Open Chronicles Beneath Her Hands

[Monifa Oya]

"One of your own is out there, are they not?"

Part 1

Monifa turned her face toward the sound of swords clashing. Though she could not see, she could feel Zyn’s presence: a steady, sweeping rhythm. His blade moved like a river before the flood, sharp and unyielding.

Even now, he flows. Fighting a Drow who feeds on her kin—and he does not falter.

“As far as you can see,” Vaene whispered inside her, her voice cool and close, “he will survive. But the soldier beside you needs more than time.”

Monifa turned back to Hugo. He was trying to stand tall, but his frame betrayed the weight of pain. Without thinking, she moved to brace him under her right arm—only for white-hot agony to ripple from her shoulder, where her own wounds still burned.

She grimaced, then shifted him carefully to her left side. Her touch was firm, her tone answering his quiet question with gentle certainty.

“I believe he is.”

Part 2

The fight behind them rose in pitch—Zyn’s strikes punctuated by the Drow’s shrieks and the cruel ring of metal. Monifa’s clouded eyes tried to adjust, but her sight was gone. Still, her voice was not.

“Ténéré!” she cried, her words cutting through the night.

“Keep her tongue and her head—let her soul find no escape. Cripple her arms or legs if you must. But keep your spirit sane. I will return to end it.”

She glanced at Hugo again, steadying him once more.

Then, with a deep breath, she turned to the alley ahead—blind to its details, but not to its weight.

I do not need eyes to walk the road ahead. But I need light. A name to lead me.

She placed her hand gently over Hugo’s wrist, anchoring herself not just to his form, but to what he had already done—for her, for the city, for those still cocooned in shadow.

“Jagunjagun…” she whispered, reverent.

“Please light the way with your words. My eyes see clouds—but your courage clears them.”

Then she took her steps forward, toward the wider conflict, toward whatever healing or horror still waited beyond the veil.

Behind her, Zyn moved with the certainty of a sharpened oath. The alley rang with defiance.

I do not know the hour. But I know this: the dark will not keep Lazular. I will dust it clean with teeth and smoke. I will midwife this city back into breath.

 

[Hugo Farlance]

Hugo was about to protest against the support, having seen the beating she took. But upon leaving his sanctuary of the wall, his legs immediately betrayed him, feeling like stumps of lead, and he had to admit his gratitude for the aid.

Time flowed strangely when wounded and fading between consciousness and oblivion. It was flowing around him, escaping him, at once agonisingly slow and much too fast, too bewildering to grasp. Monifa's stoic presence gave his drifting mind something to hold onto, her firm grip assuring him he would not crumble and fall.

He couldn't believe he was already in this twilight zone. He'd suffered worse injuries than this. But he recalled the drow's words of her poisoned sting, and cursed to himself.

He would be damned before he let some bloody drow's concoction defeat him. Gritting his teeth together, he summoned up the very last dregs of his endurance, kicking up the sword dragging after him to rest on his unencumbered shoulder, his sweaty palm still stubbornly clasped around its hilt. The dagger was lost somewhere in the dark - a token for someone passing by here next dawn.

With this, he followed Monifa, struggling to match her stride.

 

[Monifa Oya]

Part 1

Monifa tightened her hold on Hugo’s side, but the weight grew heavier with each step. His breath stuttered; his legs dragged.

He’s fading fast. I can’t carry him much longer.

As her tongue had no strength, my mind spoke instead.

Vaene… I’ve no eyes tonight. Let your wings guide my steps. Let your will keep this man from the gourd of the dead.

She then looked back at Hugo. “Jagunjagun, rest your soul.”

When they reached the familiar compound, she rapped her knuckles three times on the carved wooden door. The sound echoed like a drum.

Part 2

A moment passed before the door opened, revealing Gbáyọ̀dé, a broad-shouldered orc with deep green skin and weathered eyes that always seemed to read too much. He wore his ceremonial cloth across one shoulder, and his wrists jangled with bronze divination rings.

His brows lifted the moment he saw her.

“Monifa?” His gaze dropped to Hugo, who sagged against her. “Ojú rẹ̀ kò dáa... He’s been poisoned?”

She nodded, breath sharp. “A Drow’s sting. It runs deep. I need your hands, Gbáyọ̀dé. I need your fire.”

He moved aside without question, motioning them inside.

“Lay him by the hearth. I’ll fetch the ewe inún, the bitter leaf, and mix it with powdered charcoal and clay.”

Part 3

Inside the earthen-floored hut, Gbáyọ̀dé set to work. The smell of crushed leaves, palm oil, and camphor filled the space. He pressed a thick paste to Hugo’s wounds and poured a steaming mixture down his throat in slow, careful sips.

Then, as the concoction took root, he rose and brought over a calabash bowl painted with sigils.

“His blood has memory,” he murmured, drawing white marks across Hugo’s chest. “But this poison sings louder than it.”

Monifa watched from the doorway, heart still thudding from the battle, while drinking a clay pot of water like a baby drinking the milk of their mother.

“You’ll perform the ritual?”

“I must. This venom was sharpened with magic. Herb alone will not save him.”

He turned briefly, and for a heartbeat, his gaze softened as it met hers.

“You did right to come. You always do.”

Part 4

As he rose to reach for more powdered root, he froze.

“Monifa—your foot.”

She blinked. “My what?”

