Mist Eyes. There's a missing fence... Piter, I think... and he's set this group to find out what happened, and confirm that the Red Blades were behind it. If they do, they will make amends by striking back at the Red Blades, and he'll consider all debts paid."

"Cautious," said Ramantha. "Tentative. That's good. Cedric does his duties well, and it seems that you are stepping into yours. If they help you find your father's killer, or the person who sponsored it, will you also consider their debt to the Guild repaid?"

Vallista nodded. Then she said, "There's more," and began to explain the questions she'd been asked about abomination appearing from nowhere, the Age of Beasts, and the possible involvement of the Crescent Circle. 

When Ramantha the Voice left her office, her expression was troubled. 

DoT: Misgivings

Grot stopped at Daystar's desk. "Okay, they're working on it."

"Good," said Daystar, without looking up from the appeal that he was writing. "Let me know when it's done."

Grot must have hesitated a moment too long, because Daystar stopped writing and looked up. "Anything else?"

Grot shook his head. "I just hope they're up to this one."

Daystar shrugged. "They're getting better at this... though that will become a problem in itself at some point. Did they argue about it?"

Grot shook his head. "No, they seemed pretty resigned."

"There's that, at least," Daystar paused, considering, then said: "Let me know if they start sounding rebellious."

Grot nodded. "I will." 

"Meanwhile, the stronger they get the more use they are to us. And it's not as if they aren't receiving plenty of compensation for their work."

Grot tilted his head, then nodded. "Maybe I should remind them of that."

"Maybe you should," Daystar told him.  

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part thirty-one

It was four hours later when Graznir returned, with Crack-bone carrying a small chest behind him. "My apologies," he said immediately. "The ancestors are... touchy, about their resting place. There was much discussion: who I am, who I brought with me, how many, how many others we might bring home. But they do have some resources, so I can keep my word to our captured workers."

Crack-bone set the chest on the ground and opened it, then called to the workers. "Form a line! One at a time. Come and get yer pay!"

The kidnapped farmers exchanged glances like they couldn't believe this was finally happening, and Azrael gave Tybalt a similar look. Tybalt just shrugged. The gnolls weren't necessarily trustworthy, but they were practical -- and this was a good way to build trust with the people around Aldpond. Plus, with the opening of the crypt it seemed they could spare some wealth. 

It suggested that there were few of them and much stored away in the depths, but Tybalt wasn't even vaguely tempted to go looking for it. Seven dead kings could likely overwhelm them, regardless of what they tried, but also... whatever was down there in the dark belonged to Graznir and his people as a rightful inheritance. Jacques was either entirely too trusting or else he pulling a friends-close-enemies-closer maneuver, but either way... if the Formorians became a problem, they could deal with it later. And if they didn't, well, powerful allies were hard to come by and good to have. His father had understood that.

Graznir and Jacques both watched as Crack-bone counted out ten gold coins for each of the farmers -- probably more than they made in a decade of farming -- and handed it over. Blunt-tusk had shown up at some point, and was standing at the back of the line to make sure nobody tried to circle back into it. 

It was late afternoon, and with the farmers paid and released Graznir turned his attention to Jacques. Tybalt stepped up to listen, but Graznir merely said, "What remains in the chest is yours, if you want it."

Jacques waved that away. "Sol Povos is not stretched so thin that we cannot get by, and you will need money for any rebuilding you do. Besides, I would rather have you feel that you owe us a debt, if you or one of your kin is going to be numbered among my father's barons."

Graznir blinked at him. "As you say, and I hope your father shares your wisdom... and your charity."

"Send word to Caristhium if you need assistance," Jacques replied. "I'm sure my cousins would be happy to assist me in answering any reasonable requests." 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part thirty

"Success!" Graznir sounded delighted; then his snout wrinkled and his next words with worried: "Surely you aren't the only ones to survive?"

"The others stayed behind. Once we take you to meet your ancestors, we'll all depart." Tybalt sounded only slightly impatient.

"Ah. Yes, that's probably for the best."

"I'll give you my word on something else, Graznir," added Jacques, as they traced their way back into the crypt. 

"Oh?"

The viscount nodded. "If you keep your word to the farmers back there, not only will my kin and I keep quiet about this, but we'll do our best to do be sure that they do too. Tell some sort of story about how they were captured and we rescued them-- which is basically true if you don't look at the details too closely."

Graznir snorted. "Ah, politics," he said. "Very well, I accept. Certainly better than having your father track us down... or hunt us through the ruins. And at least this way we'll have time to build back some of what we lost."

"You seem a surprisingly reasonable sort for a kidnapper," observed Tybalt. 

"You sound surprised," Graznir said, "but it's easy enough to explain: I am devoted to my goal. I will do whatever it takes to regain the ancient knowledge of my people and see some portion of our kingdom restored. It required kidnapping, but once we had the numbers we needed persuasion was easier -- and far more practical -- than bloodshed. And if we do succeed at this, we'll need to be able to negotiate with our neighbors afterwards. We'll need trade, allies, acknowledgement. Much easier to find if you don't go around murdering people."

Jacques nodded. "As I said before, if you keep your word I'll do my best to help. The Forgotten Desert is considered wasteland; placing it into your hands as a barony should be an easy win, especially since most of our idiot nobles see your people as savages. By the time they learn better, it'll be established and much harder to revoke, even if anyone were so inclined."

They came to the chamber of the dead ones. Graznir moved forward, knelt, and bowed his head. He growled something in ancient Formorian. 

"Rise, my descendant," said the king at the center of crescent of thrones. He spoke in common, clearly intending his meaning to be understood to everyone present. "Are these others tools, or allies?"

"Allies, Magister," Graznir said, following his ancestor's lead and switching back to the common tongue. "They, and others of their kind, helped us to find you."

"Then they should depart now. This place is sacred to Formorians, and Formorians alone."

"A moment," said Graznir. "For the assistance they gave, they deserve some reward. May I beg the use of something here to repay them, and their kin who helped us with the digging?"

"Come forward," said the Magister, and then bent to speak softly into Graznir's ear as the rest of the children of Ruin, Tavros, and Vendril gathered near the door way.

Graznir straightened after a moment and turned to them. "Await me on the surface," he said. "I will keep my word, but this place is not for you."

Jacques didn't bother to survey the others. He just turned and walked out, knowing they would follow.

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-nine

The massive slab of stone disappeared up into the ceiling of the passage with a rumbling sound, a small shower of stone chips and dust, and almost nothing to mark it as mobile at all. Jacques whistled softly: if he hadn't seen the thing go up, he would have no idea that it could come back down. 

Beside him, Tybalt nodded. "That's some solid engineering. No wonder nobody could find them."

There was a commotion up ahead, and they started down the hall. A mixed group of humans and gnolls was coming towards them, and Jacques flagged them down with desperate movements. "Hold up! Wait!"

It took a moment for the workers to lose momentum; then they came to a gradual halt. "What is it?" asked one of the gnolls. 

"We need to get Graznir down here. This place is crawling with undead, and they don't like anybody who isn't a Formorian being down here."

"Ah," said the gnoll. "That... isn't entirely unexpected." He turned to the others. "All right, Blunt-tusk, you go get Graznir. Local farmers, get back to the surface -- you should be safe there." He looked back to Jacques and Tybalt. "Where are the rest of you?" 

"Waiting with the mummies, as a gesture of good faith."

"Brave," said the gnoll. "I'm Crack-bone, the work-leader. Technically, I'm an architect -- which is how I ended up directing the work crews." 

"I'm a bit ashamed to admit it," said Jacques, "but I really didn't come here expecting to find a bunch of well-educated gnolls engaged in an archaeological dig."

Crack-bone snorted. "Oh, there are plenty who aren't," he admitted. "With the fall of the Kingdom, our people scattered, and whatever they had to in order to survive... and we can survive on diets that most civilized peoples would find criminal. That's where "Gnoll" comes from, in fact: it's an old Formorian word indicating something feral."

Jacques tucked that away. "Sounds like it's more polite to refer to you as Formorians, then," he said. "My apologies." 

"Eh, don't worry about it." Crack-bone grinned. "It's been so long now, that's just etymology. Maybe we'll start making an issue of it someday, but it was a name we gave to our own." 

DoT: New Developments

"I think it's time to up the stakes," Daystar said. 

Grot looked up from the broadsheet he'd been reading, the Hinnom Happenings, which claimed to be the only accurate report of day-to-day events on the island. It was, of course, full of gossip and libel, but sorting the truths from the rumors was half the fun. "What do you have in mind?"

"There was a skirmish between the Greycloaks and the Panthers two days ago," Daystar observed. "This is exactly the sort of result we wanted. Distrust. Strife. Uncertainty. Let's stoke it."

"Lynna Catseyes. Have them take out that Tabaxi lieutenant of hers. I don't care if they murder him or put him on a ship to Magraven, just as long as he's gone."

Grot considered that, but couldn't find any immediate objections. "As you wish," he said easily, and rose. "I can take word to them in the morning."

