Private Tales Champion of the Perished

[Garrod Arlette]

It was a musty old thing. Looked like it would fall apart if a strong enough wind came through, but The Fool's End was the only rest house he had come across in the last two days, and his legs were tired, and his joints were beginning to ache. There was something about the thick damp air of the the Bayou lands that always seemed to eat away at Garrod, from the inside out.

Are you sure that's not just little old me? Belephus hissed sweetly into his mind.

He had lost his pack in swamplands. And with the sight of it vanishing in the tawny brackish murk of the swamp, well, so too went the hopes of taking a break from his demonic companion. Not that it helped him much these days.

Mind made up, he ventured into The Fool's End Inn, paying little mind to the motley jester painted on the damp wood sign, who smiled, frozen as he was stepping toward the noose that hung before him. As if he was in on some sick little secret. The door opened with a loud creak, and all the stirrings and goings inside stopped at once. Every dirty face, and tired eye seemed to glance over at the door, and study the newcomer. Garrod, in his armor and well tailored gambeson, stuck out like the glitter of gold amidst silt and mud.

He didn't like how some smiles grew wide as others' eyes grew narrow and sharp. But they all slowly went back to whatever it was they were doing. And he marched over to the bar.

"What'll it be?" The broad-shouldered woman who so dutifully wiped at a mug asked without so much as looking at him. Her hair was a rich brown, and it was tied back by a bright blue bandana. She looked stronger than most in the place, but handled her work with a delicate touch that didn't go unnoticed by the monster-hunter.

"Got any rooms available?" Garrod asked.

"A few, aye, though you best make sure to put something up against the door to keep any of these filth from trying to break in at night," she glanced up at them, and like the shiny shells of roaches, many eyes darted back to their tables. "None of them'll do much about anything while yer awake though, too lousy and cowardly for that," she smiled.

Garrod smiled small in turn. "Thanks for the advice," he sat upon a stool, and worked his greatsword off his back, and let it rest beside him. "Any food?"

"Got a fine crayfish stew, if you can stomach spice and shelled fish,"

"Sounds lovely, I'll take a bowl and some bread if you have it,"

"Wouldn't recommend the bread," she said, stopping her cleaning, she raised the mug up to catch the candle light, and the dark green glass shone clean and clear. She smiled, satisfied, and put the cup down, and fixed her eyes on Garrod. "Been a while since the last shipment of good flour came in, and all the old loaves have gone moldy," she shrugged. "If ye got the coin, I'd recommend skipping the bread and getting an ale instead," she already started pouring a cup. "We make a fine honey brew, if I do say so myself,"

He nodded, and she put a cup before him.

"What's your name hun?"

"Garrod," he said, and took a careful sip of the drink.

"Hilda," she said with a nod of her own, "I'll go get you that stew, and you'll have to tell me about this here sword of yours," she walked off.

Garrod took another drink and looked around the place from behind his cup. The ale was sweet, and refreshing. Almost crisp, but with a pleasant funk to it. The others who eyed him, were anything but.

---

Nere Ashorn Lechies Delrio

 

[Nere Ashorn]

Too many eyes were focused on the newcomer as he settled into his drink, but a vigilant few would notice the front door of the inn swing open again. Nere came into the Fool's End looking like she had been swallowed and spit back up by the mossy banks of the swamp - Her hair was limp with grease, the loose linen shirt she wore was streaked with sweat, her hands were frayed from working the ropes all day. Which is to say, she looked about like everybody else in the dingy old inn. Her boots squelched with mud as she walked, and nobody paid the squeaky sound any mind, so familiar to their ears.

The barkeep had just come in from the back kitchen, a wide wooden bowl steaming over with something fresh and fishy. Her deft hands set the bowl down in front of a pale-haired man Nere had never seen before. "Is that Ashorn's girl I see?" The barkeep called out. "Come and have a seat up here. What can I get ya, hun?"

Nere obliged, striding past the usual riffraff and plopping onto a tall wooden stool. She glanced briefly at the man already at the bar, and then at the big sword next to him. It was a nice piece, and extremely ill suited to the bayou. "You got any paling?" she asked, turning her attention back to Hilda.

"Aye, I could have Damze cut some up for you. How you want it?"

"In the green, please."

The barkeep took a total of two steps back towards the kitchen before she yelled through the open doorway. "Damze, one a paling in't groen!" She said with her whole chest. A distant voice from the kitchen could be heard complaining in response. Hilda smiled and turned back towards her two customers.

Nere was not paying attention. Her gaze had shifted back to the long road of metal that cut the space between herself and the stranger. "That's a fine blade you've got there, sir."

A chuckle escaped Hilda as she picked out another glass to begin polishing. "Ain't it? I was just about to ask him for the story myself."

Her cheeks flushed under the friendly scrutiny of Hilda's laugh. Realizing that she had been staring, Nere instead trained her gaze on the row of bottles shelved above the barkeep's head. "Though he should be wrapping it up against the damp. Not even good steel lasts long out here."

Garrod Arlette Lechies Delrio

 

[Lechies Delrio]

When Lechies mentioned that she intended to track rumors of an Amastacian soul urn into the twisting canals of Garramarisma, Dakota had looked at her like she was stupid. And maybe she was. The Bayou was not really a place respectable wizards were wont to find themselves--not even respectable adventurers, really. But soul urns were rare treasures, valuable relics from a distant age, and if there was even a small chance she could lay hands on one, then Lechies would brave any insect-infested, pirate-plagued swamp for the honor.

She'd told Dakota as such, and her fellow Greendawner had only sighed. "Gods know how you've lived this long. Just be careful, alright."

"Aren't I always?"

Optimism had been easy back in the clean, orderly streets of Alliria. Now, slouched in her chair at a lonely corner table, hood pulled up in a feeble effort to keep prying eyes away, Lechies considered the belated idea that maybe she should've waited for Dakota to finish his own quest first and have him accompany her. The stares she'd gotten when she first set foot in the inn told her she'd need to ward her door tonight, and she suspected only the authority of the barkeep, Hilda, kept anyone from striding over to her table for a chat.

Still, the inn was dry, the food delicious, and Lechies wouldn't have to spend another night in the wilds, wary of beasts or worse. A small victory to be enjoyed. She smiled to herself, content in the moment, and brought her ale to her lips-

Only to choke, startled, as the door opened to the sight of a very familiar white-haired warrior... One Lechies never thought she'd see again, not after their previous awkward parting.

Garrod. How was he here? Why was he here?!

As his eyes scanned the room, Lechies ducked lower in her seat and slammed her gaze down, at the mercy of her hood's ability to preserve her anonymity. The seconds passed at agonizing speed--then, chatter in the room picked up again, and she heard heavy footfalls making their way to the bar. Lechies raised her head an inch and watched Garrod exchange words with Hilda.