He stepped closer and gently crouched at her side. A thin stream of blood trickled from her left heel, dark against the dirt floor.

She hadn’t even felt it. Now the pain came in a flush.

“Ah,” she muttered, cheeks warming from her ignorance. “I didn’t notice.”

“You never do,” he said, voice dry but kind. He rinsed the cut with warm herb water, then bound it with a strip of cotton bark and pressed his palm gently over her ankle.

“Your body is your drum, alágò. If it breaks, how will you call the spirits to dance?”

Monifa exhaled slowly, the first true breath she’d taken since the Drow fell.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to learn to dance in silence.”

Gbáyọ̀dé smiled faintly, not as a Babalawo—but as the man who had known her since she came to Lazular.

“Silence listens. But it doesn't answer. Take care of yourself, Monifa.”

She looked at Hugo’s now-steady chest, the calabash bowl still steaming beside him.

 

[Hugo Farlance]

Spoiler: Music

Hugo slept, his cris-crossing belts of equipment rising and falling with his breath. But peace would not find him. Vaene might have saved him - but she wasn't going to allow this mortal to rest easy. Beneath her hands, he would witness his own sins, and repent.

A dream slithered into his mind. No longer was he in the stifling streets of Lazular, but within the depths of the earth, once again in the Anirian reach, near the border to Cortos.

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He was running for his life. Running and crawling, rocks stealing his footing. Blood and sap ran from his blade and uniform, spilled from man and monster alike, panting as he made it back up the twisting corridors to his commander's position. The long lines of tinder, ready for ignition, had guided him back. The screams of his company echoed after him like souls of the damned, already in the next world.

"Lord commander!" Hugo cried, snapping for breath. He noted the artillerymen next to them, standing poised with crackling torches. "You must send reinforcements. Creatures - underdwellers - they've swarmed us!"

A pause. Sir Runer Basilicus stepped forward, his red cape and green surcoat blotting out the narrow corridor. His small eyes narrowed in consideration.

"Are the beams ready for ignition? The sappers have completed their work?"

"Aye, but they'll be killed if we don't make it there. The monsters . . ."

"How many?"

"I don't know, sir. Too many to count."

The commander nodded, decided on his course.

"Very well. Give the order, lieutenant. Light it."

Hugo froze. The sticky blood, the pain pulsing through him, all of it washed away before those two words. Lighting this fuse would collapse the tunnel. It would sap the wall of Castle Bast, as intended.

But with it, his comrades would be buried in stone. A fate worse than death. His throat parched, words withering on his lip.

Runer took a lumbering step forward and grabbed his shoulder, his hand a steel grip.

"Do as I command, lieutenant."

Hugo felt disconnected from himself, as if he watched this scene from afar. Faint, bat-like shapes flittered and disturbed the vision, whispering the words even before they left him. The words that doomed his company but won the battle. The words that branded him a deserter, reducing him to a vagabond. The words that robbed fifty families of their loved ones. The price of misguided loyalty.

"Light it," Hugo commanded. Even the artillerymen hesitated, glancing at one another.

"Light it!" Hugo's voice boomed, while his heart withered.

The steel grip turned into a velvet glove, clapping him fondly on the shoulder.

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Hugo writhed in bed, weak murmurs of regret leaving him.

"Don't . . . Save them . . ."

Monifa Oya

 

[Monifa Oya]

Part 1

Monifa’s prayer paused mid-breath.

She and Gbáyọ̀dé had been speaking softly, old words over boiling herbs, when a voice called her back to the edge of the room.

"Don't . . . Save them . . ."

The whisper clawed its way from Hugo’s sleep, dry and wounded.

Monifa’s spine straightened. She turned sharply.

That was no dreamless murmur.

Without a word to Gbáyọ̀dé, she rose, limping quickly, her robes dragging dust as she crossed the hut. Her shoulder burned with each movement, but her hands found steadiness as she knelt at Hugo’s side.

His brow was slick. His breath came fast. The tension in his face spoke of war, one not yet ended.

She pressed her hand near his sternum.

"Hugo," she whispered. "Easy, now. You're not alone."

But he didn’t wake.

Part 2

Vaene, she whispered inwardly, what do you show him?

A hush passed through her, like silk pulled over bone.

"He dreams of what he buried. Not just men—but mercy. Of the moment he chose survival over salvation."

And you stirred this memory? After saving his life, you send him into torment?

There was no denial. Only breath.

"Not torment. Treatment. The wound in him is not only of flesh. His spirit festers in silence. He cannot carry it forever."

He already suffers. Must he relive it?

"Yes. Because he’s never named it. Healing cannot come from forgetting, but from facing."

Monifa’s jaw clenched.

So, this is your healing?

"Yes. I do not seek to break him. I seek to bring him back to himself. Let him feel his pain—so he may walk forward whole."

Part 3

Monifa said nothing more.

She only bowed her head. The goddess was not cruel. Just... unrelenting.

Gbáyọ̀dé approached from behind, his presence slow and steady. "Is he in danger?"

Monifa didn’t turn. Her voice was low, even. "Not of death. Of drowning in what he cannot forget."

She hesitated, then added: "Vaene won't let him rest until he faces it. He’s not the only one she's pulled back from the dark."

Gbáyọ̀dé stood beside her, gaze unreadable. "You speak from knowing."