Daystar smiled. "Yes, do that. Best to let them get an early start." 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-eight

Jacques watched as the dead things all turned to look at him. He stopped, knelt. "Blessed Ancestors," he began, "your descendants have returned, and sent us ahead to clear the way for them." 

The dead ones remained still, jackal-headed, studying him. "I seek to open the passage to the surface, that they may come and learn of your wisdom in order to reclaim your greatness."

He waited for the space of a breath.

Another. 

Another. 

Then the figure on the central throne opened its mouth. "They survived, then?"

Jacques nodded. "They did indeed. Let me bring them to you, and I will prove it. I know we are not welcome here, and depend solely on your mercy. Let me open their way to you, and we will depart."

The jackal-headed figure at the far left end of the crescent asked, "How long has it been?"

"I don't know," Jacques admitted. "Graznir Toothtaker probably does."

"Your accent..." said the one just to the right of the central throne.

"Is it hard to follow?" Jacques asked, deliberately slowing his words. "I'm sure many thing have changed since you took shelter here."

"They are enemies, robbers, vandals," said the one on the far right of the crescent of thrones. "We should destroy them."

"We have taken nothing," Jacques said, "and fought only in self-defense. We did not break anything, either. Check for yourself, if you like."

"What do you know of us?" asked the figure on the central throne. 

"Very little," Jacques admitted. "I know your people ruled here, or near here, a very long time ago. Graznir tells us that there is a legend of a Sealed Tomb which contains the knowledge of his ancestors, and he hopes that this place might be it. He said that if nothing moved in the darkness, that would be a disappointment."

The central figure looked around at its fellows. "We will meet with this Graznir. The intruders will depart. And perhaps, at long last, all will be made well." 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-seven

"We've taken a wrong turn," Jacques breathed. Flanking him on either side, Telorn and Skyflower nodded.

There were passages out of this room, one to the left and the other to the right. Ahead of them was a raised dais, with seven stone thrones arranged in a crescent to face them. The central throne was two steps higher still, on its own raised platform. Each throne was occupied by a jackal-headed corpse, wrapped in funerary bandages and arranged stiffly in a seated position. 

They stopped at the end of the passage, a step away from actually entering the room. 

"Odds that they all stand up the moment we set foot in there?" asked Telorn. 

"Absolutely certain," Skyflower whispered back. 

Jacques studied the dead things again. Had the one in the center turned its head to regard them? He wasn't sure, and that was worse than knowing it had. "Okay, next question," breathed Jacques. "If we back away, are they going to get up and pursue us?"

"...Seems likely," Skyflower told him, "and I don't think we can take them."

"Then it's diplomacy," Jacques said, trying to ignore just how desperately he suddenly needed to piss. "Telorn... go back and get the others. Skyflower... wait here. If they turn me into paste, try to get everyone back out up the shaft."

Telorn turned and departed silently. 

Jacques set foot inside the room. 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-six

The ruins were old, and overrun with undead... but it was the constructs that gave them the most trouble. Animated suits of armor, small scuttling things with pincers and blades, an iron cobra... 

The hallway was full of them, and none of them were friendly. Rose watched her half-siblings and friends tear into them, smashing with draconic strength or carefully-channeled magics. Azrael, the bladecrafter, seemed to know just where to hit the things; his blows weren't powerful, but the constructs couldn't absorb them the way they seemed to absorb everything else. And he was fast enough to avoid being hit himself. Jacques Fontaine danced in and out, making himself a distraction while calling orders and offering encouragement; Rose could see his early training coming through. 

Her own spells were ill-suited to this, but she did what she could to help: conjuring roots and vines to trap enemies, healing allies so that the clerics were free to deal with the undead. Telorn and Skyflower fell back beside her, covering the rear and then moving forward to check doors when the last enemies were down. 

Jacques glanced back to where they'd emerged, then surveyed the hall and led them down it. "This way, I think," he said, and turned to the left. 

Telorn checked the door for traps, then opened it cautiously. Skyflower remained at his side. 

Nothing charged out at them. 

"Okay," Jacques said softly. "The three of us will check up ahead. Everybody else, hold here until we get back -- unless you hear fighting."

Risk grinned. "Then we come running." He was looking forward to it.

"Be careful," said Tybalt, barely loud enough to be audible.

Rose watched as the three of them moved out. 

Afterworld: Casualty Count

Jason was fine, of course, still busily plucking venomous murder-squirrels off his spines. So was Devon, still wearing his fur and moving on all fours; Chad had had a bad time of it, but apparently the squirrel-blood was mammalian enough restore him. Jenny had taken nearly enough damage to collapse, which would have been disastrous; her fur was better armor than it looked like, but she was still staggering. I was feeling a bit staggery myself, and could barely feel my right leg; and Mary had managed to protect herself and Ishanna until Jason could step in. 

"What's the consensus?" I asked, keeping careful track of my balance. 

"Time to pull back," Ishanna said quietly. "Chad'll be all right in a little bit, but you and Jenny are barely on your feet."

Mary nodded, looking worried. Chad met my eyes and said, "Yeah. You know how it is."

I knew how it was, because I was the one who'd first told him. In situations like these, the moment you got hurt your odds of getting hurt further went way up.  

Jenny had her hands pressed to the sides of her head. "Yeah, I... I need to sit down. Somewhere. Maybe not here."

Jason said, "I could keep going, but..." He looked at Jenny. "Better if I take rear on the way back." 

Devon just grunted. 

"All right," I said, testing my leg again. "Devon, lead us back. Jason, you're rear guard. Everybody else, stay alert as best you can."

It was going to be a long walk back up the mountain. 

Afterworld: Venomous Murder-Squirrels

They really were about the size, fluffiness, and general proportions of squirrels, except for the very tips of their tails, which were equipped with stingers -- and their teeth, which spiked carnivorous instead of Rodentia. Mary fell back with Ishanna, still breathing out feline predators, but I got taken by surprise and missed everything else. 

Also, the damned little things could jump. 

So I flung my right arm up to protect my face, used my left arm to catch and crush the murder-squirrels, and took a couple of bites and stings in my right thigh while I was at it. I didn't worry too much about trying to kill things with my right hand; I was mainly using the knife to protect it, and my arm to protect my exposed head. My right leg went numb and I staggered, but I managed not to fall. I was wearing armor -- after a fashion -- but it wasn't enough.

One squirrel... another... another... Plucked off my leg or chest, crushed, and flung aide. The chain mail shirt wasn't doing nearly enough to stop the stingers, which was going to be a problem. They couldn't sink in deep, but that venom felt like the kind of shot a dentist gives you before she starts drilling on your teeth. I could feel the numbness spreading. 

I caught the last of them with my left hand, crushed it, and reached for another before realizing there was nothing else on my body. 

The forest had gone silent. The attack was over.  

I sheathed the fighting knife that I'd been using to protect my fingers -- it had knuckle guard of sorts, which wasn't enough for this but was better than nothing -- and started picking up my other weapons, in case anything else was coming this way. We used the guns as little as possible, not just because ammunition was scarce; they just attracted too damned much attention. 

Afterworld: Trouble Follows Trouble

"Holy fuck," said Chad, emerging from the woods. "Well, that was big."

"You, sir, have a keen grasp of the obvious," I told him. Like Jason, he'd been a college kid when everything had gone to hell, and he thought it was hilarious when I sounded like a professor... which I often did, sometimes by accident and sometimes as a bit.

"Thank you," he said, looking pleased. "So keen to live up to your expectations."

"Quiet," said Ishanna, and a moment later I heard it: a soft chittering, somewhere out in the trees. More than one source, out there in the trees. 

Mary looked at me and then sighed through her nose. Devon and  Jenny exchanged a look, then moved apart from us, scenting the air and studying the forest around us. 

"Oh, shit," said Jenny quietly. "Murder-squirrels. Get ready..."

They came in a wave, small packs moving in and out. They were small and fluffy and brown, and would have been cute if they hadn't been trying to eat us. Probably they'd been too lightweight for the fall from the storm to hurt them much. Beside me, Mary was breathing out cat-sized predators as fast as she could shape them from her breath. On my left, Ishanna was stepping back and Jason had moved in front of her, squeezing his fists in a way that made his spines extend. That was smart; Ishanna wasn't really equipped for this kind of assault; Jason was. Chad swallowed, but held his ground. 

I dropped the sword just like I'd dropped the bow a minute earlier. It wasn't the right tool for the job. A flamethrower would have been better; a flamethrower also would have been suicide. The best I could do was a knife I'd had since my early teens, a simple design with a finger-guard.

They swarmed over us. 

Valthor: Aboard The Galleon

I was down in the bath when someone reached in and shook me. I shot up, putting my head above water, and heard someone squeak as I wiped the water away from my eyes.

"Harvest Mother!" shouted a woman's voice. "How long have your been down there? I thought you were drownt!"

I leaned back in the still-warm water. "I don't drown," I said. I opened my eyes again and found myself staring at a petite redhead with her hair cut short, wrapped in a towel and still gaping at me. "So I find it relaxing to sit under the water."

"So you're... you're not dead?" she asked. 