He looked well. As well as when she'd seen him last, if maybe a little more tired. His greatsword drew the room's attention, but what interested Lechies was his gauntlet. She couldn't see Belephus's bony surface or eye-like gem from her position, but its presence nudged against her senses all the same, as sticky as the warm air of the Bayou.

Lechies briefly entertained the thought of slipping away before Garrod saw her, but logic soundly squashed that notion. There was no other rest stop for many miles, and--honestly, did she really think to avoid her problems by literally running away from them? Was she still a child?

The door opened again, this time to allow a young woman entry. Her appearance didn't inspire so much staring as Lechies's had, perhaps owing to the somewhat hardened look on the woman's face. She carried herself with the general demeanor of someone who did not put up with nonsense.

The woman seated herself at the bar, striking up a conversation with Garrod. Lechies stood up shortly after. Best get it over with, she supposed.

She took down her hood as she approached. Cloak and boots caked in the same mud as the others, Lechies might've passed for a local if not for the ornate staff clutched in her left hand, or the craftsmanship of her cloak's clasp, a silver hammer studded with small sapphires. She raised her other hand in greeting, sending Hilda a quick smile before settling her nervous gaze on Garrod.

"Pardon the interruption, but I saw you come in, and... Well. It's been a while." Lechies nodded at the open stool on Garrod's other side. "May I join you?"

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Eye half lidded, Garrod smirked at the newcomer "Garrod is fine," he said with a nod toward his sword. "It's an old fashioned thing, but it gets the job done," he set his cup down as he turned back toward the bar, and scratched at his chin with the bone-white claws of his gauntlet. "Wouldn't happen to have any spare clothe strips now, would you?" He asked, his green eye gave her a quick once over. He shrugged, and let his relic-clad hand clack back to the bar top. "I was making sure to coat it in garr-hound oil, prior to losing my pack," he said , brow knit together with a small annoyance. He shook it off and went on, easy like. "Learned it did a good job at keeping metal rust free," he picked up his cup and went to take drink when the sound of a familiar voice pulled his attention away from the brim of his glass and on to the newest arrival.

My oh my, speaking of garr-hounds. He could feel Belephus' lips spread wide and show teeth.

His eye went wide at the sight of the mage, and he missed the cup completely, the thought of taking a drink gone from his head until the glass clinked hard against his tooth and the ale splashed him about the nose and chin. He huffed and shook his head.

Hilda laughed small behind a smile and offered him the bar rag. Garrod, wet across the face, with some of it running down his neck and into his gambeson, shook his head with a wry smile across his lips. "Yes, forgive me, of course, please," he said as he motioned to the stool beside him. He took up the rag and dabbed himself dry. "Thanks," he said to Hilda as an aside,


"I'll go get you lot your food," she said, with a cat-like gleam in her eye. She strode to the back and hollarrd something intangible to the cook.

Garrod could feel his stomach turn, his heart beat harder against his chest. "It really has been a while," he said, his eye looking this way and that, before he dared look to Lechies again. "I..." he smiled sheepishly and looked back at his cup. "I am glad to see you are well," he brought his gauntleted hand closer to himself.

---

Lechies Delrio Nere Ashorn

 

[Nere Ashorn]

Another newcomer! Well, this one had already been here, but she'd blended in until she walked up to the bar and spoke in an off-the-island sort of way. The two travelers seemed to know each other. Nere kept her mouth shut, letting them get their introductions out of the way. If there was a tension in the air, Nere was blissfully unaware, simply reveling in the fact that two whole people had made it this far into the bayou without getting mugged or maimed or otherwise discouraged along the way. Maybe her family's work was finally paying off, and the roads were getting safer.

In all her great barkeeping wisdom, Hilda found the exact right time to slide a drink Nere's way. All wrist, she reached for the beverage and swirled its contents around the sleek glass. The smell of fermented honey, crisp and spiced, wafted up from the glass. It nearly cut through the boggy grime of the rest of the room, but not quite.

The cook himself came out with the food. Damze was a narrow man with bulbous eyes and thin, purple lips. A modestly sized bowl of something green and saucy sloshed in his hand, but as soon as he caught sight of Nere, his eyes narrowed. Mumbling incomprehensible to himself, the cook turned heel back into the kitchen. After banging around a bit, he came back with the whole pan of green stuff, slopping the deep cast iron in front of Nere, along with a loaf of bread.

"Thanks Damze," Nere said gratefully, nodding at the man as he slid back into his own domain. She picked up the bread, sniffed at it, then tore off a particularly offensive chunk of mold from its side.

"Hey Hilda, this bread's green too." It was a very mild complaint. Picking a mostly intact corner, she still dipped the bread into the pan. What steamed up from the pan was herbal and zesty, fat chunks of flakey grey eel floating in green sauce.

"Well, if ye hadn't lost my last shipment of flour..." The barkeep began.
"I told you, that was pirates."
"And the time before that?"
"A storm."
"And what about this time, girl?"
"I can't recall," Nere said matter-of-factly. She shoveled another scoopful of bread and eel into her mouth.

Hilda crossed her arms, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of her shirt taught. "You don't remember?"

Nere waited to chew and swallow before she spoke. "No, I can't recall," she corrected, as if there was a world of difference between the two phrases. The barkeep only sighed and shook her head at that.

Lechies Delrio Garrod Arlette

 

[Lechies Delrio]

Lechies winced at the sound the cup made against his teeth. As Garrod wiped himself off, she politely kept her eyes elsewhere, and settled into the stool beside him, staff leaned against the counter.

"Yes," she said awkwardly, watching Hilda bellow orders through the kitchen door. "Well enough. And uh, you seem likewise well..."

Lechies fell into silence, unsure what else to say. All those expensive years of Elbion education out of her parents' pockets proved useless in this moment. Not a single topic of discussion sprang to mind.

Except one. A bizarrely brazen part of her wanted to ask after Belephus.

She dared not look directly at the gauntlet. Its surface gleamed almost silver under the inn's low lights, a shape reminiscent of teeth at the edge of her vision. Going by its familiar tug against her mind, Lechies judged that at the very least, the gauntlet's influence didn't seem to have gotten worse. It was probably safe to wait until they weren't in earshot of strangers for her to bring it up.

As Lechies struggled to find conversation, she let herself be distracted by the scene playing out on Garrod's other side. The other woman must have been a local. More than acquainted with Hilda and the cook--Damze?--both seemed fond of her in their own ways.

Lechies's eyes roamed briefly over the woman as she attended her food. Come to think of it, there was a hint of magic about the stranger, too, and in striking contrast to that of Belephus's. Where the gauntlet's aura was something murky and cunning and altogether unpleasant, the woman's called to mind an image of iron, sturdy and sharp-edged and reliable.

Curiosity piqued, Lechies couldn't help intruding on their discussion.