Monifa’s lips thinned. "I didn’t think I’d be asked to guide anyone else through that kind of storm."

He knelt beside her, close but not crowding. "Maybe you weren't asked," he said gently. "Maybe you were chosen because you know how to walk it without fear."

She turned toward him—just slightly. Their shoulders brushed. Just once. "He reminds me of my father," she said quietly. "And a little of myself. We both thought carrying guilt was the same as atonement."

Gbáyọ̀dé’s gaze softened. "Guilt only bends the spine. Change—that straightens it again."

Her eyes flicked to Hugo’s face, then back to Gbáyọ̀dé. "And if he stumbles?"

He answered without hesitation. "Then we lift him."


Hugo Farlance

 

[Hugo Farlance]

The soldier still stirred and mumbled incomprehensibly, assailed by dreams from a buried past, each shovel-stab of the goddess digging deeper down within him.

Long, agonising moments, hovering between life and death, reality and dream, present and past, all rolling over him like waves chiselling a rock. The wriggling of his body was a mere echo of the turmoil in his soul.

Time passed. But eventually, life triumphed over death.

Hugo's eyes fluttered open, uncertainly, as if learning to see again. His head turned on the pillow, looking at Monifa and Gbáyọ̀dé first with an unseeing gaze. Then as colour returned to his oaken eyes, he blinked, seeing the concerned look on a tusked face, brown as burned clay, encircled by thick coils of hair, powerful and vigorous. In lamplight, he could see this unique face that the night had only hinted at, a mixture of elven grace and orcish constitution.

He had never seen anything quite like it. But then the pain of his body and the awareness of his own vulnerability among strangers took over. Like a curtain, his brow went down, covering his eyes in shadow, and he struggled to rise, though his own weight kept him down.

 

[Monifa Oya]

Part 1: Rising Hugo

Monifa moved slowly, deliberately, like water poured into an old bowl. Her fingers rested lightly on Hugo’s brow, cool and scented faintly of myrrh and woodsmoke.

“You’ve returned,” she whispered, voice low and steady. “From a place deeper than sleep. But your spirit found the thread back.”

She checked his pulse—fluttering, unsteady, but gaining rhythm. Gbáyọ̀dé knelt beside her with quiet grace, spreading cowrie shells into a shallow brass bowl. A murmured chant passed his lips, soft as sand over stone.

“The dreams still cloud him,” he said, eyes narrowing over the throw. “But they are his. Not someone else’s. He walks among the living.”

Monifa nodded, brushing back damp curls from Hugo’s temple. “You are among kin now, Jagunjagun,” she said gently. “You do not owe your strength to anyone but yourself.”

Part 2: Running Chains

A commotion stirred outside. Boots on sand. The clatter of confusion.

Gbáyọ̀dé rose smoothly and stepped into the alley, his mantle catching the light as he passed through the threshold. Monifa stayed with Hugo, her hands wrapping a cloth of soaked bitterleaf around his wrist to cool his blood.

But her ears strained. “…hobos running wild—covered in silk, some screaming, some just—wandering,” a soldier’s voice grumbled.

Monifa’s breath caught in her throat. The bound ones. The Drow’s spell broke.

She whispered, “Vaene, your justice has teeth.” But her relief curdled into dread.

She couldn’t make out the rest of the exchange, only sharp notes—the ring of a blade unsheathing, the tone of command. Another soldier spoke, louder, angrier. “If they don’t settle, we force them to. I don’t care what they’ve been through.”

But Gbáyọ̀dé’s voice rose, calm but firm. “I am a Babaláwo. These are not threats. They are survivors. Let wisdom walk before weapons.”

And for a moment, Monifa could feel the silence shift. They listened. Not out of fear—but respect. Gbáyọ̀dé’s presence filled the space with authority older than any uniform.

Part 3: Bloody Webs

Then came a cry. Not anger—desperation. Monifa froze. The voice was ragged, high with panic. A woman’s voice. “Please. My child. It’s dying in me, please!”

Monifa's spine stiffened. Her healer’s heart heard it clear: a pregnant woman, terrified. Her fingers curled around the damp cloth on Hugo’s arm. She imagined Gbáyọ̀dé stepping forward, extending his hand like he always did, his presence a balm before blades could be drawn. But what followed wasn't mercy.

A barked command. A snap of movement. Then—a gunshot. Monifa jolted. Her senses sharpened. The air changed. A bitter tang reached her tongue: blood.

She didn’t know how much. Or whose. But it was fresh. Close. She didn’t move toward it. She turned her face to the floor, as if listening for the earth itself to tell her the truth.

Goddess... what have they done?

And Vaene came in slow and cold, like moonlight curling under a door. The child called for mercy. The vessel cried for help. But another’s will had its claws inside her.

Monifa’s breath hitched.

They saw madness, not magic, Vaene murmured. They silenced the suffering instead of naming it.

The door creaked. Gbáyọ̀dé stepped back inside, his breath heavy. He did not speak right away. But Monifa turned her head toward him, her voice low and tremulous. “It was not her, was it?”

Gbáyọ̀dé's voice was soft, almost ashamed. “No. She was not herself. Something still clung to her mind… Something cruel. When the curse broke, it frayed her from the inside.”

A pause. Then: “She bit him. The soldier. Not of will, but of possession. The other fired. Both fell.”