I laid my head back against the edge of the bath and sighed. "No, I'm not dead." Then I gathered myself, because of course she had a point. "But I appreciate your concern. I'd appreciate it even more if you didn't mention this to anyone."

"So... you're a sea elf? Like the Captain?"

I weighed that for the barest moment, because it would have given me an easy out. "No," I told her after a moment. "I'm something else."

"But alive, right? Not some vampire we accidentally invited on board?"

I chuckled, and it wasn't a pleasant sound. "Yes, I'm still alive, so no, I'm not a vampire." I lifted a damp hand, held it out. "Valthor."

She hesitated for a moment, then clasped it. "Kiela," she told me. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to disturb your bath."

I shook my head. "Perfectly natural reaction," I told her. "No reason you would know."

She shrugged apologetically, then grasped at her towel as it started to slip. "Well, now I do," she said. "It won't happen again." 

Music: Shadows

The Midnight:

Afterworld: The First Beast

It was something like a boar, a razorback, if you'd made it the size of a moving van and crossed it with an armadillo. It was snuffling around in the underbrush, and for a long moment I considered just backing away and leaving it to forage. Then it looked up, locked eyes with us, snarled, and charged, 

Jason grounded the butt of the boar spear and caught the beast in the throat, while I bounced an arrow off its forehead. I'd been aiming for an eye, but I missed. The spear snapped, but Jason rolled aside and sliced into its armor as it passed, his spines doing their work. Another arrow shattered at the joint of its neck and shoulder -- Ishanna's work -- and I heard a curse from back among the trees.  

Injured, the beast spun, trying to decide which of us to attack.

That was when Devon pounced on its back and sank his teeth into its neck. It thrashed, trying to fling him off, and its tusks tore up huge chunks of underbrush and scraped  gouges in the ground. I tried another bow shot but missed again. Its skin was just too thick to pierce that way, and those small black eyes were difficult targets. Jenny came in under it, clawing at its gut, but while she managed to draw blood it wasn't anywhere near a killing blow. She came out the other side and darted away, further distracting it. 

Then I heard a pff like somebody blowing out a candle, and part of its right foreleg exploded. That was the power the monks had given Mary: her breath was shield and weapon and conjured reinforcements, depending on how she shaped it. Evidently she'd decided on sniping. 

The beast reared with a grunting howl, then slammed its hooves down. Devon was still clinging to its neck, claws and teeth hooked firmly into the edges of its scales and trying to chew his way through. Jason had circled off to one side and was yelling abuse at it, trying to keep its attention on him. Then a crack of thunder split the air. 

Ishanna had given up on her bow, and gone to the rifle instead. The hole she made was cleaner than the one Mary had given it, but probably deeper. I dropped my bow and drew the Zombie Cleaver; it was my only other option, and the bow had done nothing so far. 

That was the moment the beast decided to come at me, charging at me like an oncoming train and lowering its head for a scooping slash with those massive tusks. If it managed to connect, it was going to cut me in half. 

I waited, calculating the timing. 

Then there was another pff and it stumbled, and I took that opening to dart in, kick off my altered left leg, and throw myself up and past its tusks at just the right angle to take out its left eye with the Zombie Cleaver, cutting on the pass. Behind me, I heard it squeal -- but I was busy moving, putting distance between us. 

Then the thunder rolled again, and the beast staggered and fell onto its side, throwing Devon loose. Jenny came out of the trees in a blur, found his place, and dug her claws in, ripping into its flesh.

It shuddered, squealed once more, and lay still. 

Ishanna's bullet had taken it through the right eye. 

Afterworld: Out On The Hunt

We found a lot of corpses. Even among those who survived the fall, a good number had fallen to the influence of the Sacred Trees. They were strange things, misshapen and -- when they survived -- always hostile, but I still felt bad for them. I doubt they wanted to be here any more than we wanted them here.

The trails were narrow, so we kept to single file, with Devon and Jenny alternating on front, Ishanna and Mary and Chad in the middle, and Jason and I switching out at the rear. Devon had put his fur back on, and was moving on all fours. I was carrying a bow, but had the Zombie Cleaver in easy reach, while Jason had borrowed my boar spear, both for anything that he might want to keep out of reach and for generals use as a walking stick. Ishanna was carrying a bow but had a rifle slung across her back and pistol at her hip, while Mary and Jenny were just relying on their natural abilities. Chad had borrowed a katana from my collection, and had a pistol on his belt.

We came to an abrupt stop as something stirred, groaned, reached vaguely in our direction, and then collapsed back. It was vaguely humanoid, but with four stumpy legs and four tentacles -- or I guess pseudopods, technically --  for arms. Jason came forward and put it down with the spear; it might recover and be a threat, but if it couldn't then it didn't deserve to suffer. Either way, it had to die. 

We were nearing the bottom of the hollow now, where the ground smoothed out and even with the trees it was easier to move around. With a little better footing, we might shift to a two-by-two formation, but for the moment...

Devon whined softly, and Jenny held a hand up. "There's something up there," she whispered back at us. "I can't get its scent over the corpses." She peered forward, and Devon moved slightly in front of her, instinctively protective. "I can't tell how big it is, either. But it's definitely still alive and moving."

I considered that for a long moment. "Switch positions," I whispered. "Jason and I will take front. Ishanna, Mary, spread out and flank it. Devon and Jenny, you two hit it while it's distracted with us. Watch your paths, in case there's anything else active out here. Chad, you watch our backs."

The thing ahead of us gave a series of grunts, but didn't seem to be moving our way. We shifted positions carefully, moving up to encircle it. I didn't mind having become a monster myself, but I'd never fancied hunting them. Still, at the end of the world you did what you had to do. 

Jason and I crept forward.

Afterworld: On The Home Front

"You left us swords, right?" asked my younger child who -- here at the end of everything -- was still struggling with their gender identity. The older boy had apparently never had a doubt, but that's biology for you. 

I nodded. "Swords, knives, and the rifle. I'm hoping not to have to use up any ammo--" which was only slightly less scarce than batteries "--but if you two need to make some noise, you do it -- cautiously."

Mary nodded. "Whatever it takes to stay alive," she told them. "You are my sunshines."

Hunter looked at his informally-adopted brother Cesar, and then his younger sister Sonja, who still let us call her Gavin sometimes. Cesar's sister Belleza -- also informally adopted -- was a year older than Hunter; I'd found her and her brother in Plano, Texas, outside an apartment complex where Cesar had been desperately sick and Belleza out looking for anyone who could help him. They'd fallen in easily, glad -- I think -- to have people who wanted to protect them and didn't want to take advantage of them. None of us knew what had become of their parents. It wasn't entirely beyond the realm of possibility they might find their way here; the kids had left a note in their apartment. She said, "We'll be careful," and Hunter nodded. 

"All right," I said, and went out to join the hunting party.  

Afterworld: A Band of the Strange

Chad had never intended to become a vampire. After the plagues, he'd discovered that drinking human blood made him stronger and faster, and he'd taken advantage of that to survive. Then he'd discovered that it was also addictive, and he couldn't stop drinking human blood or he'd die. None of us really blamed him; when civilization was first falling apart, we'd all been really desperate. Most of us recognized that any of us could have fallen into that trap. 

Devon, as I said, had been hunted by beasts while camping with his friends, killed one, and taken its skin to wrap around him so that he didn't die of hypothermia. After a couple of hours, he found that having the skin around him caused him to become one of the beasts, which gave him a quicker way back to what remained of civilization. I don't think I can adequately describe the expression of relief on his face when he talks about realizing that he could remove the skin and re-assume human form. 

I'd been struck by a couple of drones from a Night Mother, but managed to stumble out into daylight in time to slow the transformation into one of her children. It had turned my left forearm and calf into black-skinned flesh, harder and stronger than human flesh by far, but only slowly spreading towards my brain and full control of my faculties -- usually when I exerted myself. My right boot was equipped with lifts to help me keep my balance. 

My wife, Mary, had gained her pneuma at a hidden temple east of the Mississippi just after the incident there, after a wandering monk had intervened to help us out. The monks had stabilized my transformation, too, limiting them to my left arm and left leg... which still made me a freak of sorts, but at least I wasn't still turning into something worse. My beautiful wife, with her new gifts, had taken 'cutting words' to a new level: she could breathe out monsters of her own, or use her breath to attack or defend.

Jason was... nobody was quite sure, because nobody else had seen whatever he'd survived, and he wasn't entirely clear on where he'd come from or how he'd gotten here to join up with the rest of us. His body was covered in thorns and spines, which he used as armor, claws, and fangs. He'd married one of the survivors that Devon had brought in, and they seemed happy as a couple.

Ishanna was a hunter, equally comfortable with bows and guns; somewhere she'd picked up the ability to be all but undetectable at night. Like Jason, she had no idea where; it was just something she'd discovered she could do as she made her way through the end of days. 

Jenny had turned into something like a fox-girl, with red-orange fur, excellent senses,  and claws and fangs. She says she started changing as a result of the plagues themselves, and not anything that came after. Unlike Devon, her form was fixed; she looked the way she looked. 

"We're going to head out and see what's out there," I told Ms. Lili, who was... not exactly the mayor, but something very like. "And try to make sure none of it gets all the way here."