"Shipment? Are you a merchant?"

She tilted her head inquisitively at Garrod. "Engaged in mercenary work, I take it?" Given the size of some of Garramarisma's fauna, Lechies could see a need for a veteran monster hunter.

A pause.

"Oh, excuse me, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Lechies."

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Time seemed to crawl between them. His mind searched for words to tell her. Questions to ask. How have your travels been? Get up to any trouble lately? Any chance you found out anything about how to get rid of demon pacts per chance?

You wouldn't dare. His demon hissed.

And Belephus was right. He would not dare, and in that moment he would sit in the stew of silence that swirled around him. Glad to see her again, but afraid he had damaged what small amistad they had found on the quest to save Lily. So, he went on looking at his drink, as the turn of his stomach turned into a feeling of sinking in, fingers tapped as they did when nervous and unsure. Slow, steady plinks against glass. He would ask something. He had to-

She asked the other beside him a question about the business she spoke of. Pirates, shipments gone missing. Garrod took another drink, and managed not to spill any on himself, when she asked him a question. He drank down another swig, wiped his lips dry and nodded with a smile. "Aye, had a job running guard with a researcher from... Well, Elbion no less," he eyed her, felt he was staring, flushed red in the face, and shifted his gaze. "Stuffy sort," he added, in an attempt to recover. "A mindless naturalist by the name of Dieder, Erik L. Dieder," Garrod took up the cup again, swirled his drink "Should've seen him, you like would've laughed." His smile grew a little wider. "Didn't ever tell me what the L. stood for though, and had me digging through Swamp-Hydra nests," he shook his head and took the last swig from his cup.

As Lechies asked for the other's name, the door groaned open.

"Welcome~" Hilda said, reflexively.

Heavy boot-falls knocked against the wood, and the sound of the stirring from the crowd behind them seemed to still. Grow tense. Not the sort of tension that came with stalking and prepping to pounce, but the sort that came with fear. The sort that sucked the air out of the room.

Ah, another broken soul to add to your broken party. Belephus chimed.

Garrod turned in his seat, and saw a man robed in a thick leather overcoat, ragged and worn to the point of tatters and dark stains. A wide brimmed hat cast a dark shadow over his features, and a tall collar and scarf obscured the rest. He carried a large blade, its edge jagged and toothed, and the steel looked ancient. And there was a... smell about him. More than just swamp stink. A deep stench of death. Of rot.

In a breath. "What in all the hells..." Garrod muttered as the man marched across the room and went up to the bar, stopped right next to the trader. Eyed Garrod in turn with moon-white eyes. Strange as he was, he stood tall and strong, and exuded a silent menace.

Instinct had Garrod slip his hand to a knife at his pant leg.

---

Nere Ashorn Lechies Delrio

 

[Nere Ashorn]

The eel was too good for Nere to notice the awkward silence bubbling next to her. She put scoopful after scoopful into her mouth at an increasingly improbable rate, until the cast iron was almost empty. A hand was scraping the last bits of basil sauce together with the last hunk of moldy bread, when the other woman across the way asked her question.

"Shipment? Are you a merchant?"

"Here in the bayou, you will find many a hawker, peddler, and monger." Nere paused and leaned over the bartop, craning her neck around the man that sat between them. There was a curious crook to the smile that she gave, like she was trying to tell a joke, but she didn't have the temperament for it. "I'm afraid merchants are harder to come by."

She left room for Garrod to say his piece. Her idea that the two knew each other was beginning to take a fuller shape, though she seemed unoccupied with the results. Nere instead took the opportunity to clean up the last of her meal. A long drought of mead was cut short as the woman introduced herself.

"Pleased to meet you, Lechies," she said sweetly and politely, setting her cup down. "My name is Nere--"

The creaking of the door interrupted her. Slow as the newcomer ambled, Nere's eyes wandered away to look at shadow-stained man. "... Ashorn," she finished, no longer facing the other woman at the bar. There was a lot to keep track of when one was indoors. The tempo of the conversation, the clatter of movement, the glances of strangers and friends alike. All of it chilled to hostility as the tall and imposing man walked between patrons and tables with a steady gait and came to stand right next to her.

Oh, she knew that smell. It was grave dirt, and the sticky residue of dark magic.

Milky eyes glinted out from underneath the shadow of the stranger's hat, meeting saturated blue. Nere did not balk. With no weapons to reach for, she only sat up a little straighter on her stool. "Sir, are you aware that you are dead?"

Lechies Delrio Garrod Arlette

 

[Lechies Delrio]

Mention of Dieder, apparent swamp-hydra enthusiast, only sparked the faintest hint of recognition in Lechies's mind. Perhaps a paper of his had been required reading for Elbion's first-years, or perhaps they had shared a professor for one of the College's mandatory classes, his name echoing once or twice in those great lecture halls as he was called upon to answer a question.

In either case, the thought was not one Lechies had time to ponder.

Barely had the woman given her name as Nere Ashorn, before an abrupt shift in atmosphere fell over the room, lively chatter dying off into heavy silence. It was not right that an inn so full of people should be so still, so quiet. Lechies curled one hand around her staff by the counter as she turned on her stool.

Most of the newcomer's features were hidden by his clothes, but as he came near, premonition hissed urgently in Lechies's ears, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. She had a fair idea what he might look like under his garb. After all, she could sense it--a foul magic clung to the stranger more fiercely than his stench. It was a prickly sort of aura, like needles or thorns digging into one's skin, prompting action from a body that only wanted to rest.

At Nere's remark, Lechies had to clamp her teeth shut on the hysterical giggle that threatened to bubble from her throat. So honest and straightforward, giving voice to that which none of the rest of them wanted to say.

'... Aware?'

Lechies was suddenly reminded of another encounter from months ago. A ransacked farmhouse, its occupants kidnapped by local bandits--and a lich unusually possessed of scruples who'd agreed to help rescue them. Another undead who had been very aware, perfectly willing to settle matters through conversation instead of simply consuming their lives. Intelligent. Civilized. With purpose all his own.

Perhaps...

Lechies let go of her staff and leaned back, catching sight of a clouded eye over Garrod's shoulders. Her stomach tightened, animal instinct moaning in fear, but Lechies held her face in a careful, neutral mask.

"I would echo Nere's question, but also ask--for what reason have you come here? I mean no offense," she added quickly, politely, "but the reanimated generally don't enter into settlements for peaceable reasons. I hope you understand that we're all on edge."

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Ragged breath after ragged breath escaped the dead man's hidden mouth, the sound of each dry exhelation, muffled by the scarf around his face.

Garrod gulped, as the pale ghouls pale eyes shifted to regard Nere, then Lechies, and he was glad that their cooler heads had prevailed.

Scared of a little old zombie? Belephus rumbled a low and evil laugh. Remind you of something, hmm?