Monifa’s hands moved to her lap. Her shoulders sagged. Not from weakness—from the weight of knowing. “I smelled blood,” she murmured. “But I didn’t know how much. Or whose.”

She bowed her head, whispering more to the fire than the man. “The gods do not strike with lightning. They whisper. They give warning. But men… men shoot first and ask the spirits to forgive them after.”

Her fingers pressed together—an old, quiet prayer. You sent her to us, Vaene. You let her walk free.

No, the goddess whispered. She freed herself. But the world she entered again... was still chained.

 

[Hugo Farlance]

Monifa nodded, brushing back damp curls from Hugo’s temple. “You are among kin now, Jagunjagun,” she said gently. “You do not owe your strength to anyone but yourself.”

A touch, light as sand, whispered across his brow and neck. His guard lowered from the steady touch of a healer. He was in someone's care - the woman he had aided - that much he realised by now. But why or how she had managed to bring him here, he still struggled to grasp. He could have been a crazed killer or a looting opportunist, for all she knew. And yet, she had trusted him.

He allowed his head to gently lower back into the pillow, submitting to the agony.

A barked command. A snap of movement. Then—a gunshot. Monifa jolted. Her senses sharpened. The air changed. A bitter tang reached her tongue: blood.

Shouts of a melee and the crackle of a hand-cannon. More trouble followed. No rest for the wicked. Spiders skittered up his back at the sounds and the smell of blood, and his hand fumbled down to feel the reassuring leather grip of his sword.

A terrible headache and draining weakness plagued his attention. But he peered through the pain at the nearby window. Only shadows and vague movement came to him.

The door creaked. Gbáyọ̀dé stepped back inside, his breath heavy. He did not speak right away. But Monifa turned her head toward him, her voice low and tremulous. “It was not her, was it?”

Gbáyọ̀dé's voice was soft, almost ashamed. “No. She was not herself. Something still clung to her mind… Something cruel. When the curse broke, it frayed her from the inside.”

A pause. Then: “She bit him. The soldier. Not of will, but of possession. The other fired. Both fell.”

Monifa’s hands moved to her lap. Her shoulders sagged. Not from weakness—from the weight of knowing. “I smelled blood,” she murmured. “But I didn’t know how much. Or whose.”

She bowed her head, whispering more to the fire than the man. “The gods do not strike with lightning. They whisper. They give warning. But men… men shoot first and ask the spirits to forgive them after.”

A pause dangled in the air like an open question. Hugo had listened to their exchange, alternating between staring at the ceiling and resting his eyes. Finally, with his eyelids pressed tightly together, leaving crow's feet of a mauled youth, he decided to speak.

"How many?" Hugo's voice cut the air, alien and intrusive, accent and tone not belonging to this hearth and home. Another moment weighing between confusion and clarity. The scales dipped towards a hoarse clarification. "Soldiers and survivors. How many are there?"

Monifa Oya

 

[Monifa Oya]

Part 1: How Many

Monifa’s breath caught at the sharpness in Hugo’s voice. Not unkind, but edged like metal drawn without intent to strike, only to understand. She rose from where she’d knelt by the hearth and crossed swiftly to his side, lowering herself beside him with the grace of one used to pain and movement entwined. Her hand, calloused and warm, rested lightly against his chest—not to restrain, but to anchor.

"You ask what we all wish we could answer with certainty," she murmured. "But the smoke hasn’t cleared, and the numbers we speak may already be ghosts."

Gbáyọ̀dé’s voice came from the threshold—tired, frayed. "There’s no full count. The square’s in chaos. But I know this: a fifth of those in the Outer District rely on scraps and grace just to eat. Most didn’t even have the strength to run." His voice dropped. "There were soldiers. But there were children too. Women. Grandfathers with bent backs and no coin. Caught in the middle."

Monifa nodded solemnly. "They are our kin, Jagunjagun. All of them. Their survival is our duty; their loss is our scar." She gripped Hugo’s wrist softly, her voice laced with resolve. "We’ll answer your question fully when dawn breaks and all the cries are counted. But until then… we act."

Part 2: Screams and Truth in the Distance

Then came the sound. Like cloth tearing underwater. Like grief unspooled. Screams. From outside the door, rising like the wind before a storm. Screams not just of soldiers, but of the broken. The maddened. The possessed. Something ancient stirred beneath their pitch. A wailing that didn't belong to just lungs or mouths, but to the soul.

Monifa stiffened, her eyes clouded but wide. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of Hugo’s cot, as if bracing against a force she could not yet name.

"I hear them," she said, barely a whisper. "The ones twisted from within. The ones no god should have claimed."

She turned toward the small altar of Vaene in the corner of the room, the flame guttering slightly as the air turned heavy. Her voice no longer carried its healing lilt—it was a demand.

Is it another?, she asked.

The answer came not as sound, but as weight—cool, certain, ancient. A presence in her marrow.

Yes, Vaene breathed into her bones. Another daughter of the deep. Not of Lylthryal, no—

Monifa froze. Her breath hitched in her chest. Not the Spider Queen?

No. This one belongs to Maelfazan.

The name struck her like a blade across the soul.

Maelfazan. The Queen of Mantis Shadows. The blood-scribe. The one who weaves judgment from flesh.

Monifa’s mouth went dry. Her pulse hammered in her ears.

