Private Tales Supersledge

[Scythe and Nyght]

Mid-morning. Elbion in sight. And the carriage rolled along the road, preceded by a wagon full of personal guards, half a dozen in all. Each speaking to his wealth. His influence. As did the carriage itself. Covered, luxurious cushioned seats, glass windows on the two doors. A man of many means. Oh, generous was he to the impoverished people of Alliria, his fair home. Generous. Indeed.

Scythe and Nyght sat across from him. He had been their benefactor before, and so it was now. His name was Nathaniel Barr, but it was through the unseen and unheard work of assassins and thieves and sellswords--like Scythe and Nyght--that he could be known by his more common name.

The Philanthropist. A magnanimous monolith of a man. An exemplary heart, boundless in charity, the beacon of hope that his fellows in the Inner City refused to be. Oh, generous was he. For nothing bought silence, complicity, and outright allegiance among the desperate like a few spare coins. Gifts. Freely given. Of course.

He sat next to another man he had not deigned to introduce yet. Scythe and Nyght had shared the occasional small talk with the unnamed man during the weeks-long ride by road to Elbion from Alliria. From what they could tell, he was a sailor of some sort. Odd, then, that they didn't travel by sea.

But now, with their destination so close, the Philanthropist leaned forward. Finally deciding to enlighten them on the details of their contract.

"Have either of you ever seen a clock before?"

Scythe and Nyght tilted their heads to the side in unison.
"No, we haven't," said Scythe.
"Should we have?" said Nyght.

The Philanthropist smirked. A tiny, knowing gesture. "Curious devices. Made by dwarves. You wind them up, and they mark time. Like a company of soldiers at drill or march. Surely you've heard the steady beat of a march before?"

"Oh! They make a sound, do they?" said Nyght.
"Yes, that's right. A tapping and a ticking. Something like that?" said Scythe.
"Hmm. Now we remember."
"Perhaps we should buy two."
"Perhaps we should."

The Philanthropist leaned back into his seat. Angled his chin up. Entwined his fingers. "Good. Now, this is relevant because your target is obsessed with the damn things."

Scythe and Nyght thought back, their eyes sliding up and to the left. The last time they saw one of those clock-things was back in Alliria, as a matter of fact. That woman leaving Barr's manor just as they were going inside. And she left a wake of seething rage as she had passed by.

"The woman? Light green eyes? Black hair?" said Scythe.
"Dark skin? A few months ago? Angry enough to rip your balls off?" said Nyght.

"The very same." He shifted in his seat. Visibly uncomfortable with the phrasing of that last part. "Her name is Khadija Han. And she's part of a guild--or some underground equivalent of one--calling itself the 'Luminari'. To be succinct, she asked me to become a patron. A donation," he scoffed, "for the advancement of humanity over the encroaching tyranny of other races, as she said. And I told her no at first, and then to fuck off when she persisted." He grinned and shook his head. "Weeks. She spent weeks worming her way into an audience with me. For a gods-damned donation."

"And she's going to cause trouble for you here?" said Nyght.

"Not just trouble. A colossal disaster, that's what."

"Here? In Elbion?" said Scythe.

The Philanthropist motioned toward the unnamed man sitting next to him. The man tipped his hat and grinned theatrically. "Meet Corrin Trent. The man I've been carefully positioning to helm the Supersledge for months. In three days, she's bound to leave port, laden with more treasure and docatto than she's ever sailed with before. It's just unfortunate that the ship's regular captain is going to come down with a sudden and debilitating illness, isn't it? Well, fear not, I will ensure Captain Trent here will be taking his place. And unfortunate still, for the guild sponsoring this voyage, that the Supersledge will be 'sunk' along with all its valuable cargo. The high seas are a dangerous place, after all."

"And this Han woman..." said Scythe.
"You know she's going to interfere?" said Nyght.

The Philanthropist laughed. "The firmly worded letter she sent swearing revenge after my rebuke is evidence enough. This...Luminari she belongs to operates in or near Elbion, from what I understand. They've some sort of grievance against the College." He waved his hand dismissively. "In any case, I cannot risk taking her threat lightly, and I cannot assume that she hasn't found out through some means or another my involvement with the merchant guilds of Elbion. And even in the unlikely event that she is unaware of my dealings in Elbion, I simply cannot allow her to continue being this dangling sword above my head. You are to find her, and enlighten her to the folly of crossing me."