The monster hunter's stare hardened, brow knitting together more deeply. "Well, out with it," Garrod urged with an anxious heat.

A soft groan left the dead man's throat, as his eyes, pale and seemingly sightless, seemed to focus back onto Garrod. "Am I aware?" he asked, in a raspy and rumbly town. Low as roots in the dirt. "Aware that I am..." he turned to the barkeep, who stared at him wide eyed and tense. "Dead..." the thought ended. He placed a gloved hand on the countertop, the ancient leather water stained and ragged, as if it would fall apart if he moved too quickly. "Yes," he managed. "I am aware of this... truth," he went on, standing there, and while his eyes stared blankly at the barkeep, his frame ceased imitating breath. "Reason..." he thought aloud, and turned his eyes back to Lechies, his full moon gaze fixed. "I need help, I seek it." he looked back to Garrod, then Nere. "You three, yes, you look like the right kind, the kind who could help me, help us, help me save my fellow dead."

He looked back to Hilda, and slowly, shakily, raised a crooked finger. "An ale, please."

Hilda near squeaked with surprise. And she was not a woman who was prone to squeaking. She nodded and poured the ghoul a cup.

 

[Nere Ashorn]

Each time the unseeing man's eyes shifted a new wash of instinct prickled across the back of Nere's neck. Voice harsh and warped, he was altogether unnatural, but his words spoke of a man lost. And when he ordered an ale so casual, the echo of some ancient gesture, Nere could not help but let out a single sighing laugh, all the tension in her chest shaking loose at once.

"Come to think of it, folks have been complaining about bodies disappearing out of their graves as of late," Hilda chimed in, the easy look that she always wore coming back to her face as she spoke. "I hadn't paid it much mind, the rain and shifting earth is always churning things up."

Nere nodded her understanding. That was a regular problem in the bayou, villagers needing to re-bury their dead every now and then. She wondered if that's why the island attracted so many necromancers to its muddy shores. Easy pickings.

Willing the gloomy thought away, Nere reached out to the ghoul in front of her, taking his hand up in her own. His skin was slick and leathery as a wet boot. "We'll help," she said, volunteering the other two without much of a thought. "Can you recall the place that you were first raised? That may give us some insight into how to save you."

The dead man looked at her and blinked slow, if only to fill up the space of his churning thoughts.

The bar creaked as Hilda leaned her weight against it, palms on the smooth top. "Well, I imagine you'll want to start with the biggest grave around here. The mine down the road has got a plenty big enough death toll to fill a necromancer's basket."

 

[Lechies Delrio]

The words he spoke came in broken fragments at first, as if having to physically pull them out, brain working at the same languid pace as his movements. Lechies waited breathlessly, still a little frightened by the walking dead man, but terribly curious all the same to know his reasons for coming here.

Then came the admission: I need help. And it was as if his wobbling thoughts suddenly righted themselves, found solid ground. His sentences flowed like a proper person's then, a hint of conviction in his pale eyes, and even a bit of personality coming through as he requested a drink.

Lechies turned on her stool, now fully facing the dead man. Her face pinched briefly at Nere's words, but there was no point in being annoyed. Even without being volunteered, Lechies would've freely offered her help. It was plain that the stranger wasn't here to harm them; in fact, it would appear harm had been done to him, and to these mysterious fellows he'd mentioned. Her understanding of where his intentions lay now confirmed, Lechies saw their new acquaintance--client?--as little different than any other mortal who found themself disadvantaged by their circumstances. And what did an agent of the Greendawn do better than help those in need?

She leaned into the bar, smiling kindly to show that he had her support.

"Can you tell us more about how we can help, as well? Are you and your comrades being threatened? Attacked by guards or mercenaries who don't know better?"

Lechies's eyes went to Hilda as she considered the barkeep's remarks. "I hadn't heard about the missing bodies. Though, our friend seems more of a warrior than a miner to me." She nodded at the ancient blade across his back.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

"Great," Garrod muttered beneath his breath, his hand easing away from his knife as he turned back to his stew. He would help, but that did not mean he had to be happy about it.

Afraid, are we? His demon teased.

Garrod clutched up his spoon, fingers squeezing so tight he felt the sharp points of his gauntlet dig into the softer leather lining.

Meet one little necromancer, and now you shiver in your boots at the mere possibility of coming across another? Belephus, laughed, tittering with heat and in a flash, Garrod saw the pale green miasma of the demon's fiery maw, spread wide in open grin there in the darkness of his missing eye.

In a jerk, Garrod stabbed his spoon into the bowl, scooped some chunks of shellfish and potato up, and stuffed it into his mouth. It the rich fatty stew was hot. And it was spicy, yet sweet. And he was glad for the pain that spread across his tongue and the roof of his mouth, glad it forced his mind off of the jeers. Even if his mouth felt as if it were on fire from the swirl of steam and peppers inside. He gulped it down all the same. Found it delicious, and had another spoonful.

The undead man let out a rasp of sound. Not quite a breath, but a moment of pause. A thought bubbling up in the swamp juice still in his skull. "Where I was first raised?" He asked, staring at the hands that were so tightly clasped around one of his gloved hands. "Hmmm,"

His eyes slowly drifted back to the cup of freshly poured ale. With his other hand he moved his scarf away from his lipless mouth, his toothy maw exposed, Hilda politely looked away, and the undead man took up the cup with his free hand and quaffed a drink. Some of it spilled out of the holes in his lower jaw, and out from the gaps in his teeth, but, most of it seemed to slosh down his gullet.

The undead man moved the cup away and looked at it, as ale still dribbled about his maw, and stained his already filthy scarf with darker pools of moisture. "Couldn't taste a thing," he said, in a voice more human. "Well, don't want it to go to waste," he said, and opened his maw wider, tilted his head back and let the liquid drain down his throat. His jaw shut with a clack of teeth, and he put the cup on the counter again.

He turned his gaze back to the living three, and caught Garrod staring, spoon hovering by his pursed lips as if he'd just been blowing on the soup to cool it off. The white haired man furrowed his brow and gulped the spoon down, almost defiantly, and turned his eye forward again.

"Those mines," he said. 'I came to about the outskirts of those mines." His eyes looked to the two ladies. "Not just me though," he paused, long. "Many of us, dozens and dozens, made to dig in the mines, made to catch stray travelers and add them to the horde," his eyes looked up at the ceiling, beyond it, and his mouth hung ajar. "I can hear them," he went on, and let the room around him still.

Magically attuned as he was, or perhaps it was because of the demon he wore on his arm, Garrod heard feint whispers that swirled about the air, could see wisps of gheist light churn about the warrior, as if he were the eye of their vortex. "The souls of those still trapped by the necromancer, Magnus," his eyes came back to them, those three heroes who would help him. "But some of us have broken free... I... I don't know how. Not quite. Most shamble out, aimless, and those I release. I put to rest," he chewed at the air, slow like. "But there are others like me, others who think, who feel. Some ask why, but most, most just want to live."