The Spider Queen she had expected—Lylthryal, the web-spinner, the whispering mother of quiet poisons and political death. But Maelfazan? That was no game of shadows. That was doctrine made fang and claw.

Her mind reeled through the lessons of her father's house. The forbidden names carved into bone tablets. The silken voices of noble Drow women who walked barefoot on blood-soaked stones, their mantis-blades whispering behind them.

She is the one they call the Shadowmantis Queen. The high goddess of the Drow. She who demands hearts as tribute, who teaches that pity is poison and mercy a crime. Under her gaze, only women hold power and cruelty is law.

She staggered a step back, as if the goddess’s name alone had unbalanced the room.

It is from her worship that Drow society learned its laws. Its hierarchies. Its hatred. Firstborn daughters become her priestesses. They kill, they command, they sacrifice the weak and call it righteousness. They rip the hearts from slaves and lovers alike and hold them high before the cheers of blood-drunk courts.

Her hands, trembling now, pressed together in prayer—but the words caught in her throat.

Even in silence, she commands them. It has been centuries since she last spoke to her priestesses, but that is not absence. That is trial. In her silence, they become louder. More cruel. More desperate to earn her gaze.

She turned once more toward the altar of Vaene. The fire was low now, flickering like a breath. The room seemed smaller, the air thicker.

"I thought it was the Spider Queen," Monifa whispered. "But I was wrong."

A pause. "Maelfazan has sent her claws into Lazular."

And in that moment, the screams outside became something else entirely—not chaos, not confusion, but ritual. Not a battlefield. An altar.

Part 3: Revelations to Hugo and Gbáyọ̀dé

She rose slowly, her bones aching under the truth. She turned to Hugo and Gbáyọ̀dé both, her voice steady despite the tremble beneath it.

"This is no lone madness. No accident of chaos."

She looked between them—two warriors from different worlds, both now standing at her hearth.

"They’re not here for the city. Not for coin or power. They’re here for me."

A pause. Her jaw tightened. "I thought the Spider Queen’s hand had reached this far. But I was wrong. This one… she serves Maelfazan, the mantis goddess who devours secrets and carves sins into skin. Her Drow wield divine magic not for healing, but for punishment. For obedience. They come cloaked in ritual and silence."

Her hand drifted to the corded charm at her neck, thumb brushing the spiral sigil worn smooth from years of prayer.

"They could have come for me in the dark. In the alley. But they chose this. Chose to strike where the hungry gather. Where grief pools like water. I don’t know why they made this choice, but they want to break more than my body. They want to break meaning. Break mercy. They want this city to fear me before they take me."

She looked to Hugo now, her eyes dark as the earth.

"That’s why your sword matters, Jagunjagun. And yours too, Gbáyọ̀dé. Not just to shield me—but to hold the line while I understand what power stirs beneath my ribs."

A silence settled, heavy but not hopeless.

"We will not let this city be turned into an altar for their goddess. Not today."

Part 4: A Soldier’s Choice

Her words lingered in the warm hush of the room, and the fire crackled as if to answer her. But Monifa turned now—not just to the hearth or the gods—but to Hugo.

Her expression softened. The healer in her returned to the fore: steady, observant, unafraid of silence.

"You’ve stood in blood before," she said gently. "I see it in the way you reach for your sword even when your limbs tremble. I see it in your eyes—always watching the corners of the room. You carry a discipline that wasn’t taught by kindness."

She crouched beside him again, one hand resting just above his wound—not touching, but near enough to feel the breath between them.

"You stepped into our storm not out of duty, but choice. I will not bind you to a cause that is not yours."

Her voice dropped low, calm as dusk wind through reeds.

"I know what it means to serve men who never served you. I know what it means to take orders, then bury the ones who gave them."

A long breath. A flicker of firelight in her eyes.

"So I won’t ask you to fight for me. Not as a command. But I will name the truth."

She straightened, her hand dropping to her side.

"There is a god on this street, hidden in shadows, writing her will into flesh. Her priestess walks in the bodies of the poor. And the Drow who follow her… they don’t retreat."

She took a step back, giving him space—not just physically, but spiritually.

"If you leave now, I will not curse you. If you stay, I will not praise you like a martyr. But if you lend your hands, your blade, your wits, your fire…I will match them with everything I have. And more."

A brief pause.

"Whatever path you take, Jagunjagun… walk it with eyes open. Let it be your will, not a dead man’s command echoing in your skull."

Then she bowed her head, not as a supplicant, but as an equal.

"My strength is mine. Yours is yours. No one should die wondering if they lived by another’s breath."

 

[Hugo Farlance]

"You ask what we all wish we could answer with certainty," she murmured. "But the smoke hasn’t cleared, and the numbers we speak may already be ghosts."

Gbáyọ̀dé’s voice came from the threshold—tired, frayed. "There’s no full count. The square’s in chaos. But I know this: a fifth of those in the Outer District rely on scraps and grace just to eat. Most didn’t even have the strength to run." His voice dropped. "There were soldiers. But there were children too. Women. Grandfathers with bent backs and no coin. Caught in the middle."

Hugo kept his eyes shut, weighing their words. Weighing the odds of survival or disaster. It had become an old habit of his. He could hear in Gbáyọ̀dé’s voice the sort of fatigue that came with having watched friends die, along with other plentiful terrors of war.