"The clock she wears," said Nyght.
"What does it look like?" said Scythe.

And the Philanthropist described it. Mastercrafted. Made of silver. Winding knob on the side. The wheels of time on the backside. And a sun encircled by flowering ivy on the front. The true touch of the artisan.

"Remember," the Philanthropist said, as the gates of Elbion drew ever closer. "Three days. The Supersledge must sail."

Scythe cracked his knuckles. Nyght popped her neck.

"It will be done, boss," said Scythe.
"Should be fun," said Nyght.

And they grinned. Pulling up the hoods of their coats.


Greldyrn Il Farrick

 

[Greldyrn Il Farrick]

Clocks, clockwork, and the whole menagerie of time-keeping devices ticked on – all within the temporary tenement of the traveling dwarf.

The sun was well on its way to noon, although Greldyrn need not check. His hand-watch, elaborately shaped from dwarven brass, was a jewel among masterpieces. It spoke time on its ever-turning wheels, driven by a steel spring no thinner than a strand of hair. It lay conveniently on the oak workbench, giving the craftsman a sense of time as he diligently finished his final contracted piece for the month.

Farrick gave a brief glance at his timepiece. It was so easy to lose track of the days when one was so focused on one’s craft. The watch’s main face was separated into three sectors, each keeping track of time at different scales and different intervals. One was for the hours, minutes, and seconds – as per standard of the timekeeping community. The other was for the day, week, and month – a nonstandard addition, but one that he has incorporated in a few of his more detailed creations. The final sector was unique in that it reflected information not useful to the common man. In fact, this clock was the only one he had made with the feature. The sector depicted a scene of the night sky with a circular dial which represented the current phase of Pneria. To the side, it also marked the time left before the beginning of the next cycle. It was elaborate, decorated with gilded silver, and made to look like an unneeded accessory; however, it served as an important reminder for the busy dwarf. He read the current reading. There were three days left until the full moon.

To be honest, there wasn’t much time left to prepare for his departure. The moon wouldn’t wait until he was ready to leave, but he had to finish the last commissioned item before he left. He had a reputation in the artificing community to maintain. Credibility was hard to earn these days, and much harder to gain back once lost. Thus, he made it a point to always finish his work at least five days in advance. This time, however, he was running late.

Three days was ample time to put distance between himself and the town and center himself in some nondescript village, but it was not enough time to pack, close the lease, and get through city customs in one piece. The templars in the region were becoming more thorough in their investigations. Had they found out the glaring pattern in his recent itinerary, Farrick would have found himself hanging from the gallows. Disappearing right before a full moon would have been a clear indicator as to what he was. He knew better than to give them such clues. He had been apart of one of their chapters once, in a time far gone.

Thus, leaving always required an art of subtlety. Twisting a few arms, changing a few documents, and convincing others of the need for secrecy would always factor into those last five days of every cycle. He was lucky. Those who came to see him for his wares were usually scholars or aristocrats. One knew the value of keeping a secret while the other knew the price. Add in a few coins and a good forger, and leaving without a trace was easy. It was no wonder why there was so much unseen crime in the city.

Besides, it wouldn’t be good for business if he stayed later. What good were dead customers?

The atmosphere in the room changed as the air shifted. The bells of the door rang as a man walked through its threshold, letting fresh air into the musty apartment. It only took a few paces for the dwarf to accurately identify the person who entered. Every man had a unique stride. It only took a careful ear to discern the walk of one individual from another. It was immediately clear who the man was when he entered. Steps accented with stately staccato, a brief brush of satin on old wood, and the tap of a hollow cane revealed exactly who he was.

“Gwent,” the dwarf said roughly. “You’re early”

Flipping up the extra lenses on his glasses up and out of the way, the dwarf turned to the entrance. Unsurprisingly, the flaxen haired merchant was standing there with an amused face. Like many other men of wealth, Gwent wore only the smoothest of silks and lightest of cottons. His black suit fit him snugly, and gave him an imposing frame. The man must have had a good tailor. The cut made the man look thinner than he actually was.

“You know, I do not understand how you do that,” Gwent said, gesturing towards the door, and then back to the dwarf. “How can you tell?”

“Dwarven sixth sense,” Greldyrn joked, giving a brief shrug. “You are also the only customer of mine in Elbion to walk with a cane.”