The door clacked open and the bell rung with harsh and violent chimes.

Hilda almost said welcome, but her eyes hardened, and her mouth set into a firm line.

 

[Nere Ashorn]

When the old warrior tilted his head upwards, Nere followed his milky gaze. Naturally, she did not see anything but cobwebs and grime clinging to the ceiling above, and the old brass chandelier that creaked every time a tenant from the floor above walked over it.

Still, she could listen, and hear the story that the dead man did tell. Letting go of his hand, Nere took to nodding along with what he said, her already rock-solid resolve to help the lost soul hardening into steel.

The chance to respond properly was dashed away by clattering bells as the door opened. Four loutish looking men and one squat komodi piled in to the front entry. The broadest and best armored one had a short crop of curly blond hair and no eyebrows, his features an unfortunate combination of boyish and brutal. He led the way in sauntering steps, one thumb hooked into the swordbelt at his waist.

Nere's face fell into a flat glower, more disappointment there than aggression. "Oh, its Vankram's company." She lowered her voice and leaned in closer to the two newcomers. "Mercenaries from the western arm. They've been banned from the Fool's End for unsavory conduct," she explained.

"Vankram! You know your lot isn't allowed back here," Hilda said much louder. "Or did I not make myself clear last time?"

"Settle down Hilda, our business ain't with you." A thin-lipped smile split across Vankram's face as he spread his half-gloved hands out in a placating gestured. "We'll just take care of that pest for ya and be on our way, no trouble intended."

 

[Lechies Delrio]

As the ghoul among them mulled over their questions, Lechies glanced at Garrod seated beside her. There was a certain tension in the set of his jaw, a vaguely distant look in his eye. Lechies recognized it. His body language echoed of another time--a sling on both their arms, bowls of bear stew cooling in their laps, an uncomfortable silence sitting heavy between them. Something bothered Garrod, and worry gnawed at Lechies as she wondered what it was.

Perhaps he was only unhappy at his sword-arm being volunteered for him, without hint or word of a reward. Garrod did seem the pragmatic type; she recalled how he'd haggled over the price of his help when they'd first crossed paths in Sulmer Woods. Well, surely the deed would pay its own weight in good karma, after all was said and done.

As the ghoul saw to his drink, Lechies found she could not take her eyes off the grisly sight, as fascinated as she was horrified. Over the course of her adventures she'd had many an opportunity to fight undead foes, but watching one partake of an activity as mundane as drinking ale was somehow bizarrely refreshing. It was a bit like fighting off a bandit and then finding that same bandit passing out candied apples to children on a village street.

Then the ghoul went on, laying out his tale. It painted a grim picture of slavery. A life--an unlife--in servitude to a master who cared nothing for them except the profit of their labors. Made to harm others, even when there was no desire to harm. A walking danger to those around them.

As absurd as it was, Lechies felt a spark of kinship with this ghoulish man.

"Most just want to live."

"Any who wish only to abide in peace deserve that same peace, no matter their origins," Lechies said, the words warm with sympathy.

Before she could say any more, a jingle rang from the entrance once more. Hilda's face shifted away from its friendliness, and Lechies paused, unable to shake off a sudden sense of impending peril. She turned on her stool yet again, sliding forward to rest her foot on the floor, ready to spring forward if need be. And such a need seemed highly likely. The five strangers were armed and armored, looking right at home despite Hilda's declaration that they should've found themselves anywhere else but here.

Vankram and his mercenaries. Of the various organizations that oversaw the Bayou's ebb and flow, Lechies was hopelessly ignorant, being an outsider. But if nothing else, she was of the opinion that anyone banned from an establishment run by the lovely Hilda could not be taken at their word.

She stretched her arm a little further along the bar behind her, fingers nearing her staff. With her other hand, Lechies gestured at herself, Garrod, and Nere.

"The gentleman requested our help, and we agreed to give it. So if you do have... business with him, Mister Vankram, then I suggest we discuss it together. Preferably outside, so as not to bother Hilda or her patrons."

Lechies didn't openly frown, but the implication was there in her tone all the same.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

As the ghoul spoke, Garrod listened, though he kept his eye off the... man, and on his stew. "Why is it always bloody necromancers," he muttered bellow his breath. Though he noted the name Magnus did not ring any bells. Still, their plight moved him.

See yourself in a dead man, do you? Belephus tittered, and he could feel his cruel smile. Best be rid of such thinking, tis a bad omen, oh bearer mine.

He would have scowled again, found himself diving further down into his foul mood, but Lechies cut the moment short, spoke of peace, and offered it to the man who lived on passed death. Garrod glanced at her then, caught the glimmer in her eye and the warmth of her words. Felt his own worries eased.

Too soon.

Harshly rang the bells above The Fool's End's door, and in strolled a band of ne'er-do-wells. Garrod felt his mood sour all over again, doubly so as they began to speak, and called the man a pest. Garrod's hand was back to the knife at his boot, his eye watching the four men as they loitered about, snaggle toothed and glaring.

"Business?" the baby faced looking one, Vankram Garrod took it, barked a laugh and cocked his head askew, as if the mockery of confusion weighed on him. "What sort of business could you have with a corpse, eh?" He grinned wide and his head straightened up as his brow-less gaze narrowed. He motioned for the sword at his belt, let his hand rest plain on its hilt. "Now, step aside, little ladies, and let us handle our business, nice and peaceful like,"

"Vankram, I swear on the seven hells that if you..." Hilda warned.

"Yes Hilda, yes, I done and heard you, ok?" Vankram dismissed, already taking his steps toward the undead man, who just stood there, and watched wide eyed, mouth agape, groaning softly as the man reached out to grab him by the collar. "Now, if you would all be so kind as to excuse me-

It was a small gesture. A snap of the fingers is all, and the oily flaxen hair atop Vankram's head started to crackle some. Smoke. Catch fire.

"What... what the hell is that smell?" Vankram said, suddenly frozen in his tracks. "And why is it so hot?" He looked around.

The undead man groaned, and pointed up at Vankram's head.

Garrod grinned.

Ah, I see I am starting to rub off on you.

 

[Nere Ashorn]

The mercenary leader's eyes widened in realization as his hair continued to burn, his open mouth a mirror of the dull shock on the dead man's face. Letting go of his quarry, Vankram stumbled back, patting desperately at his head. "Fire, that ghoul caught me on fire!"

In an abrupt motion, Nere whisked up her flagon of mead and dumped it over Vankram's head. The fire sputtered and steamed out, and the vile smell of burnt hair mixed with the honey drink into an unbearably burnt-sweet odor.