It sounds as though we would be too late to help anyone, Hugo thought, but didn't say as much. He could tell that this pained them both greatly.

The healer went to pray, and Hugo used the time to soak up his injury.

"This is no lone madness. No accident of chaos."

She looked between them—two warriors from different worlds, both now standing at her hearth.

"They’re not here for the city. Not for coin or power. They’re here for me."

Hugo's eyes snapped open, glancing at Monifa Oya. Spoken from any other, what she had said would have left him incredulous. But the brief glimpse of exposure from her unconscious touching of her idol, the heavy pause, the way her arms subtly hugged herself, all pointed towards an unbearable and strange truth, rather than some elaborate lie. Signs of grief - or perhaps guilt? At the very least, she seemed to believe this firmly. And perhaps she was right.

She looked to Hugo now, her eyes dark as the earth.

"That’s why your sword matters, Jagunjagun. And yours too, Gbáyọ̀dé. Not just to shield me—but to hold the line while I understand what power stirs beneath my ribs."

A silence settled, heavy but not hopeless.

"We will not let this city be turned into an altar for their goddess. Not today."

Hugo returned Monifa's gaze - silent, darkly considerate. This power she spoke of hinted at some lurking potential beyond her healer's attire. Her words carried courage, more than could be expected of a civilian. But he had heard similar words spoken by brave heroes who had died in vain. As someone with a past of rallying troops to his cause, he knew of the danger of listening to an emboldened speech. Enflamed spirits often meant leaving behind one's head in camp. But he had to admire her dedication to risk her own well-being for the sake of others.

Her expression softened. The healer in her returned to the fore: steady, observant, unafraid of silence.

"You’ve stood in blood before," she said gently. "I see it in the way you reach for your sword even when your limbs tremble. I see it in your eyes—always watching the corners of the room. You carry a discipline that wasn’t taught by kindness."

She crouched beside him again, one hand resting just above his wound—not touching, but near enough to feel the breath between them.

"You stepped into our storm not out of duty, but choice. I will not bind you to a cause that is not yours."

Her voice dropped low, calm as dusk wind through reeds.

"I know what it means to serve men who never served you. I know what it means to take orders, then bury the ones who gave them."

He chewed on her words, eyes darting low, attempting to find an answer in the sheets or the floor. By choice, indeed. Why had he joined this fray? Perhaps he would become a heedless zealot yet. At first, he had wanted to find evidence of the family he sought. But then, it had become something more . . . a wordless, inarticulate need to redeem something, to prove himself? Vague images and malformed memories of the dreams he had suffered drifted by him, enough to remind him. But somehow, it felt as if they . . . weighed less within him, now. It couldn't fully be put into words, but it felt as though some invisible load he had carried with him, not to be found in his pack or belts, had lightened. As if someone had come to share his burden.

Strange, he thought. My body is in tatters, and yet I feel more . . . whole.

She took a step back, giving him space—not just physically, but spiritually.

"If you leave now, I will not curse you. If you stay, I will not praise you like a martyr. But if you lend your hands, your blade, your wits, your fire…I will match them with everything I have. And more."

A brief pause.

"Whatever path you take, Jagunjagun… walk it with eyes open. Let it be your will, not a dead man’s command echoing in your skull."

Then she bowed her head, not as a supplicant, but as an equal.

"My strength is mine. Yours is yours. No one should die wondering if they lived by another’s breath."

Space was given, not just physically, but in speech as well. Both of them stood there, watching him, awaiting an answer. His spirits were not inclined towards speech, but rather for introspection. Part of his melancholic humours, he had been told - more than once. But he had learned to speak regardless, bristling with authority on command, even when he secretly desired for silence and time.

This was one such time. Monifa had offered him the freedom of choice. A yawning gulf to jump, or to abandon.

A most dreadful thing, choice. Nothing could rouse his anxiety as its pernicious opaqueness. Sometimes, he missed the days where choice was laid out before him by someone else, and all he would have to do was to see to its execution. With choice came responsibility. With it came guilt and remorse.

He looked at her askance. Though her head was bowed with courtesy, her presence radiated a dire request. A need for something more than a simple mercenary's blade. A genuine ally.

A sigh left him, somewhere between a grunt of incredulity at his own circumstances and a breath of awe at this outreach of trust. He sat up from his bed - slowly, carefully - letting his boots touch the floor. With one hand resting on his thigh, the other rubbed his brow and eyes, as if already cursing himself for his future stupidity.

"I probably ought not do this, had I any sense, but . . . aye. I can lend my sword." His hand lowered, revealing eyes burning with a new ember of determination, staring up at Monifa. "On one condition."

He couldn't bring himself to demand coin - not from these people, though his purse would certainly not mind it. But they seemed to know the locals here well. Perhaps they could offer something else.

"I would only require your assistance with one matter, after this is all said and done. There is a family I seek, here. I suspect . . . they may be among these survivors. One of a certain Gaius Julvarn."

The fire in his eyes doused, his hands limply folding between his legs. Even now, he didn't hold out much hope of finding them. But he had to try.

"I do not know if they still carry his name or . . . or if they have abandoned it. I never met them, myself. But he talked of them. A lot." A brief chuckle left him - a private memory of the man, gabbing on about his beautiful Lazulan wife. Most of the other lads had doubted her existence in the first place. But Hugo had seen some of the letters between them. "A name, Nivash, is all I have. That and his claim of having seven sons and a score more daughters, but I doubt that to be true. Black hair. Birthmark on her nose."