“Ah, I see.” The man flashed a wry smile as his eyes became unreadable for a brief moment. The dwarf must have hit something personal. Within moments, the youthful, pleasant mirth of his customer returned, and business ensued.

“Why are you here?,” Farrick asked as he circled around the half-packed luggage, to the counter where Gwent stood. “I told you I would not be finished until later this evening.”

“My apologies. It is difficult to tell the time without a timepiece in my pocket.”

Greldyrn raised an eyebrow.

“One would think that the sky would be enough to give a rough estimate.”

“The sky – unfortunately – lies at times. The sun was behind a cloud when I looked up, so I knew not if it were setting or rising. Only a clock holds true. All jests aside, is my new pocketwatch ready? I am in a bit of a hurry.”

Merchants. Always impatient.

“Good craft takes time. If you’re in a hurry, you could always see another watchmaker,” Greldyrn said flatly. “They would surely have something on the shelves for you. I would offer you a stock item if I had any left, but – unfortunately – I do not. Might I recommend the timekeeper down the street? Her work should be enough to suit your needs.”

“Bah, your kin is few and seldom satisfactory. Don't send me to her. Only the gods and I know that your clocks are the only accurate ones in this damn town. A fool would buy anyone else’s timepiece, especially given their rarity. Everyone who respects good craft respects your work.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. It’s true. It really is a shame that I have to wait once a year for your travels to reach Elbion. Not many know of clocks, but those who do know that they are an indispensable necessity. I do not know how I could have lived without your timepieces. An artificer’s curio… what do the common folk know anyway?”

“Indeed,” Greldyrn replied somewhat distantly. “What do they know indeed.” There was a short pause. “You’re in luck though Gwent. If you can wait half of an hour longer, I’ll be finished with your commission.”

“Do you suppose it would bother you if I stayed and watched?” the merchant asked with beaming eyes.

“I suppose not.”

“Then I suppose I will watch.”

* * *​

When the piece was finished, Gwent bid his farewell and wished the dwarf good travels. The small, customized watch took slightly longer than anticipated, taking an hour and a half instead of just thirty minutes. As the dwarf expected, the merchant did not care. He only stared on with curious, gluttonous eyes as the artificer worked.

Most of his clientele in Elbion were the strange type, much like Gwent. They were so fixated on his mechanical clocks that they cared not for his other wares and crafts. Such obsessions were clearly illustrated in one of his more recent customers: Lady Khadija Han. With all of the questions she asked, he was sure she was some sort of spy for one of his rivals, eager to cut in on his earnings. Her request was complex, and led to the creation of a truly unique watch. It looked simple on the outside, but it hid far more information that its simple decorations may betray. Thankfully, she paid him lavishly for the troubles she caused, so he could not complain. Docatte were docatte, and would see him through the next month with ease. He didn't care if his customers were obsessed or detached – as long as they paid.

Turning the sign on the window from open to closed, Greldyrn began packing the rest of his equipment. He was located in the heart of the one of the busiest sections east of Merchant District, but there was no time for new customers. Even in broad daylight, he had to make use of the hours he had free. He had a long night approaching soon, and even longer travels awaiting him. Best to get things settled and hit the road.

He lit his pipe and inhaled the sweet-smokes. The night was coming fast, and like always, he was not looking forward to the changes it would bring.



Scythe and Nyght

 

[Scythe and Nyght]

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Khadija Han paced in her room at The Broken Quill. She had her arms crossed. Tapped a finger on her elbow. Kept the sure and steady rhythm of the clock she wore around her neck. Wondrous devices. Wondrous. Time was precious, of course. Precious. Granted. Everybody took it for granted! Oh no, no, no, not Kha. She knew. She had been made aware. Time was short. Always short. Think about it. That made everything short. Time was the king of kings. Who could dispute its rule? Magic faded. Life faded. Think about it. Tick. One moment alive. Tock. One moment dead. Tick. So what are you going to do, huh? Tock. What are you going to do?

She shivered. It happened again. Scared herself. She scared herself often, thinking like that. Shake it off. She rubbed her arms, feverishly brushing away the chills. Tick. Tock. She held the clock. Tick. Tock. She needed it. Tick. Tock. Needed it. Tick. Tock. Couldn't even fall asleep now. Tick. Tock. Without its familiar lullably. Tick.