"Serves you right," Nere said. "We warned you enough times." She didn't mention that the fire had not been lit by the dead man, no resonance coming from him now. That was a conversation to be had later, in private with a certain newcomer.

Shoulders scrunching up, Vankram swiped liquid out of his eyes and spat out a tuft of hair. One of the mercenaries pushed forward and caught a concerning hand against Vankram's arm. "Aye boss, you good?"

Still blinded by the drink, Vankram pushed his man away with a weak shove. "Shut up an' grab the bounty, ya blockhead!"

"Uh, right boss..." Neil the brigand seemed to have a hard time picking a target. His eyes darted between the three competent-looking people before him - the mage with the tempered words and the cautious gaze, the man with the big sword, and Nere, who was still clutching the empty glass. Behind Neil, the komodi hissed, drew a dagger from a line of daggers slung across their chest, and flung it straight at the barkeep.

With a startled gasp, Hilda ducked behind the bartop just in time. The knife twanged in the wood paneling behind.

"Hey!" Nere said, aghast at the brazen act. "You can't treat Hilda like that!"

Neil found his nerves and swung bare-fisted at Nere. Distracted by the komodi pulling out another silver-flecked knife, she took the hit full on, sliding on one foot to catch her weight and keep from toppling. Came back with a nose dripping blood and steel in her eyes. She swung the empty glass at the big man's big head and it shattered against his ear, and then they were in a proper tussle, and Nere couldn't be bothered to see what state the rest of the tavern was in.

 

[Lechies Delrio]

There came a familiar spark of arcana beside her, and suddenly an innocent little plume of smoke was wafting from the top of Vankram's head. Childish amusement bubbled up from Lechies's belly. She dared not glance at Garrod lest she lose her composure, her cheeks already sore from holding back a smile. Then Nere answered Vankram's dilemma with a sweet, sweet solution, and Lechies forced an awkward cough, desperately hiding her grin behind her fist.

The moment of levity was short-lived, however. 'Grab the bounty', came the order. The silver of a blade flashed in reply, and with it vanished any hope of resolving their dispute by peaceful means.

Lechies lunged off her stool and away from the knife, snatching up her staff as she moved. Golden glyphs formed around her hands with a melodious hum, the blood in her veins warming as power built in preparation for release. As the komodi bent their arm back to send the next knife flying, Lechies pointed in their direction and twisted her wrist. An arcane rope burst across the space between them, swift as a snake, and spun shining coils around the kodomi's head and horns, pinning their elbow by their face. The knife clattered to the floor, harmless, and the komodi staggered, no longer able to bring their arm straight.

The knife-thrower no longer an immediate threat, Lechies turned her attention to Vankram and the other two thugs who yet remained unoccupied. She held out her hand, glyphs shaping before her palm--then hesitated as a pair of the End's patrons stood up from their table behind the gang. They had the broad, burly build of day laborers, and looked none too pleased by the attempt on their favorite barkeeper's life.

The one with the bigger beard laid a thick hand on the closest thug's shoulder. "Hilda said y'all ain't welcome here, or didn't you hear?"

"Piss off," snarled the goon, sweat shining on his brow beneath a mop of red curls, and began to pull his club from the loop on his belt. "It's none of yer-"

The other man interrupted him with a hard punch to the jaw, sending the redhead stumbling into the next table over. Mugs and dishes clattered noisily. That table's occupants stood up too, frowning and grumbling, and took fistfuls of the redhead's shirt as he tried to right himself.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Things... escalated quickly. Drink was spilled, a glass was smashed, a knife was thrown, Lechies used her cool golden rope spell, and even the patrons had gotten into the mix. It was bedlam. It was chaos. And for whatever reason, all the worry and anxiety and exhaustion Garrod had felt not moments ago, were just, gone.

Replaced by the cacophony of bar room violence. And the laughter of his demon. Howling and pleased. And Garrod did not know it, but he was grinning, wide and excited. And maybe it was just in his mind's eye, so tangled with that thing in the opalescent jewel, milky white and lichen green, but Garrod felt that he could see it smiling. Squinting, happy as could be.

You did this, oh bearer mine. Feel proud.

The undead man stared, wide eyed at all the chaos, and quickly hopped over the bar to hide with Hilda. His skeletal visage poking up from behind the cover as a bottle flew over head and smashed against the back wall of the bar, ale sprayed everywhere.

One of the four bully boys, bald and with a bull ring piercing through the septum of his nose, rushed toward Garrod with pounding steps. Garrod, inexplicably, still sat in his stool just taking it all in with crinkled eyes and a weird smile on his face. Twisted and strange. The bully did not care. He swung with a looping left, wide with his hammer of a fist. Garrod raised his right arm up to guard against the blow, the white gauntlet, the relic armor all spike and tooth in its design, caught the man's flesh, stabbed it and raked it open, and the force of the blow was enough to send Garrod down to the ground with a hard crash.

The man stood over him, proudly. Until the pain of his fresh wounds set in, bringing his eye down with a twitch of confusion. He saw the puncture wounds, and the angry gash in the muscle of his forearm. His eyes widened, as panic set in. A hard thunk from down low. Hot angry pain, sharp as a knife drew his gaze down.

There, Garrod, on the floor, looked up at him with an evil joy curling his lips. His fat knife was stabbed clean through the bully's leather boot. Blood starting to pool about the wound. He shouted in agony, tried to move but it only made things worse, as Garrod held the knife down with his weight, he pushed off and up and cracked the man across the chin with an armroed elbow from his left. He felt the bones CRUNCH deliciously.

Vankram, the baby faced wonder, growled as he watched his goons get dealt with, one by one, and he grabbed at the hilt of his sword and yanked to pull it free from its scabbard. It got stuck. He pulled at it again, eyes fat with tears and red from the ale, but it stayed stuck, and he pulled and pulled and pulled until it shwinged out!

"Alright, listen here you fucks!" He shouted as he brought the sword down to bare at Garrod, who he had caught unawares. It's tip hovered just below his neck.

Garrod, stood frozen. Smile gone, his hands up in the air as the other violent actors seemed to settle down now that a life was full on the line.

"No more funny business, or I swear on my mother, I'll run this one eyed geezer right through, do you hear me?!"

One of the miners, eyes glued squarely on Vankram and his brandished sword, gave the red hair goon one last sock in the gut, and crumpled him over with an audible oof.

"I mean it!" Vankram shouted loudly, and the blade jostled some in his hand. Garrod gulped nervously, and sweat ran down the side of his face. "Now," he said, eyes cutting to the undead man behind the bar. "You, undead filth, lets have a chat with me and the boys outside," he whistled sharply. "Charlie!"

The red haired man groaned and wheezed. "Yes boss?"

"Pick up Vincent off the ground,"

"Right away boss," Charlie said as he moved to pick up the man with the knife still stuck in his foot.