He shrugged. It was foolishly little to go by, but it was all he had. Then, sharpness returned to him, keen eyes spearing back to Monifa and Gbáyọ̀dé, considering them both. The old lieutenant in him returned, like one considering fresh meat added to the company. From what he could tell, they both carried a quiet, good-natured gentleness - not weak, but an unhurried, almost parental care for those around them. He was inclined to trust them.

But then, he had been fooled in his trust before.

"One more thing. I appreciate your aid, but I should like to know who have granted it. I reckon I grasp the enemy, now, but I would know my allies, too." His gaze flicked to Monifa, scrutinising, intense. "Your name, at least, if time doesn't permit for anything else."

Monifa Oya

 

[Monifa Oya]

"I would only require your assistance with one matter, after this is all said and done. There is a family I seek, here. I suspect . . . they may be among these survivors. One of a certain Gaius Julvarn."

The fire in his eyes doused, his hands limply folding between his legs. Even now, he didn't hold out much hope of finding them. But he had to try.

"I do not know if they still carry his name or . . . or if they have abandoned it. I never met them, myself. But he talked of them. A lot." A brief chuckle left him - a private memory of the man, gabbing on about his beautiful Lazulan wife. Most of the other lads had doubted her existence in the first place. But Hugo had seen some of the letters between them. "A name, Nivash, is all I have. That and his claim of having seven sons and a score more daughters, but I doubt that to be true. Black hair. Birthmark on her nose."

Part 1: First Request

Monifa tilted her head slightly as Hugo spoke. The name—Nivash—hung in the air like a faint scent from long ago, tugging at a thread she couldn’t quite place.

…Nivash, she murmured internally, as if tasting the syllables.

She leaned back against the cushion-lined wall of Gbáyọ̀dé’s home, sightless eyes turned toward the space where Hugo sat. Though darkness wrapped her vision, her senses reached outward, feeling the shape of his grief—the kind carried like a letter never delivered.

“Nivash…” she repeated aloud, “There’s a softness to that name. A kind of wind that’s passed through here before.”

She looked away, toward the open window where smoke from distant fires curled upward.

“I’ve delivered more children in this district than I can count. Healed mothers, buried fathers. Names pass through me like wind through a sieve. But something about that one… it hums in my bones. I cannot place her face, not yet. But I feel I’ve crossed her path.”

She turned back to him, solemn.

“But the city is scattered, its people doubly so. Some fled into the stone. Others lie silent in homes too broken to bury. I’ll ask. I’ll look. But it will take time—and time may not give us the answer we want.”

Then, softer: “But it’s a good name to begin with. Nivash. If she still breathes, we’ll find her.”

Part 2: Second Request

"One more thing. I appreciate your aid, but I should like to know who have granted it. I reckon I grasp the enemy, now, but I would know my allies, too." His gaze flicked to Monifa, scrutinising, intense. "Your name, at least, if time doesn't permit for anything else."

When Hugo asked for their names, Monifa didn’t hesitate. There was a weight to his request—not suspicion, but sincerity. A man who’d bled for strangers had the right to know whom he was bleeding with.

She pressed a hand lightly to her chest. “My name is Monifa Oya,” she said, “Elder midwife of Lazular. Daughter of dust and dusk. I walk where blood meets breath, sometimes to welcome life. Sometimes to guard it.”

She gestured gently toward the door where Gbáyọ̀dé stood nearby. “That is Gbáyọ̀dé. A Babalawo—diviner, seer, spiritual keeper. The people trust his word like they trust the sunrise. He walks beside the gods more than he walks beside sleep.”

And then, her fingers drifted to the spiral talisman at her chest. “And Vaene… She is the third in our circle. Goddess of wing and night. She does not walk—but she watches. And when she stirs, she bites. You saw her children in the alley. That was no trick. That was justice, half-awake.”

A pause, solemn but not fearful.

“We are not generals. We are not saints. But we do not run when the helpless cry out.”

Part 3: Dream Calls

Monifa’s hand twitched against her knee. A breath moved through her—not her own, not quite. Cold. Steady.

“Midwife,” Vaene whispered inside her mind, “It is time. The knots must be unraveled.”

Monifa stilled.

She turned her face toward Gbáyọ̀dé first. Then toward Hugo.

“She calls me. Vaene. There are things I must see… not with eyes, but with the spirit. That’s part of the gift. And its price.”

She shifted, her body moving slowly and deliberately as she spoke.

“When I sleep under her summons, I dream not of gardens or lovers, but of sins. I will see what the cursed ones have done. Or what was done to them. That is how we separate the afflicted from the guilty.”

Her voice took on the cadence of a ritual.

“I will not wake for some time. Hours. Maybe more. While I dream, I need you both to act.”

She turned slightly toward Hugo. “Gather the ones still under the curse—those twitching, murmuring, not quite themselves. Not the house they were taken to before. Not that place.”

She shook her head, voice low but firm. “Choose another. A clean space. Empty, but quiet. Somewhere their chaos can’t spill into the street—but where memory won’t cling to the walls.”

She paused. “Lock the doors, if you must. But do not chain them. Do not strike them. Some may yet return to themselves.”