Silence.

She frowned. Her heart took up the march, thudding harder in her chest to the ghost of the clock's beat. Quivering fingers found the knob. Wound it. Wound it. Her teeth chattered with anxious anticipation. And she released it. Her breath stuck in her lungs. Waiting.

Tock.

She sighed in relief and slumped down on the bed, her head on the pillow and a big smile spreading across her face. That's better. She caressed the sun and wreath design on the front of the clock. A shame, really, that only dwarves were adept at making them. Dirty, nasty, pompous dwarves and their damn secrets. If the dream of the Luminari came true in her lifetime, she would make it her personal crusade to pry the intricacies of timekeeping and clockwork mechanisms from their thick skulls for the good of mankind. Hmm. That sounded fantastic! Think about it. Khadija Han, the mother--No! Goddess!--of time for all mankind.

She sat up in the bed. Checked the time on her clock. He was late. No. Was he? Maybe it was Barr who was late? No. Was he? Maybe Barr decided not to come? No. Did he? Maybe it was all a ruse? An elaborate trap--

A knock on the door. She leapt off of the bed and hurried over. Unlatched the lock. Opened it.

Young Markus stood there. A boy on the verge of being a man, or a man who had only just been a boy not all too long ago. The Broken Quill was not a rich inn, but it was not a poor one either. And Markus was dressed like those who often crawled in from the Aberresai Savannah or washed up by way of the Cairou River. Evidence of a hard life lived. Of a family lost, and a new one found.

"They're here," he said, short of breath.

Kha shepherded him into the room, glanced up and down the hall, and closed the door and locked it. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

She crossed the room, giddiness marking her stride. The table, and her pack on it, next to the window. Elbion, the great city of red, white, and green outside. She reached inside the pack. Pulled out an orange crystal, rounded on one end and sharpened on the other, just a bit too large for her palm. A muted light swirled within. Distorted. Dangerous.

Tick. Tock. The sound of her clock filling the wordless air between them.

"Is it my time?" he asked.

Kha wrapped the crystal in a cloth. Held it carefully as she walked to him. Markus had no talent for magic, no inclination of any kind for the arcane, but it didn't matter. The crystal, and other such creations, were Kha's specialty. Enchanted items, easy to use, and fit for those who lacked ability.

Tick. Tock.

She offered the wrapped crystal to him. Closed his hands around it with her own. Then she firmly cradled the back of his head, and leaned her forehead into his. She could feel him shaking. A rhythm all his own.

"Do you believe in our cause?"

"Yes."

Louder. "Markus Ansel Holmstadt, do you believe in our cause?"

"Yes! I do, Kha. I do!"

And she threw her arms around him. Pulled him into her. Embraced him tightly. Felt the tears running off his face and onto her shoulder. The clock between their beating hearts.

Tick. Tock.

"Trajan is watching. He will remember your sacrifice. And I swear to you now, I will kill ten elves in your name. One for each of your family."

She parted from him. Clapped her hands on his shoulders. Beamed as he said with pride, "I will bring the Luminari a great fortune."

"You honor us with your example. Markus, you are my brother."

"Kha, you are my sister."

Together: "And we are kin."

Markus made for the door. Unlatched the lock. Gripped the handle. Hesitated, then looked back and asked, "Will you witness me?"

Her heart skipped a beat. Now out of sync with the clock. The right side of her face twitched. She hadn't planned on this. Something could go wrong. Think about it. What if she was too close? Got discovered? But he needed her. Now more than ever. So what are you going to do, huh?

She smiled. Doing her best to hide her anxiety. It was this or nothing.

"Of course." And she touched the clock.

Tick. Tock.

* * * * *​

The Philanthropist dropped Scythe and Nyght off in the Merchant District, and his carriage and wagon rolled on toward the East Port. They had visited Elbion a few times before, and their task seemed simple enough. How many clockmakers could there be?

But the sheer magnitude of the city dawned on them as they walked through the streets, passing white-brick store after white-brick store. Goods of all sorts on offer, advertised by dangling wooden signs above doors. The usual assortment of arms and armor. Local crops and exotic ones, imported from far and wide, in both open-air and interior shops and markets. Clothing for the working man and woman, fine garments and accessories for those with more coin and more discerning taste. Jewelry, enchanted and unenchanted, safe and on display behind the glass of windows or small cabinets. General goods for everyday living and maintenance of one's home. Boating equipment in some of the shops closer to the Cairou River, and even some small watercraft for the aspiring fisherman. Even one shop that sold nothing but quills and parchment.