Ms. Lili had been a high school teacher in the Before Times, and sometimes that still showed through; the look she gave me was very much what you'd use to convey your approval to a student who was taking his own initiative on a project, and never mind that I was in my late forties and had a high-school-aged kid of my own. "Excellent," she said. "For my part, I'll make sure everybody stays on the campus and ready to shelter in place, and that the emergency squads are ready to go."

Afterworld: Rain of Monsters

The storm is a bad one, spitting out monsters along with wind and rain, lightning and thunder. We don't usually get them like that, up here in the forests of the plateau. The Sacred Trees usually hold them back. They're more common out in the plains, where a bad storm in the right season can wipe out half a city, I'm told. Regardless, we're going to have to organize a troop to go out there and wipe out whatever survived the fall -- which will be the strongest and the worst of them. We'd better be ready.

"How bad?" asks my wife, carefully modulating her voice so as not to do us any damage. 

"Not disastrous, but it'll be trouble." I shrug. "It's more water for the reservoir, but we'll be hunting Things for a couple of weeks after this -- and in the woods, yet."

"They'll be weaker there, at least," she said, and I nodded agreement. 

None of us were entirely sure what the trees on this particular section of the Cumberland Plateau were doing to weaken the apocalyptic intrusions, but it it was impossible to deny that they were doing something. The beasts and stranger things that tried to come up the mountain weakened, sometimes died on their own, and frequently just turned back. It made occupying the former University of the South almost safe, despite concerns about food, fresh water, and our fellow refugees. 

There are cracks in the world now, almost like overlays in some places. Strange things emerge from them, bringing multiple apocalypses all at once. Some of that has settled back, but some of it hasn't. Miami was devoured by a spreading infection so bad that the government nuked it -- back when we had a government, and working nuclear arms. Most of the Everglades are an irradiated wasteland now. The city of London, I'm told, remains haunted by killer ghosts -- unseen things that walk through walls and kill instantly with a touch. The Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex was taken over completely by the zompires, who have been expanding more slowly ever since -- their need for blood holds them back, now that the surrounding communities have fled or been consumed. Seattle, on the other hand, had banded together to turn back the massive beasts prowling its streets, and was now considered a sanctuary of sorts. I had word of this from one of the skin-changers, Devon, who had skinned one of the beasts all the way down in Arkansas and could now use that skin to assume its likeness. 

Of the ones who'd managed to survive, not all had come through unchanged. The plagues that preceded the intrusions had been bad enough on their own, but they'd laid the groundwork for worse and stranger things.

"I'll come with you," my beautiful wife said softly, knowing that I wouldn't stay back when the troop formed. Too many of them would be ordinary, unaltered, still purely human. They would need the support of the Strange, like us: the ones who'd been altered by the end of the world. It would keep their casualties down, and here at the end of all things we desperately needed to keep their casualties down. 

Music: Ain't No Grave Gonna Hold Me Down

R.T. Lackey:

/p>

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-five

Telorn hadn't expected to bring company, but Skyflower was as quick and silent and light as he was. They reached the end of the shaft, paused, and then listened. 

There was movement in the dark, and while either of them could hide very well in the darkness, neither of them could see in it. "Back up," Telorn whispered, gesturing, and Skyflower nodded. 

That was right before something grabbed his foot and slammed him down against the stone floor. Telorn managed to kick loose, and called, "Help!" as he drew his rapier. He could make out vague shapes outside the narrow square of light from the shaft, and settled back, ready to attack or defend. The thing that had grabbed him came forward and he stabbed at it, but it wasn't taking as much damage as it should for where he hit it. 

Skyflower hit the ground beside him, drawing her blade; a moment later four glowing darts angled down and slammed into the darkened thing.  Something struck at her from the darkness, but missed. Telorn put his back to hers, let her measure his movements, and then took half a step forward to give her room to move. 

Then Tybalt arrived, having slid down the ropes. He raised his blade, and holy light spilled forth. Half a dozen creatures -- zombies and skeletons -- collapsed on the spot; others drew back, hesitant. Sun was down, immediately beside Tybalt, and the light from her holy symbol downed the two large dead things. 

"Close," said Tybalt. 

"Thank you," said Telorn. The others were coming down the ropes, but they weren't here yet. If the two clerics hadn't shown up, he might not have survived. 

Sun conjured some floating lights, to make sure the area was clear. It was, and there was a door: they had a way forward. 

VtM: Information, Connection, Planning

Shannon was just as striking as she'd been when he first saw her, standing in the door of the Crux Invertis just after dawn and studying his face. The smile she offered him looked concerned. "You all right?"

He nodded. "I got in, I got out. I need to know things before my... patron finds me again."

Shannon studied him for a moment longer, then said, "Okay. Come inside." She hesitated, then said: "Malachi's still awake."

Edhem hesitated. "Is that usual?"

"No, but... Come inside."

Edhem nodded and stepped through the door. He shouldn't be trusting Shannon as much as he was, but then Malachi and the kids hadn't seemed actively hostile either. At least, not so far...

"Ah," said Malachi. "Edhem Blackburn, the would-be reporter." He smiled. "And sometime hunter."

Edhem glanced at Shannon, then crossed to the table where Malachi sat. "Investigator," he said gently. "Not reporter."

"But privy to ancient powers, Shannon tells me."

Edhem nodded, putting a hand on the book in its pouch at his belt. He hadn't brought in any of the canes; that would have been asking for trouble, and trouble was the last thing he wanted here. "Some," he admitted. "I wasn't lying about looking into the death of the Magical Mister Grey."

"I didn't think you were." Malachi glanced at Shannon, who nodded. 

"I didn't think you were, either."

Edhem hesitated. He didn't want to owe either of them a favor, not with everything else going on, but... "Could we trade knowledge, as I did with Shannon before?"

"Of course," answered Malachi. "You've no idea how much I've missed this. What sort of magus are you? What tradition?"

That was technically two questions, but Edhem recognized a clarification when he heard one. "I'm one of the Scions of the First City," he said quietly. "I create effects by inscribing the first tongue in my own blood." He paused. "What are Toreador and Tremere?"

Malachi answered without hesitation. "They are clans of vampires, the artists and the sorcerers among our number."

"I think you may have answered more than my original question," Edhem observed carefully.

Malachi shrugged. "Consider it a gift. As I said, it's been some time since I could gather information this way. I've missed it. Now then... What can you tell me about the one who set you to this task?"

Edhem considered that, then blew out a breath. "Since it found me in Jack and Valeria's apartment, likely a Tremere. And as Shannon observed, old. There was a sort of otherworldly beauty, but also a... stillness. Like talking to a statue, until it moved and answered. I don't know how much that narrows it down. It said that Jack's death had upset... one of its grandchildren, if I remember correctly. And I should clarify that it didn't set me to investigate the death; I was already doing that on my own. It just pointed me towards you, and Cavalieri, and a few others." He hesitated, then asked: "It said it would 'watch over me' while I did this. How much should I be reassured or worried by that?"

"Very much," said Malachi. "If I said those words, I would be promising my protection--" He gestured around. "--such as it is, but I would also be signaling that I might be interested in bringing you into our world. The older ones in particular... they don't ask permission before doing that. Not usually." He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully, then added: "I am Caitiff, clanless. I would not do such a thing myself; I'm not well-enough established for that. But an older Tremere would offer you more protection, and be better able to bargain with the Prince for permission to turn you."

Edhem felt a little ripple of horror go through him, and tried not to show it. "Your turn," he said quietly.

"Why would one of our elders choose you for this?" asked Malachi.

Edhem sighed. "...Because I arrived on the balcony of Jack and Valeria's most recent apartment in the form of an owl, walked into the darkness without needing much light, and promptly sat down to use my dead master's deck of cards to learn more about what had happened to Jack and Valeria. The elder interrupted the reading to question me, and then tried make me do his will... and failed."

"Yet here you are, doing his will regardless."

Edhem tilted his head. "That wasn't a question, and it wasn't your turn anyway. How much of a problem is it that Valeria was taken away by someone named Grand, who was a Toreador?"

Malachi was still human enough to suck in a breath before answering. "Jack Grey, as you've surmised, was one of the Tremere. Valeria, in addition to being his wife and assistant on stage, was his ghoul -- as Shannon is mine. That means that Jack was giving her some of his blood, to increase her abilities without fully turning her from the light. It made her a powerful protector for him, but more importantly it linked her to the Tremere clan. To have her taken in -- or kidnapped -- by the Toreadors after his death? That's a great insult to the Tremere, almost a challenge. But Grand, like most Toreadors, has always been melodramatic. Rescuing the widow of someone who'd died in her service, or even her presence, would have been nearly irresistible for her. It will be worse if Grand turns Valeria; the Tremere will never forgive that." He yawned. "And now, I have pushed my sleep off as far as I comfortably may. I have no more questions for you, mageling."

Edhem nodded and rose, bowed. "I do have one more for you," he said, "but it's a matter of permission, not information."

"Oh?" asked Malachi. "Pray tell."