"Come on, ye shamble-man, I told you I wasn't messin around,"

The undead man groaned. Still crouched behind the counter so only his white eyes and big hat could be seen by all the others. Then he slowly rose, and started to make his way around the bar. Step by steady step.

"That's right, come on out,"

Garrod cursed beneath his breath.

 

[Nere Ashorn]

In the background of the commotion, Damze leaned his narrow frame against the kitchen's open doorway. There was no telling when he had come out of his domain to watch the scuffle, all but Hilda's gaze somehow missing the slender, round-eyed man. A crossbow was propped up on his hip like one might carry a toddler, and he idly fiddled with a stout metal bolt in his other hand.

It was hard for Nere to notice anything as she dodged a fist and piled her own into the gut of the bulky man in front of her. An honest match, Nere and Neil traded blows, until Nere got him in a headlock, and he sunk his teeth into her forearm. Nere shouted and squirmed, but didn't let go.

"Have you no shame, man?" Grimacing from the pain, she hooked her other hand around Neil's nostrils and tried to pry him loose. A muffled grunt was his response. "Stop biting me!"

Then came the shout from Vankram, and Nere looked up to see the pale haired man at the mercy of the mercenary leader. The toothy clamp on her arm slackened and reluctantly, Nere shoved the goon away from her with a twist and a swift kick in the back. She stood where she was, open palms outspread in what, on any other person, would have been a pleading stance. For Nere, she looked more like she was about to pull a knife from thin air, or catch a fish with her bare hands.

Blood reddening his lips, Niel stared dumbly as his boss slowly backed up towards the door, the living man at swordpoint and the dead man following in tow. Then he seemed to remember himself and hurried after, catching up with the others as they piled past Vankram and out the door.

Step by careful step, Vankram continued his delicate operation, blade always hooked under Garrod's jaw.

"Fear not, traveler Lechies, I won't let any harm come to your companion," Nere whispered, tilting as far towards the woman as she dared, till she was nearly balancing on one foot. "As soon they cross the threshold--"

"Hey, hey, hey, no conspiring!" Vankram shouted at her, and jolted the tip of his blade up a smidge for emphasis. "This un with the fancy arm is coming along for the trip, so don't you even think about following after!"

A chilly silence came next as Nere stared daggers - perhaps not literally yet - back at the man. Quiet enough that the sound of ancient boots squelching across the wooden floor could be heard as the dead man shambled, leaving behind puddles of what she hoped was only swamp water and spilt ale.

Lechies Delrio Garrod Arlette

 

[Lechies Delrio]

As the red-haired goon found himself suddenly busy with fending off the table he'd crashed into, Lechies inched further down the length of the bar, just in case she needed the distance. Then again, Vankram and his men had apparently run into more resistance than they'd expected. All of them were tangled up in some tussle or other. Literally tangled up, in the komodi's case; they were still trying to uncoil Lechies's shining rope with the one arm that remained free. Matters were mostly under control.

And then they weren't. The steel gleaming below Garrod's throat promised to make good on its wielder's threat.

Lechies went cold with fear, disbelief spreading numbness down her spine. Could fate be this cruel? To let her reunite with Garrod after so long, even when she herself had wanted to avoid it, only to see his life end on a common thug's blade before they could properly reconcile? Surely not...

"I mean it!" came the bark.

She would not tempt fate this day. Lechies dropped her staff with a clatter, raising her hands in surrender, and with her right made a slow, deliberate gesture in the air. The komodi gasped as the arcane rope dissipated in a cloud of fluttering motes. They stooped to retrieve their lost knife, then retreated to Vankram's side, glaring at Lechies all the while. The ice in her veins seemed to solidify further as Garrod was made to follow them and the ghoul towards the door.

Lechies didn't respond to Nere. She didn't dare, however grateful she might be for the other woman's reassurance. Vankram was too watchful for unnecessary heroics. All she could do was catch Garrod's eye, lips pressed so tight as to be bloodless, as she racked her mind for a plan.

Step by step, the thugs drew closer to escape. The ghoul went too, an ominous march across wood and water.

Water...

Lechies's gaze dipped to the End's floor. She was sure Hilda kept it as clean as she could, but there was only so much one could do for a public establishment built in the Bayou. Puddles glistened here and there, small and dirty, tracked in by patrons over the course of the day. Certainly more mud than water, but perhaps it would be enough.

It would have to be enough.

Her eyes went to Garrod again, Lechies's expression now hard with determination.

Then she moved her head slightly sideways, as if to look at Nere. Just a slight jerk of her chin, and at the same time sent a silent command to the puddle beneath Vankram's feet. In response, a tongue of muddy water leaped from the floor like a squirrel trying to escape a fox. It caught onto the wrist of Vankram's sword arm, freezing as it went, yanking the blade away from Garrod's neck.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Think Garrod, think. His own mind asked, the blade, ever just beneath his chin. So near the skin of his neck he could feel its cold edge sap away the warmth from his blood, just by being there. Its mere threat enough to raise goose pimples about the spot which it kissed.

You could always, the blood stained Belephus began, all too happy, all too pleased as the crimson seeped steadily into his demonic marrow. Rely on me, oh bearer mine. And he could feel the demon's eye in him. Within the dark pool of black that was the space of his missing eye. A slash of pale and lightning green, like a tear through the sky at night. Hot, though it was but the fade of something hotter.

Vankram eased back, the ghoul man groaned, slow to follow. But he did follow. Why? Why did he give up now, for a stranger? For a fool. Garrod's eye rested on Lechies.

Garrod grit his teeth, felt the tendons across the back of his hand flex, the muscles in his fingers pull as he ground his teeth. And the demon smiled all the wider there within his gleaming jewel. He smirked, and his lips whispered "Bele-"

A bolt of cold seared through the air. Ice spray and freezing mist clouded in thin vapors. The body of ice slammed against Vankram's wrist, knocked the sword away with a deft precision. In the inches that Lechies had bought him, Garrod bent his knees, planted his feet and grabbed up Vankram's arm by the forearm with both of his hands, slammed his weight back low and into the mans gut and with a heft and a fiery shout, flipped him up off his feet, over his shoulder with a roll, and slammed him into the ground with a hard crash.

The other goons blinked a moment, then bustled to action. Swarming Garrod like wolves trying to pin a badger. Garod thrashed. Gauntlet catching one man across the face with a crack, the Belephus'd fist punching hard into soft flesh with a wet slick. Then they grappled him and the Komodi drew their knives.


The undead man stared wide eyed, and motionless, took a step back. He surged forward with unholy speed, black cloak a-snap and stir and a wash as his arms hooked under the lizard-kin's own, restraining them with a strength not human as bright points of blade swiped and cut and tried to stab but went on missing. The undead hero groaned and kept his head held away from the menace of metal, lurched, slow step, after slow step back from the ball of brawling bodies as he dragged the enraged knife fiend with him.