It had been a while, alright. Scythe and Nyght had spent a lot of time in the smaller towns and villages out in the Allir Reach this year. Lots of work to be had out there. And those smaller settlements were a far cry from the splendor of Elbion. Like a whole other world. One that Scythe and Nyght were much more familiar with. One of dirt and grime and rough edges. Of perseverance and making ends meet. Of soiling your hands to survive. One built on necessity instead of extravagance. Or perhaps decadence.

They covered more ground by splitting up temporarily. Walking parallel streets. A perk of their gift from the old enchanter. Scythe saw everything Nyght saw because he was her, and Nyght saw everything Scythe saw because she was him. Two pairs of eyes feeding information to the same shared mind.

Out of the two, Scythe's eyes found a clockmaker's shop first. Nyght circled back around to meet him, and together they entered. Often they moved in exact tandem. Some people found it charming. Some found it unnerving. Doors had been a problem at first, when they were still getting used to the gift. They would both attempt to enter at once, and inevitably get stuck for a moment in the doorway. Cue laughter from onlookers nearby. But, like a child mastering the ability to walk, they got it right with time. They developed a system. Nyght, the shorter of the twins, would enter first, offering Scythe a convenient shoulder over which to fire his crossbow, if necessary. Other normal, everyday actions were practiced to be asymmetrical as well. Plainly, it helped to draw less attention and avoided most curious questions.

Scythe's clockmaker was a bust. He hadn't seen a customer of Khadija's description nor had he sold a clock that even remotely looked like the one in question.

And it was back out onto the streets.

The sun moved past noon, when the clouds above allowed sight of it. And it was Nyght who found the next clockmaker's shop. Scythe caught up. Nyght laid her hand on the door and pushed it opened. Entered, trailed by Scythe. The interior of the shop buzzed with a life of its own. Ticks and tocks coming from clocks on the walls, on the shelves, on the workbench. And a female dwarf looked up at them. She waved them forward. Spoke with an accent.

"Come on in. And close the door beyond ye. Keep that godawful racket out."

Scythe closed the door. And Nyght said, "Good afternoon."
"A racket, you say?" said Scythe. "Seems like were on the wrong side of the door for that."

"Ha! Jest all ye like. But I can't stand that noise out there. Ruins my concentration." She took her optics off of her head and put them down on the workbench. Spun around on her stool. "I should hope ye accustom yerselves to the sounds of a clock at work, if yer lookin' to purchase one."

"We are," said Nyght.
"She is."
"I am."
"I told her it wasn't a good idea."
"And I told him it was a brilliant one."

A good enough little story to ingratiate themselves with the clockmaker. Scythe's mouth had already said something to irritate her. It was, quite honestly, difficult to purposely use 'I' instead of 'we'. Took some careful thinking and concentration. But the situation called for it. Good twin, bad twin worked more often than not. Might as well run with it here.

The dwarf looked at Nyght and grinned. "Ye've good taste in fine accessories and curios." A catty glance at Scythe. "Maybe not so much in menfolk."

They played the game. Nyght laughed with her, while Scythe crossed his arms and put on an air of agitation. And they both lowered their hoods, deliberately doing it one after the other.

"My," the clockmaker said, "ye two look like ye could be twins. Hmm. Maybe soulmates are a thing. Ye think so?"

"There's something we can agree on," said Scythe.

"Good." The dwarf slid off of the stool and walked up to Nyght. "Now, m'lady, did ye have anythin' in mind? Clocks are much more than simple functionin' devices. They're true works of art, they are."

"I did," said Nyght. "A good friend of...mine had this clock. Purchased from a shop here in Elbion. It had the time on the back and this beautiful sun and wreath on the front. The whole thing was made of silver. That sound familiar at all?"

The dwarf smiled and shook her head. "Ah, second one today."

"Pardon?" said both of them.

"Ye two are so cute." She walked over to the door and opened it for them. "Yer gonna want to speak with Greldyrn Il Farrick, just a ways up the street there. He knows legions more than I about the craft of timekeeping and clockmaking, and that design sounds like some of his work. His shop is in his tenement. Got's a window with a sign on it, he does. Best hurry. He comes and he goes."