"May I date your ghoul?"

Malachi laughed and turned to Shannon. "If Shannon agrees, of course. And with the understanding that if this Tremere elder turns you, you will not attempt to turn her. She would be killed out of hand, even if she survived the process."

That consideration hadn't even occurred to Edhem, but he fixed it firmly in his mind. "M'lady, would you indulge me while we have some daylight yet?"

Shannon glanced at Malachi, who had already vanished, and then looked back at Edhem and grinned. "We're both going to do tests," she said, "and if we're both negative then yes. And I have to warn you, I put out on the second date -- which this would be -- and I expect you to, too." 

VtM: Mansion, Servants, and Dog

It took less than an hour for Edhem to realize that he could have come in human form. This wasn't a well-run household; this was a theater troupe, re-employed to keep them solvent during the lockdown. That Bianca Cavalieri was also a performer didn't stop her from paying them -- indeed, the woman seemed thrilled to have other performers at her beck and call. 

She and Lucien slept through the day and awoke at night, of course. Indulgence of the rich, perhaps, but almost certainly something more. And despite Lucien's strenuous objections, Bianca did have a soft spot for dogs. Showing up just after dark not only got him inside, it got him a warm blanket, a cushion, and in surprisingly short order an assortment of treats. Bianca -- and consequently her staff -- had no qualms about feeding him bits of chicken and ham and other scraps. 

And Bianca, diva that she was, had no discretion whatsoever. It was Lucien who chased the servants away, Lucien who tried to speak to her about the displeasure of the Tremere elders -- whoever they were -- and Lucien whose words confirmed that Jack Grey died here, and his wife Valeria was taken away from here by someone named Grand, who apparently was unacceptable because she's a Toreador -- whatever that was. 

By the time dawn came around, Edhem was happy to escape.  

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-four

Telorn was ready to go in a heartbeat, and he evidently knew what he was doing. Graznir Toothtaker touched a particular carving on the back of the altar, and a section of the floor parted and swung down, revealing a vertical shaft through the bedrock. Telorn was already looping a section of rope around the altar and tying it off when Skyflower touched his shoulder and said, "A moment, Cousin."

"Yes?" he turned to her. 

"This is a scouting run, I trust: go down, make sure it's safe, then let the others know."

Telorn nodded. "That's the plan. I'm taking the lead because your siblings are... nowhere near so quiet as they believe."

She grinned. "Then let me come with you. If anything is down there, it's better to have two of us to deal with it, and if something else goes wrong, well, one of us can go for help." 

"You think there are still things down there, after all these centuries?" Telorn didn't sound doubtful; he sounded like he was considering possibilities. Skyflower appreciated that.

"There might be," said Graznir Toothtaker. "If nothing moves in the darkness, then this trip will have been a great waste." He paused. "Well, perhaps not a waste, but a disappointment."

Telorn turned to face him. "You believe there might actually be remnants of your empire down there? Survivors?"

Graznir nodded. "That is our hope, that not all of our people -- and their knowledge and scholarship -- was lost. That some remnant might have escaped and hidden themselves away here."

Telorn turned back to Skyflower and grinned. "I'd be glad of the company," he said easily. 

She grinned back, then turned to her kin. "If you hear the sounds of fighting, come get us." 

Too close to the end of the year

We've got a bunch of stuff coming up and once again it's all going to happen right at the end of the year -- basically all because one particular project (not one of mine) still isn't complete. Which is going to create a bunch of extra work, because without that project in place we're going to have to do any upgrade that will force us to re-create a whole bunch of approval workflows in a new environment. And that will have to be done before the end of the year, because it's the only way to keep this system compatible with another system, which absolutely has to be upgraded before the end of the year. 

Otherwise we can't pay our employees. 

I'm trying to retain a positive attitude about this, but with everything that's going on over the last couple of months I'm just... man, I am not feeling it. 

That said, I am feeling a bit better after finally getting to run a D&D game last night. 

The Burden of Schoolwork...

Spent a big chunk of Saturday night getting Secondborn through an overdue assignment. 

It was a rebuttal paragraph for an essay, with a quote from the text. Maybe five sentences in all. 

This, somehow, took us hours. Like, I could have re-read the whole damned book in that amount of time. I don't know if she was just procrastinating, or didn't know where to find the source text -- she says she was trying to find a usable quote online, but I found one in about twenty minutes and we built a paragraph around that and got it turned in with maybe two minutes to spare before the deadline. 

I'd hoped we were making some progress, but apparently we're not. Which is depressing as fuck-all, because I can't have her struggling through this school year the way she was struggling through last school year. And I mean that in a strictly logistical fashion: I don't have the spoons to do my job, help keep the house running, and drag Secondborn through her schoolwork. 

The school is trying very hard to work with us, but it feel like trying to run cross-country on a treadmill: all effort and no progress. 

I'm so tired. 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-three

"This is... quite the reunion," Jacques said slowly, as Telom looked around at the others. "The idea that you have come here coincidentally strikes me as ridiculously unlikely. Would you offer us the courtesy of an explanation?"

Telorn bowed. "As you wish, Baronet." He surveyed the room for a moment, then focused on Graznir Toothtaker. "The children of Ruin and King Tavros Fontaine were not the only one to take note of your activities." He turned his attention back to Jacques. "How much do you know of the Silver Fox?"

Tybalt stepped forward. "If you are truly his son, then your half-brother was one of our siblings."

Yvette nodded. "The Silver Fox was a legend," she said. "He was one of the heroes of Fort Dido, and when the second Elfsbane took the throne he confounded the Archons and took elves and half-elves out of their reach. When the Solari-killers and the dark army took the capital, he stayed to help people escape."

Telorn nodded. "My mother was Amra Bissent, one of the palace guard and one of the few who escaped when the city fell. My father never knew I was his child; he was gone to his other work well before she realized he had quickened her with me. Remembering what he had told her, my mother fled to his clan -- elvish nomads loyal to the crown, living strategically along the edges of the Forgotten Desert." He looked back to Graznir. "We know of your ruins, and we keep track of who explores them. My elders consider the pillaging done by the dark army to be a great failure on their part."

"Ah," said Graznir. "And our pillaging?"

Telorn shrugged. "Tolerable," he said. "My clan knows your heritage. For the most part, your activities here are too far away to threaten the clan... but not quite far enough for us to ignore it, either. So, they sent scouts -- myself among them." He looked back to Jacques. "Then, when I realized our shared history, I couldn't resist making contact."

He could see Jacques considering that. After a moment, the Baronet said, "You're a third perspective, then. Do you think we should help the gnolls open the way to their vault?"

Telorn grinned. "Only if you let me help you." 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-two

The temple was little more than a carefully-arranged pile of massive, irregular, un-mortared stones. The entrance had evidently been closed off with a massive stone block, now dragged out and set to one side. 

"That must have taken some work," the half-dragon observed quietly. 

Beside her, Yvette Fontaine nodded. Sun had never considered that a half-dragon married to a human would have quarter-dragon children, but here they were: Julien, who seemed to have bred true to his father, Yvette, with silver scales where an ordinary human would have hair, and Jacques, whose scales were hidden away. Did they have breath weapons, as she and her siblings did? Were they strong and resistant to damage? Julien certainly looked it, but Sun was less sure of the other two.

 "Oh, look at that," said Yvette, nudging her shoulder. There were reliefs on the walls, scraps of paint still clinging to them: gnolls building cities, gnolls harvesting grains, something that might have been a wedding or the signing of a treaty, gnolls marching to war. Formorians, Sun reminded herself. 

"The temple itself is small," Graznir Toothtaker was saying, "consisting mostly of the entryway, a small chapel, a room that was probably used for storage or temporary quarters... and the stairs that lead down to the complex beneath. Likely at one point there were other, less durable structures here on the surface, but if so they have been lost to time."

"Have you made a study of the carvings?" asked Jacques. 

"Only in passing," answered Graznir. "Our focus has been on finding our way down. The passage at the bottom of the stairs is blocked by a series of  heavy stones that were lowered from the ceiling to seal it off. That matches with out stories of the Sealed Vault, but lifting and bracing them has proven time-consuming."

"How far have you gotten?" asked Jacques. 

"Two stones barriers raised, and we're at work on another. It might be possible to raise them all from the other side, without the need for levering and bracing, but none of my people will go down there and we would not ask that of the farmers who labor for us." Graznir hesitated. "Would I be a fool to trust you?"

Jacques frowned and glanced back at the others. "Of course I'd say no, regardless of whether it was true or not. Would I be a fool to trust you?"

"I, too, would say of course not," Graznir admitted. "So... we either choose trust, or we choose betrayal. Would you swear to me, child of Tavros Fontaine, that you would work to get your father to grant us a barony, if not an independent kingdom, in what you call the Forgotten Desert?"

Jacques glanced back at Julien, who shrugged; then he locked eyes with Yvette, who nodded. He hesitated, then looked to Sun. "What about the rest of you? Thoughts?"