Vankram shook his head, and tried to stir back up to his feet.

 

[Nere Ashorn]

Despite her reassuring words, it didn't look like either of the two travelers needed Nere's assistance. Lechies gave her a quiet signal and then did something slick with the water on the ground, and with that allowance Garrod freed himself from the mercenary's grasp. All she managed to do was stay out of the way as the fight rolled to a start again.

Even the dead man pitched in, grabbing at the komodi before they could do any more damage with their knives. Yellow eyes and sharp teeth flashing in the candlelight as they kicked and spat, trying to get some weight against the dead man but coming up short.

Quietly and with a gentle deliberation, Damze slotted a bolt into his crossbow and took aim.

Vankram stumbled forward, holding his sword with both hands now, warmed fingers wrapping around frostbitten ones. With the others well and distracted by Garrod and the dead man, he looked ready to get his revenge on the mage who had frozen him, going in for a heavy swing at Lechies.

"Sword!" Nere called out, but it was not a warning. The blood running down her forearm curdled and a line of runes there flashed with hot forge-magic. The sound of steel biting steel rang out, and there crouched Nere, a long, etched blade rising up to meet Vankram's swing.

Vankram scowled and pulled away, pacing around the now armed woman.

"C'mon Nere -- an' Hilda back there, I see you!" He tilted his chin up and called out over the bartop. "I know you don't like us, but this is honest work. You lot aren't seriously going to defend a corpse, are you? I don't care if that thing can talk or what. I don't give a shit if it can sing and dance, it's dangerous!"

As if in response, a bolt whispered past Vankram's ear and down the length of the dining room, landing in a support beam with a wet thunk.

"Volgende zal niet missen," Damze said from his perch in the kitchen doorway. He wasn't looking at Vankram, nor the dead man. No, he'd already pulled out another bolt from his apron pocket and was thumbing it into the smooth wooden groove of the machine, engrossed in the task.

Vankram blinked at the mad cook, clearly having one of his worse days as a mercenary captain. "Sorry, what?"

Lowering her sword, Nere straightened up, trying to muster up the end of the fight. "He said to walk away, while you still can. Seems we're all set on defending a corpse."

"Undead been crawling out of the swamps left and right, an' you serve 'em drinks. Fucking mad," the mercenary captain spat out, even as he began backing away towards the door. He motioned towards the rest of his crew still struggling to hold Garrod down. "Get off 'im boys, this bounty ain't worth it."

Lechies Delrio Garrod Arlette

 

[Lechies Delrio]

It was a small opening she provided, but Garrod took advantage beautifully, tossing his once-captor with frightening strength. Then he was grappling with the other goons, and even the undead man had found the resolve to fight.

But Garrod had no weapons, save Belephus. Lechies recalled what had happened the only time she witnessed the pale gauntlet's power unleashed. That terrible, hungry gravity... The woman's life dimming like a candle flame sputtering out. As dire as Garrod's situation was, Lechies felt with an unnameable but certain conviction that it would be best if he didn't rely on that power again.

Lechies dropped low to take her staff from the ground. She lunged forward as she rose -- unknowingly carrying her closer into Vankram's vengeful charge. Her eyes went wide. Golden glyphs reflexively began to form in her free hand even as Lechies knew she wouldn't be able to turn the blow in time.

Then a pulse of aura echoed from beside her, sharp and steady. In her mind burned the image of a newly-born blade rising from the cooling trough, steam pouring from its silver surface.

Steel clashed noisily less than an arm's length away; Lechies jolted and sprang back behind Nere. Her eyes darted to the sword. Magic-forged, brilliant to behold with her other sight. There was one question answered, then. Something in Lechies hummed with content even as her heart hammered from the near-miss.

"Thanks," she murmured.

Lechies resumed a ready stance, but there was little need. With Nere now properly armed and Damze loading another reply into his crossbow, Vankram finally seemed to decide that their group was too much trouble for whatever quest had been thrust upon his company. With reluctant grumbles, the thugs let Garrod go and began to follow their leader out, some limping or cradling bloodied arms against their chests, or rubbing at fresh bruises. The komodi gave the undead man a particularly vehement hiss as they retreated.

"Wait," Lechies called, and for some reason, Vankram heeded her, pausing to shoot her dagger eyes. "Who offered this bounty?"

That necromancer, Magnus? Or another party, weary of undead walking the swamps and willing to pay to be rid of the nuisance? Lechies dearly hoped it wasn't the latter. The one enemy was already enough.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Vankram looked over his shoulder, just beneath the door's gate, grey-blue-green muck outside colder than the stony stare he fixed on the ice-slinging mage. "Ain't that somethin? You lot bloody my men, then still want us to play nice, bah," he flicked the thought away with a wave of his wrist. "What the hell do I care, take it up with Frau Voglesong," with that, the band of mercs left The Fool's End.

The undead man stood, glowy eyed and perpetually slack-jawed as he was beneath the brim of his old tricorn hat.

Garrod kept his eye narrowed and fixed on the door, he even stepped out and found that they had truly gone. He came back in, and walked over to a specific puddle of blood where his heavy knife lay about, picked it up, and wiped the sticky red against the red-dyed cloth of his pants. A quick click later, and the weapon was stowed back at his hip.

"Alright, everybody, bars closed for the evening," Hilda said with an irritated look.

The crowd groaned, some protested, offering help, while others just wished Hilda their best, and promised to see her sooner rather than later.

"Saven you three," the tender of the bar nodded to the party who had stood up for the undead man. "Er, four," she nodded to the zombie himself. "I'll let ya'll stick around a little longer and... sort things out," she said as she got busy cleaning things up.

"Fucking mess, that was," Garrod grumbled grumpily to himself. "Oy, Hilda, got a mop I can help you with," he offered.

Hilda, who was already up behind the bar again, shaking her head in dismay smiled softly, and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. "In the back, Damze, be a dear and help the man find a mop and a good bucket,"

Damze muttered something unintelligible, at least to Garrod, and let down his heavy crossbow with a practiced disengagement before he nod and disappeared into the back.

Garrod looked to Lechies and Nere, "Glad you two were here for that," he said, though his eye lingered longer on the wizard. He nod to her, and went into the back with Damze.

The undead man returned to the bar, and slumped back onto a stool. A walking corpse, with eyes that glowed with necromantic light, he shook his head in slow, rattly shakes. "I..." his lifeless voice began. "Thank you for standing by my side," he let out. "I recalled a name," he said, his eyes staring into something unseeable to them. "Siegfried," he let out. "Whether it is mine or..." the weight of the thought squeezed the air out of him, until he realized he need no air to breath. "One of the many souls that swirl within me, I cannot say,"

Nere Ashorn Lechies Delrio