Then she turned slightly toward Gbáyọ̀dé, though her blind eyes couldn’t see him. “You’ll know the place when you find it. Trust your feet, your bones. You’re the one they follow now.”

Then, her voice lower, trusting. “You know the hearts of this quarter. The elders, the traders, even the children with big ears. Tell them what’s happened. We’ll need their eyes and arms if more come. Use your voice. They will listen.”

Finally, her body sagged slightly, and she reached toward the wall for balance. Gbáyọ̀dé was already at her side. “Take me to a quiet room,” she said softly. “I can feel the visions already scratching at the back of my skull.”

Together, they entered one of the inner rooms of his home—a narrow, incense-scented chamber, padded with woven mats. Monifa lowered herself to the floor, curling her legs beneath her. Her talisman clicked against her chest as she folded her hands over it.

“Do not wake me,” she warned. “You can’t wake me even if you tried.”

She turned her face upward. “Vaene… open the path. Let me walk where the bats speak.”

And then, breath by breath, she slipped into sleep. Not for rest, but for reckoning.

 

[Hugo Farlance]

She pressed a hand lightly to her chest. “My name is Monifa Oya,” she said, “Elder midwife of Lazular. Daughter of dust and dusk. I walk where blood meets breath, sometimes to welcome life. Sometimes to guard it.”

She gestured gently toward the door where Gbáyọ̀dé stood nearby. “That is Gbáyọ̀dé. A Babalawo—diviner, seer, spiritual keeper. The people trust his word like they trust the sunrise. He walks beside the gods more than he walks beside sleep.”

He offered both a small bow of his head, touching his hat with courtesy. But his chest clenched with worry. A seer and a midwife. These two were not warriors - and what they were facing were some of the deadliest and malicious fighters in Arethil. Still, he recalled the magic she had brought to the fore, erasing one of the drow like she had been some cosmic error to be corrected. It reminded him of the volatile magic of the Dreadlords, though it had a stranger, more cryptic mark to it. He would rather trust in good, solid steel over magic, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Hugo Farlance, meself. I am -- well, I was a soldier. These days a blade for hire." The distaste in his voice at his current designation was palpable. He quickly swept it aside with a grin, as much to conceal as to add levity. "And now a damned enemy of the drow, it seems."

She turned slightly toward Hugo. “Gather the ones still under the curse—those twitching, murmuring, not quite themselves. Not the house they were taken to before. Not that place.”

She shook her head, voice low but firm. “Choose another. A clean space. Empty, but quiet. Somewhere their chaos can’t spill into the street—but where memory won’t cling to the walls.”

She paused. “Lock the doors, if you must. But do not chain them. Do not strike them. Some may yet return to themselves.”

Hugo gave a brisk nod.

"Consider it done."

Weakness still clung to him like a clammy cloak, but he flexed his fingers and wriggled his toes in his boots, testing their mobility. An old warrior's trick of testing if the body was going to follow its commands. Probably superstition, but it had worked for him thus far.

He rose, displaying his full height. He nearly matched Gbáyọ̀dé for this, though his body didn't have the same brute mass of the orc. An exchanged glance with the seer, another nod. He was glad to have them both on his side, though he feared even Gbáyọ̀dé's experience and Monifa's magic would not be enough. Hands still trembling lightly from poisoned veins, he affixed his hat properly, corrected his battered uniform with a swift jerk to the lapels, cleared his throat, checked his pouches were closed and adjusted the scabbards of his remaining blades, setting them just so.

When Gbáyọ̀dé escorted Monifa to her quarters, Hugo's eyes followed her. She seemed to disappear and appear like smoke. But from which fire did she rise? Vaene. A strange entity that he knew nothing of, yet the name coiled over his bones, like an echo older than memory. He recalled the touch that had set him right. But had it been of this midwife, or this invisible Vaene seeming to work through her?

He knew not. But whoever it had been, he would like to thank either of them in good measure. Hopefully, there would be such a time.

Left to his own devices, he added a finale to his preparations, unhooking a vial from one of his bandeliers, full of a suspicious texture, murky-red mixed with bloated-orange. looking like liquid rust. His nose crinkled. He recalled the sketchy look on the eye-patched alchemist near the Falwood who had rewarded him with this. This will add alacrity to your body. Your wounds will knit faster, your senses heighten, your reflexes match that of a mongoose. A fat smirk had underlined the inevitable 'but' clause. Ah, yes, your age will hasten a smidgen too, I fear. But what's another wrinkle against your life?

It couldn't be helped. He needed to match these bloody elves for speed. Flicking off the cork with his thumb, Hugo stomped outside, opening and closing the door behind him. He stared at the open vial one last time. Down the hatch.

Gulping it in one swig, Hugo harked at the thick, cider-like texture, but with none of its sweetness and all the iron taste of licking a rusty nail. He spat a glob of excess phleghm, the mixture roiling around in his guts, already threatening to throw it right back up.

"Ahh, tastes like guardsman glory," he hissed to himself and stuck the empty vial back in its place, recalling the favourite saying of his company to every rotten piece of meat and musty lump of bread.

Lazular awaited. It was high time to reclaim this city. Hugo already felt the effects of the potion. Every errant footfall was a drum against his ear, the shouts and cries of the night blaring trumpets, and each drow steel whispering through smooth, black scabbards a discordant violin.

He stalked out, tracking down what survivors he could find.

Monifa Oya