"The ruins in the desert are Formorian," Sun said firmly. "Stripped and looted by the Dark Army, but they may still retain some secrets. If they do, the gnolls are clearly heirs to those places, I would join you in petitioning for this, especially since a revived -- and friendly -- nation of gnolls would make use of an area that most avoid, and potentially provide a bulwark against another invasion from the east."

Jacques surveyed the rest of the group, and the True Elf paladin Ash said, "I'm in."

Sun didn't even have to glance at her brother Risk to hear the smile in his voice. "Sounds like fun."

"Then come around behind the altar with me," said Graznir, "and I'll show you the other way down that we discovered. If you can raise the stone barriers and open the way, you'll save us considerable work... and possibly keep our workers safe. That's if  you're willing."

"Wait," said a new voice, and a half-elf strolled into the room, dressed in a mixture of grays. 

"Who is this?" asked Graznir, looking betrayed. 

Sun looked blank; so did Jacques, and Yvette, and all the others. 

"I'm not really with them," the newcomer said, "but I know who they are -- and after several days of lurking in your camp, I know who you are too, Graznir Toothtaker."

"Okay," said Scar, golden-scaled and impatient. "So who the fuck are you?"

"Telorn Bissent," the half-elf said. "Firstborn child of the Silver Fox, Vendril, and the guardswoman Amra."  

StV: Recriminations

"You told the fucking vampire about me." Shastia Middleston was dark-skinned, black-haired, and quietly, unmistakably furious. 

Timothy Davis shook his head and held up both his hands, palms forward. He was dark skinned and pale-eyed and bald, and his expression was simultaneously surprised and scared. "I only told him that he might want to talk to you, and that you weren't about to volunteer for one of the teams."

"That's still--" Shastia hesitated. "Okay, maybe that's not so bad." She sighed. "Fine, I won't kill you now."

"Well in that case, I won't take control of your mind."

She punched him in the shoulder. "I take it you didn't make the team?"

Tim shook his head in confirmation. "Well... not yet. Telepathy doesn't work on him, and without it I can't really fight -- but he did say that if I could get somebody to agree to help me show what I can do with telepathy, we could have another tryout."

Shastia tilted her head. "I'm not helping you with that."

"He said it would be better if it was someone on the teams, so I'm not even asking."

"Good."

"All right, so Laura's in. Abby evidently likes him, and he's willing to give you a second chance." She shook her head. "He didn't hesitate when I gave him my demands, either."

"Your demands?" asked Tim. 

Shastia nodded. "No recordings, and he doesn't say anything to anybody about what I a-- what I can do."

Tim nodded. "I'm not surprised he agreed to that."

"Why not?" asked Shastia, but she sounded curious rather than suspicious.

"He was keeping secrets, too. From the rest of us, from the faculty... right up until that whole thing with the Hounds, when everything blew up. I'd guess he knows what it's like." 

"Huh," she said, and then fell silent for a long while. 

Nope, still recovering...

 Losing Sleep, by Charlotte Sometimes:

Okay, fuck it

If this were a normal Friday, I'd be thinking about things to post for the coming week. It... isn't. So, for Monday, you get this: 

Some final thoughts...

Grief is weird. It catches you at odd moments, creates weird responses, and never entirely goes away. I'm a big fan of the Ball In A Box analogy, which I think does more to explain the experience than just about anything else I've found. But one of the weirdest elements, for me, is that life doesn't just stop the way you think it should. Stubbornly, aggravatingly, it goes on. So you grieve, but also you go to work. You grieve, and you cook dinner (or order pizza). You grieve, and you go buy groceries.

Grief is also exhausting. Spending the weekend in the hospital watching my father pass away left me utterly drained. Writing the first draft of his obituary did it again. Writing my remarks for the memorial service left me wanting to crawl inside a pillow fort and sleep for a week. Just getting through the day leaves me tired -- and though this, too, shall pass, I just haven't quite gotten there yet. 

Grief is a part of life. It's price we pay for being able to love. 

But that doesn't mean it doesn't suck. 

More About My Dad

My father was very proud of his health, albeit in a way that was, well, maybe a bit eugenicist. He stayed active throughout most of his life (and even later, when his wife forced him into exercise classes), and he could recover from things that should have been crippling. Or simply... shrug off damage that should potentially have been lethal. That stayed with him right to the end; the simple fact that he was still breathing and had a heartbeat when his blood pressure had fallen to 12/12 was so absolutely in character that we weren't even surprised. 

I once watched the man slide down a fify-foot-high granite cliff -- not vertical, but probably about a seventy-five degree angle -- crash into the underbrush, and then stand up and start looking around for his wallet. The back pockets of his jeans had been abraded away. The rawhide jacket he was wearing appeared untouched. 

In his youth, he was out on the mountainside and in a moment of inattention shot himself in the thigh; with no particular way to seek help -- this was long before cellphones existed -- he hiked back up the mountainside to the only local hospital and checked himself in. They looked him over, told him that the bullet had passed through cleanly and not hit anything important, and that the wound had basically closed itself up already, so there really wasn't much to do. He then walked back home. 

When I was young -- maybe seven or eight? -- he slipped while trying to help a sailboat dock, and the prow of the boat bent his right knee sideways. It wasn't quite to ninety degrees, but it was pretty horrible to watch and in retrospect I'm a little surprised I didn't have nightmares about it. Except Dad, true to form, spent the next few years walking with a cane until his knee apparently fucking recovered completely and after that it was all back to normal. That was well before the cliff incident, I should add. 

In his... Fifties? Sixties? ...he discovered that he had some blockages in his heart and got a bypass. Life expectancy after that was, we were told, maybe twenty to twenty-five years. He lived to be eighty-nine, and really only succumbed to COVID. The man had the constitution of a musk ox. 

One memory that I've recently found myself circling back to is spelunking with him and some others in my youth -- I'd guess I was about ten years old, which would put my younger brother at around seven; but we might have been a few years older than that. We were down in one of the limestone caves along the edge of the Cumberland Plateau, and we saw an opening that looked like it led to a larger room. Now, this opening was wide enough that it didn't feel claustrophobic for us, even though it had a very low ceiling -- maybe a foot high near the center. So my brother and I scooted through it, and sure enough it opened into a larger chamber with some pretty neat formations -- flowstone and soda straws, as I recall. 

So Dad... followed us in. He scooted along on his belly, while we called encouragement for him to hurry up until he finally called back that he was moving as fast as he could. Which seemed puzzling until we realized.... Remember what I said about the height of that passage? For the two of us, as children, it was "don't bump your head" territory. It was a lot tighter for my Dad. When he inhaled, he pressed against the floor and ceiling and there was no moving forward. So for him it was "inhale, exhale, and then scoot forward before you breathe in again" territory. 

He did it anyway, and we all agreed that it was a pretty cool cavern, and then he sent us back ahead of him and made his laborious way out. 

Dad's primary musical interests were folk and classical, but when I hit my teenage Serious Heavy Metal phase his only comment was to ask me to please, please turn down the volume on the radio before I turned off the car. Apparently he'd gotten in to go get groceries, and nearly been blown back out the car door by the volume of the music. When my brother developed an interest in drums, well, the house developed a second-hand drum kit in the Activity Room -- which was what we called his workshop. 

Kids need some room in order to grow up, and Dad was always willing to give that to us. We were allowed to make mistakes, to be wrong, to screw up. He taught kindness and patience by example. And he loved learning new things. Right up into his final years, we would call each other up to look up interesting bits of etymology -- did you know that fraught is basically the past tense of freight? It literally means that whatever you're describing has baggage attached. 

Music: Since The Last Time

 Lyle Lovett: 

A Life Lived Well

I'm not real big on the idea that you're only supposed to speak well of the recently-deceased. Fortunately, in my father's case, there's really not much in the way of ill to speak of him. 

My father was an amazing man. He was part of the team at Texas Instruments who developed the world's first hand-held calculator, he could play almost any musical instrument with strings ("except the violin" he would claim, but he played the violin just fine too -- it was just that his father was a virtuoso in a way that's a bit hard to compare oneself to), he was both a teacher and a perpetual researcher, and he was a warm, loving support to everyone around him. 

Shortly after I went away to college (an experience that, in hindsight, was traumatic for all of us in different ways -- but that's a story for another time) one of my closest high school friends had a falling-out with his mother. The issue, at least as I understand it, was that he had graduated high school and wanted to move out and pursue a career in art -- while she wanted him to remain at home. He moved in with my parents while he attended the Art Institute, which is why he's our third brother instead of a very close family friend -- kin instead of kith. 

Dad was a lifelong fan of music and musical instruments -- listening to music, playing music, repairing instruments, and sometimes building them from the ground up. He learned by ear, and essentially didn't read music; music was all in the sounds, for him. His particular quirk was the hammered dulcimer, which he played right up until his eyesight got bad enough that he couldn't make out the strings anymore. Guitar, zither, mandolin, cittern... even piano. He sang, too, as anyone would know after even a brief acquaintance with him. I distinctly recall my mother warning him that if he brought one more musical instrument home he would have to buy them a new house to make room for it.