Well, better than another dead end. Scythe and Nyght left the shop and started up the street. Passed a mother walking her five children in the opposite direction. Two apprentice mages deep in conversation about some arcane bullshit. A group of six adventuring types, all with shiny new armor and weapons that looked as if they had never seen battle before. And a man in a sleek black suit and a cane.

Then they saw it. Lined up along the street with other tenements. The sign in the window.

Closed.

Scythe and Nyght looked at each other. An old habit, though too useful for appearing somewhat normal to fix--unlike the door problem.

"Well," said Scythe.
"Shit," said Nyght.
"Suppose we should knock."
"Can't hurt."

They both shrugged. Then stepped up to the door beside the window with the sign. And, Scythe with his left hand and Nyght with her right, knocked on the door three times, loudly, in perfect unison.

 

[Greldyrn Il Farrick]

Thirty-two minutes flat. He was surprised at how fast he packed. Less than an hour ago, his small apartment had numerous pieces of merchandise strewn across the shelves and floor, but now, the room was about two thirds of the way cleared. Where there were once tall clocks and short clocks, there were now wooden crates filled with goods of all kinds. All that was left to put away his tools, and he would be done.

On the morrow, a representative of one of the many trading guilds stationed in Elbion would relieve him of the bulk of his craft. As usual, Greldyrn chose to enlist the services of a transport company run by one of his longtime business partners from Bhathairk. She was a wily, cunning businesswoman, but she had never once failed him. Their relationship was strictly professional, of course. She cared only for the money, and he cared only for the safety of his items. On occasion, they would exchange idle banter during an afternoon lunch, but nothing more than that. The less they knew about each other, the better.

However, there were certain pieces which he would not so easily leave in the hands of others. Most of them dealt with matters of a more arcane nature, and were not fit to be handled by the inexperienced. As some of his more seasoned customers knew, he made more than just clocks.

Athough it was not as profitable, he refused to let his skills in artificing dull. Farrick was a man of many interests, and found that it was too restraining to limit oneself to a single field of study. While he was known for his clocks among tinkerers, he was, first and foremost, an artificer. Thus, it was all too common for him to find himself diving into material from various fields and professions. Be it medicine, botany, alchemy, or chemistry, he had to have a vast expanse of knowledge in order to create useful, magic items. Coincidentally, such ventures into unrelated books made him a better clockmaker as well. Perhaps that is what set him apart from other artisans, and why his customers kept coming back.

Walking over to his desk, he looked at his watch once more. Greldyrn did not know why he gave the stylized moon a face, but its odd look suited the watch – gave it character. Perhaps Pneria really had a soul of its own, and smiled as the dial did when men turned to beasts. Perhaps Pneria was the one who turned men to beasts on those nights, waiting for the moment when she faced them fully before savoring the mayhem they caused. It was a perplexing question, why werewolves turned savage only on those nights when Pneria was full. Regardless, Greldyrn and a great deal of other unfortunate souls would have to deal with her when her silver light enveloped the plane. Three days, it said. Three days.

Three knocks. Three knocks wrapped loudly against the wooden door. The dwarf tensed. Instinctively, he looked towards his hand-axes that hung from the wall, and then back at the door. Old habits die hard.

Calm down, he told himself. It is not the Templars – they wouldn’t have knocked.

Still, whoever was outside should have seen the sign which clearly said that his shop was closed. Could it have been a dissatisfied customer? Could it have been Gwent? If it was someone who bought one of his wares, then he had to open it.

Leaving his personal timepiece on the workbench, he traipsed towards the entrance, pulled up an unpacked stool, and stood on top. Thankfully, the glass in the door window was frosted, so although anyone outside would see his silhouette, there was still some sense of anonymity preserved. That being said, he could not clearly see those who were outside, but he usually had a good sense of who it was. It should have been Gwent, if his suspicions were correct.

Peering through the glass, he made out two hooded figures.

Not Gwent.

– And hoods. Hoods were never a good sign. Either the two were from the clergy, and were here to beg for spare tithe, or they were the surreptitious sort, which were almost as bad.

At that point, they had probably seen him, so there was no use in leaving the knock unanswered. It would be too suspicious. Such actions would garner attention, and attention was the last thing he needed.