If I had to try to sum him up -- an impossible task, but what else is an obituary? -- I would say that the three great through-lines of his life were his love of music, his love of discovery and invention, and his fundamental kindness and charity. He taught computer science when I was in high school, and various other sciences at various other schools afterward. Possibly his greatest joy in that was when he could get a student newly interested in some particular study, or problem to solve, or project to undertake. When he could get someone hooked on exploring new ideas or new knowledge. Nor did it have to be academic knowledge; he was a Scoutmaster for several Boy Scout troops, and took just as much pleasure in helping someone learn how to set up a tent or cook food over a campfire or tie a new sort of knot. Have you found a weird bug? Great! How do we figure out what it is?

His funky little research projects always kept him fascinated -- could he reproduce Space Invaders on a Timex Sinclair computer kit? (This was, I don't know, 1982 or so?) (We saved the program to a tape cassette.) (Yes, I too am very old.) Could he write a program that would generate a randomized maze and then -- and this was the tricky part -- have a simulated mouse that could find its way to the center of the maze? 

He also liked to build things -- often in a similarly experimental fashion. Back in the 80s, McDonalds had themed happy meals that included the Space Raiders and Monster-nauts -- rubber figures of aliens, spaceships, and monsters. All of them, my father noted, were cast from two-piece molds. So we took some Plaster of Paris, made molds from the figurines, and recast them in lead from old tire-weights. I don't have any pictures handy, but I still have several of those figures. He also did larger projects: for a while we had a zip line from the tree in the front yard. (That one... did not end so well.) We grew up with a hand-made fort in the side yard. His workroom was usually full of half-completed projects. 

My mother, as I've noted previously, had paralysis as a result of childhood polio. Dad crafted a leather purse that was directly incorporated into one of her crutches; he also designed, built, and installed a hand control so she could drive. (The hand control worked the pedals for her -- squeeze to accelerate, push forward to brake.) He re-married a few years after my mom died, which was deeply weird for me -- but, as I said at the time, that wasn't a complaint against his new wife; it was distinctly a Me Problem. Dad's Wife pulled him back into having a social life, doing music again, attending church -- though after a bit they gave up on the Episcopal church of my childhood and moved to attending her Unitarian Universalist church entirely -- and probably extended his lifespan by nearly a decade. 

 I feel like I'm kind of rambling at this point, so I'm going to leave off here... but I'll likely come back to this at some point, only with a bit of alcohol to grease the gears. And at some point soon I'll have to pull this together into remarks for the service.

And now he's gone

My father has died. It was, as these things go, relatively quick and gentle; he went into a hospital on a Wednesday to seek treatment for COVID-related difficulty with eating/keeping food down, developed trouble breathing while he was in the emergency room, and coded out while they were trying to intubate him. They got his heart started again, and put him on some meds to keep him unconscious (critical when you have a tube down you throat and a respirator forcing your lungs to work) and try to dissolve the blood clot (COVID, again) that were causing the issues with his breathing. My brother and I waited up until he was placed in a room in the Intensive Care Unit, while my brother's wife drove Dad's wife back to their house. 

I pause here to observe that Dad was, technically, a DNR. He'd said for years that he didn't want to end up on a feeding tube, and he didn't want people working to try to keep him alive if there wasn't a reasonable chance that he'd wake back up with his faculties intact. However, at this point it looked like we had a pretty good shot at that kind of outcome. 

By Thursday, that was looking a lot less certain. Despite some truly excellent medical professionals, the drugs were damaging his veins and doing horrible things to his liver, and dehydration was damaging his kidneys. 

I took off early from work and went down to help Dad's Wife look over some medical paperwork that they wanted her to sign. This was when we found that the nutritionist wanted to start putting food in through the feeding tube; it was also when we got a better impression of the way his health was teetering. The doctors were patching holes as quickly as they could, but sooner or later the dam was going to give way. 

So we called it. My brother and his wife came down to join us. My wife had just flown back in from a family event (her sister's retirement) and the first she heard of all this was when I called her on her way back from the airport and asked her to detour to the hospital instead. 

The five of us talked it through, and concluded -- pretty much unanimously -- that the best thing to do was to keep him off the feeding tube, get Third Brother up to visit from Austin first thing in the morning (he didn't feel that he could safely drive up, having heard the news, and if his wife was going to drive then they needed to prepare their girls for the trip), and notify everybody that this was happening.

We also figured out how to adjust the music, so we could turn off the pop that was playing. My dad was not a horrible music snob, but I really didn't think he'd want to leave this world to the tunes of Katy Perry. Instead, Beautiful Wife brought in a bluetooth speaker and used her phone to play hammered dulcimer music for him on Saturday. Third Brother and his family came up -- we really need to find happier reasons to see them -- which was, I believe, critically important for his mental health. Other folks were farther afield, including some who were actually out of the country, but we gave anybody who wanted it a chance to say goodby via Facetime -- with the understanding that Dad wouldn't really be able to react them, of course.

About one o'clock on Saturday afternoon, after talking with the ICU doctor about likely outcomes and what Dad would have wanted, we told them to cease care. They turned off the respirator, extubated him, and switched from the cocktail of medications to a gradually-increasing dosage of morphine, to keep him unconscious and pain-free. 

I don't remember when we left on Saturday. 

We came back on Sunday, and this time we played folk music. We could track how his vitals were slowing down, but the man had constitution of a musk ox and it wasn't until 10:45 p.m. that he finally drifted off. Like, I watched his blood pressure get down to 14/14 and he was still going -- but we all knew at that point it wouldn't be long. His wife curled up beside him on the bed, until his breathing finally jerked and stopped, and the nurse came in and called it. 

So that was how my dad died. Next time, I'll tell you how he lived. 

StV: Another Attempt

Sophia Antonius stepped out onto the sidewalk, holding her bag and glancing back to make sure her boyfriend...

...was missing. Cedric was missing. She reached out for magic, found it, called it into herself. Then she extended her senses, reaching out... 

Cedric was just behind her, unconscious and invisible on the floor just inside the doorway. Two men she couldn't see were moving towards her, one coming out the door while another approached from the street. 

Her brother would have just murdered them, but Sophia was trying for a less lethal outcome. That didn't rule out making it painful, though.

"Cedric?" she called out, doing her best to sound confused about where her boyfriend might have gone. Under her breath, she was muttering rapid phrases and shaping energies... 

You'd better not have hurt him, she thought, as she wrapped them both in what would normally be shields and began to squeeze.  

Both men had apparently just come to a halt in the street, and were having difficulty breathing. Sophia held her grip where it was, waiting, and after a moment they were both visible to regular sight. So was Cedric, collapsed across the doorway... bleeding. 

Sophia clamped down with her shields, and heard the wet-wood snap of breaking bones. She hurried over to Cedric, and activated the general-healing spell that she'd stored in her necklace. Healing spells weren't her most-practiced area, but keeping one prepared in advance gave her time to think through the movements, phrases, and techniques she'd need... and kept her calm enough to use them.  

I may have overdone it

Looked at my To Do list on Monday and pushed through a whole bunch of it, and between that and everything else I am exhausted. And every time I think I'm starting to pull back out, it turns out that no, no I have not. 

 In the last six-or-so weeks: 

•  Secondborn started school and promptly got sick. 
• We got Firstborn into his dorm room, met his new roommate, and made it back home. This part, I'll note, while hectic, actually went pretty well. 
• I spent the next day working from home (as expected) and then was sick as a dog for the next week and a half (not as expected, and probably with whatever Secondborn had picked up at school).
• Just as I was starting to recover from that, I went into the kitchen and realized that the light fixture above the kitchen sink was dripping. This is not the sort of behavior I like to see from an electrical appliance.  
• The roofing guy came out and looked at it, and sealed some likely entry points on the roof. 
• Four days later a 2' x 2' square of the ceiling above the sink filled with water and collapsed, scattering insulation everywhere.
• My dad went into the hospital on a Wednesday for an inability to eat, developed an inability to breathe, and passed away that Sunday.
• After a certain amount of back-and-forth with the insurance company, we got the roof replaced. I do not, in all honesty, remember when exactly this happened; this particular bullet point may not be chronological.
• Beautiful Wife started a new job, at a good company with a good team and an absolutely batshit CEO. 
• The cat escaped on the following Friday night. We found him in the yard late Saturday night, but he escaped again. On Sunday, I put out the medium live-animal trap with some cat food and tuna. We captured a possum, and while we were trying to figure out what to do with that the cat meowed from just outside the fence. We managed to recapture the cat and release the bonus possum -- do not get those two reversed -- and then went the hell to bed.

It's just one damned thing after another, I swear.  

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-one

It was a trio of gnolls that came towards the break. Two of them stopped thirty strides out; the the third, armed and armored, continued forward. 

When Jacques stepped out of the trees, it stopped, grunted, whined... and then dropped back, motioning the robed gnoll forward. 

Jacques continued forward, putting himself will within bowshot -- and both of the apparent guards were armed with crossbows -- and stopping just two strides back of the robed gnoll. "You're the leader, here?" he asked. 

The gnoll ducked its jackal-shaped head. "I am," it growled, then raised its head to study him. "I am Graznir Toothtaker, researcher and scholar and accidental wizard."

Jacques grinned, but kept his teeth covered. "Jacques Fontaine, firstborn son of the King, and Baronet of Caristhium. I won't say it's a pleasure, since we came here following reports that you were raiding the local households, but I'm given to understand that while your recruiting is... unconventional... most of the captured locals will consider themselves satisfied if you pay whatever you've promised."

Graznir regarded him. "Are you a scholar, Jacques Fontaine?"

"A dabbler," Jacques demurred. "I was trained for the Court -- a bit of this, a bit of that. I have been reminded that the gnolls are descendants of the Formorians, who once controlled a puissant magical empire in what is now the desert not far from here."

"Just so," said Graznir. "Legend -- our legend -- has it that there was a vault, sealed away, that contained the core of our magical knowledge after our empire turned on itself. I have spent my life tracking down clues and references, and I believe that it is here."

"This temple?" asked Jacques. "Or beneath it?"

"Beneath it," the gnoll said, his voice soft with reverence. "If it proves true, we could reclaim the desert, reclaim our ancient cities, and perhaps restore the entire area to the life it once contained."

Jacques considered that. "That land technically belongs to Sol Povos, and thus to my father. Would you be willing to negotiate with him? A gnoll -- or Formorian -- barony within Sol Povos is not out of the question, but given the current state of the kingdom I wouldn't like to see it mistaken for some sort of rebellion. We have other, more meaningful, fights to undertake."

 "The elves have their own kingdom, in alliance with Sol Povos. Would your father consider something similar for a small kingdom of Formorians?"

Jacques chuckled. "Knowing my father, he would definitely consider it. Whether he could make it stick with the other nobles... I don't know. But if you keep a low profile and don't let on that there's anything here worth finding, I suspect he could play it off as a concession to someone who would keep order."

The gnoll's face twisted in a way that Jacques thought reflected a frown. "You are the Baronet of Caristhium? You are far from your home."

"Father's orders," Jacques said, and offered a small shrug. "And my friends came to deal with the raids... but if you aren't truly raiders, then another approach seems called for. So... do right by the ones you have working for you, let us help you, and let's see what we can manage together." 

"I think we have little choice," Graznir replied after a moment. "I had hoped to manage this without being noticed, but since you have come... Yes. Very well. Bring your people, and I will show you what we do here."

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty

Jacques slipped up to the doorway. "We're here to rescue you," he whispered. 

"You're what?" It was male voice, grumpy at being awakened, but still quiet so as not to awaken anybody else. 

"We're here to get you out and let you get back to your farms."

"We won't get paid if we do that." The man had risen, solid and stocky, light-haired in the darkness. "The gnolls promised us a reward if we helped them dig out the temple and the complex beneath it."

"They did?" Jacques let his surprise color his tone, audible even though they were whispering. "And you believe them?"

The man shrugged. "They didn't take our children, or our elderly. There's one of them can speak Common, and he says they're studying the ruins, hoping to find something under them."

"But they did kidnap you," Jacques pointed out. 

The man nodded. "They did, and there're some here as might resent that... but they've promised us payment once they get access to their temple, and so far they've been straight with us. No whips, no torments. Hard work, but no harder than running a farm. And if they find the gold they've promised us, well... we'll be well-repaid for our labor."

Jacques considered that. Beside him, Skyflower was frowning. Yvette asked, "You'd trust them?"

The man straightened, and his expression sobered. "I'd be lying if I said we weren't all a little concerned for our kids... but they know how to take care of themselves, and how to keep the farms in basic order.  Ellia had a newborn; they took her husband but left her behind with the kids. They aren't monsters, s'far as we can tell. They just took us because they needed help and had no other way t'get it."

Jacques made a decision, because there was no safe way to consult with the rest of his group. "Very well. Ask the one who speaks Common to come towards the treeline in the morning, and I'll meet him -- or her -- there, so we can talk."

"Just to talk?" asked the farmer, suspiciously. 

"Just to talk," Jacques reassured him. "I want assurances that the gnolls will pay you and release you when you're done digging for them, and I want more information about what they intend here. I don't intend bloodshed unless they do."

"Aye. All right, I'll tell 'im. You go your way now, before you bollix this whole thing up."

Jacques nodded, though he doubted the human could see him, and motioned for the others to back away. They slipped back out of the camp just as quietly as they'd entered, leaving one -- hopefully -- unconscious gnoll, and a pen with its door wide open.  

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part nineteen

Skyflower led the way, silent and precise in her movements, and Jacques followed in her steps. Risk moved close behind him, surprisingly silent for all his bulk. 

Skyflower held up a hand and they paused; after a moment she lowered her hand and motioned them forward. Nobody spoke; they all just followed. Morrigan had turned into a massive bear, but moved with a surprising lack of noise for her size; she was sniffing the air, and apparently had some sort of communication worked out with Skyflower. 

Yvette was staying close to her brother's back, evidently trying to step exactly where Jacques stepped -- which he appreciated, since she was far more of a scholar and a spellcaster than a rogue. Rose and Ash trailed them at the back, half-blind in the darkness but making their way quietly along despite that. They dropped back just a bit before the prisoners' pen came into view, in something that was evidently a shared decision. 

A faint grunt reached their ears, and Jacques looked over just in time to lock eyes with the gnoll who'd just come around the corner of the pen. For a moment, he froze. 

Risk had no such hesitation. He dashed forward, struck the gnoll in the solar plexus and then the side of the neck, and grabbed it as it sank towards the ground, gentling its fall and cutting off its air at the same time. He returned to the group with silent steps, then used his hands to mimic breathing; Jacques took that to mean that the gnoll would live.

Skyflower nodded and blew him a kiss; Risk grinned. 

There was door near the corner of the pen, heavy wood crudely fastened together and held closed with a pair of bars on the outside. Risk glanced at Jacques, who nodded and made a go ahead gesture. The half-dragon slipped forward, slid first one bar and then the other quietly free of their clasps, and then caught the wooden door as it fell towards him. That left him balancing a wooden beam and a door, but Morrigan came forward and braced the door so he could set the bar quietly aside. 

"Who's there?" whispered a voice from inside the pen.  

 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part eighteen

Intrigued, Jacques watched as his siblings and the children of Ruin sorted out who would venture into camp and who would wait at the edge of the trees. Jacques himself would venture into the camp; he was stealthy, and he could see in the dark, and he might possibly even be able to provide a distraction if they needed it. Somewhat to his surprise, his sister Yvette joined him; she could see in the dark, but wasn't as practiced at stealth. Their brother Julien, on the other hand, shook his head and drew back; he would wait to cover them. 

Of the True Elves, the cleric Tybalt went to stand beside Julien, reaching up to put a companionable hand on his shoulder. The paladin Ash, however, came forward to join Jacques and Yvette. Somewhere in there, she'd switched out her scale mail for a simple buff coat -- a heavy leather arrangement that offered decent protection but wouldn't slow her down or make her clumsy. The paladins of Amun and Helios generally wore the heaviest -- and most magical -- armor they could get their hands on, and had all the grace and stealth of an iron golem. A paladin of Ruin, on the other hand... apparently they were more subtle, or could be if they wanted to. 

Azrael went and joined his brother. He was armed and armored and looked ready to fight, but Jaques thought that his decision to remain behind was correct: he didn't look at all sneaky. Skyflower slipped up beside Jacques, grinned, and strung her longbow. The two who looked like regular elves -- the druid Rose and the werebear Morrigan -- also joined their group. That brought the three animals -- the wolverine Brick, and the wolves Geri and Freki -- over to join them.

Too many, Jacques thought. "Can you send the animals over to wait with the others?" he asked quietly. "I'd like to keep them in reserve."

Skyflower glanced back at him, smiled, and touched the haunch of one of the wolves. All three animals quickly retreated, settling in around Julien and the others. 

Seven to enter the camp, Jacques thought. Eight to watch our backs. He wasn't sure that his tutors in the study of military theory would have approved of this, but then they tended to focus on movements in squads and divisions and wings -- and even they admitted that the presence of Solari always threw things off. Not that anybody here even remotely qualified as Solari... but if they all had anything in common, it was a tendency to throw things off. 

"We're going to try this," he said, glancing at Skyflower and offering a smile in return. "If anybody finds that they're hearing themselves move, just slide back and join the others. It looks like they used the trees they cut down to make the pens -- so we're looking for less solid entry points to open up. The gods alone know what they might have used for doors, so keep an eye out -- and keep an eye out for guards. Moonset is almost here, so they'll be relying on darkvision just as we will. We might have the edge in hearing and smell, so use that. If we can get everyone out before we're noticed, great. If not, then we're covering their retreat. It's well past midnight, so hopefully most of the gnolls are asleep and we can pick them off a few at a time -- or bluff our way out."

Behind him, "Sun, Scar, Julien..." Tybalt's voice was firm. "It's a clear night, so the rest of us can see a little, but we're working by starlight. You're the ones who can actually see in the dark, so stay alert. Don't neglect listening, and keep an eye on how the animals respond. We may need to follow their lead. Or, we may be able to wait back here and escort people away. We won't know until it happens."