As much as he didn’t want to, he twisted the door handle and opened it – not so wide as to let whoever was outside in, but not so closed as to hide his face. He wasn’t the type to hide his face unless absolutely necessary. His figure would instead block the entrance, if at all preventing another pair of obsessed clock-lovers from entering his workshop. Standing fully in the doorway, the dwarf crossed his arms.

When his eyes adjusted to the glaring sunlight, he saw the duo more clearly. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a strange synergy between their movements. Not many looked closely at the gestures or minute expressions of people, but Greldyrn paid close attention. The skill, or rather awareness, came with age, and was useful to any individual running a business. A slight pinch of brow or twitch of finger gave hints to a person’s current state of mind, and the information was useful when closing a deal. The two in front of him were different. They were… too similar. Far too similar. It was unnatural, and the dwarf didn’t like it.

“Excuse me,” he began, “–but if you look at the sign, we’re closed.”

They looked young. He couldn't just turn them away.

“Can I help you with anything?” he sighed. Perhaps they were just servants to some other person who bought one of his wares. The wealthy tended to hire folk of unsavory nature, especially in these parts. If it was a broken watch, he could fix that quickly, and send the duo on their way.

Best not to invest too much time in strangers.

 

[Scythe and Nyght]

Movement. A figure through the foggy glass of the front door. And the door opened, just enough to reveal another dwarf--male this time--behind it. And just enough to allow the lingering aroma of pipe smoke to escape outside. Was that... a hint of sweetness in it? Hmm. Not bad. Scythe and Nyght smoked on occasion. Usually the cheap and raw tobacco strains plentiful in shops throughout the Allir Reach. Harsh, shit in comparison to what the dwarf was smoking, but the cheap stuff still soothed and relaxed after a hard day nonetheless. Eased frayed nerves. If this Greldyrn fellow turned out to a bust on Khadija's clock, he might at least point them toward his favored smokeshop.

Scythe and Nyght stood before him and the ajar door. They each lowered their hoods. Smiled. Honey, not vinegar. Friendly faces, as far as the crossbows slung across their backs and the sheathed swords on their hips allowed them to be.

"Good afternoon," said Scythe. "Pardon the intrusion, but you wouldn't happen to be Greldyrn Il Farrick?"
"We've come from down the street," said Nyght. "Another clockmaker, female dwarf--sorry, didn't catch her name--pointed us to you. Rather quickly after we described a particular sort of clock we were looking for."

Scythe pointed a thumb at Nyght. "I told her we shouldn't bother you. Why, look at what the sign right there says."
Nyght pointed a thumb back at Scythe. "And I told him we ought to at least try. That our friend would just be thrilled to see me wearing a fine clock just like hers."

A pause.

"Oh," said Scythe. "But where are our manners?" His hand on his chest. "I'm Samuel Blair."
Her hand on her chest. "And I'm Samantha Blair."

They had studied it quite a bit. The rhythm and cadence and sounds and words all associated with talking like a gentleman and a lady. It tended to work much better than their normal mannerisms, the straightforward, crude, and crass speak of their lowly mercenary and raider upbringing. The Philanthropist helped...somewhat. He wasn't the most sophisticated of aristocratic, wealthy, and noble types. But Scythe and Nyght had done work for others of upper class standing, after they could at least afford to dress the part. They were flies on the wall during dinners, meetings, parleys. They certainly weren't the best at it, talking with sophistication, but they could do it well enough to oftentimes place doubt on their true origins.

Nyght glanced past Greldryn into the tenement, then back down to him. Her body was playing the good twin again. Scratch that. Interested/Not Interested twin? Not as catchy, but that was the on-the-fly strategy they'd come up with.

"May we come in?" she asked. "I promise not to keep you for long."

 

[Greldyrn Il Farrick]

At the mention of a possible purchase, Greldyrn frowned. Of course – they came here to buy clocks. Last minute shoppers, he presumed. For just a brief moment, he had hoped that they would be asking him for something else – that they would be different from the rest of the crowd. He didn’t know why he thought this, but perhaps they would buy one of his other goods or ask for another service. They looked like mercenaries – the well-off kind, he supposed –, but here they were, asking for the same thing everyone else asked for: clocks. He should have never told Ruth’ti where he would be setting up shop this year. The woman could never keep her mouth shut.

He paused. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t really like Elbion. Sure, it was the location where he made the most coin, but it was restricting. Suffocating even. While the lands east of the Allirian Straits were sparse, spread out, and seldom had individuals with enough money to purchase his merchandise, at least there was some variety. Out there, people knew the value of a good artificer, unlike the pompous aristocrats within the city walls. Everyone here wore a mask, putting on a façade for the public. Unlike the orcs of Bhathairk, the people here were dishonest, cold, and self-centered. The pair in front of him were most likely no different from the rest.

Thrilled to see me wearing a fine clock like hers, he repeated in his head, mocking the girl’s tone. Why was it that city women cared so much about how they looked in public?

“It won’t be cheap,” he said bluntly before sharply turning back inside, leaving the door ajar. Whether they entered or not was up to them. "–And just call me Farrick!"

The apartment was dustless, although somewhat drab and small. The walls were old and mottled with stains from previous tenants, and the floor boards were smooth at the edges from years of being walked on. Numerous pine crates were scattered around, some stacked in order of increasing size.

Approaching the opposite wall, he grabbed his steel hand-axe from its perch, and sauntered over to one of the boxes he nailed shut just a few minutes ago. It was a shame, really. He’d have to repack the small items again after the woman outside got to look at his premade watches. What was her name again? Sam?

“What kind of watch you looking for, Sam?” He didn’t know if the two entered, nor did he really care. “You looking for a clock like your friend’s? Small maybe, to hang around the neck, or something that could fit in your pocket? Wrist, arm – hell, leg? I probably have it.”

Carefully putting the blade between the nailed down cover and the rest of the crate, he slid the metal in the crack, and then turned.

“If you tell me your friend’s name, I might be able to find one you’d also like. Not many new female customers this month – just the regulars. Was it Eleanor, Illianna, Y’sabeth, Khadija, Karina, Lily, or Fleija’s watch you saw? Most of them had custom pieces, and I don’t have enough time to make you something personal like their’s, but I have a few nice clocks you might like.”

With a sharp creak of groaning wood, the lid popped off and dropped to the floor.

Reaching down into the hay with his other hand, he started bringing clocks to the surface.

“Take a look,” he said, looking back to the pair.

 

[Scythe and Nyght]

The dwarf frowned. Not a good start. Frowns didn't lead anywhere good. Usually slaps to the face, punches to the face, and--in this case--doors to the face. Most of the time it was Scythe's face taking the brunt of a forceful rebuke, but it didn't matter; Nyght's face always felt it as well. Even if no slaps or jabs were thrown, frowns often led to setbacks anyway. Best case scenarios were usually longer days spent on a job, many of them fruitless until some lucky break.

But then the dwarf spoke. Invited them inside in the way only an irritated shopkeep could do. Some jobs had lucky breaks that came earlier than others. The good ones. The easy money ones.

Nyght stepped inside first, followed by Scythe. He closed the door behind them. And they got a quick look around as Greldyrn grabbed his axe. The lap of luxury to Scythe and Nyght, despite their posturing to appear upper class and as though they had good taste. Four walls and a roof. What more could you ask for? Better than a leaky hide tent out in the middle of the goddamn woods in a rainstorm. For the third night in the row. While most of your raider buddies had piled into some poor bastard's covered wagon that had just so happened to be carrying fine cloth, silks, and textiles. Get close. Nut to butt. Make your buddy happy. Sorry lads, can only fit so many in here, see? Ah, maybe the tent wasn't so bad. At the time, damn right it was. But in retrospect.

Back to the matter at hand. Banish that memory before the upper-speak gets fucked.

"Farrick it is, then," said Nyght. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

They felt like Nyght's body should bow. Or curtsy? How the hell did this go again? Probably didn't matter all that much. This wasn't formal.

"I am looking for a clock like my friend's," said Nyght.
"I will admit, it is a beautiful thing to behold," said Scythe.
"She adores it, you know, Farrick? Absolutely adores it."
"Wait, you can wear a clock on your leg?"
"Wears it everyday. Never leaves home without it, as they say."

And the dwarf cracked open the crate. Nyght's body led the way over to it, moving faster than Scythe's. Her steps giddy, his with the bristling anticipation of an expensive purchase. Not an easy feat for them, these wildly asymmetric movements. Nyght laid her hands on the edge of the crate and leaned forward, peering down into it. Scythe stood behind her, hands in his coat pockets.

And he said it. Her name. Half of it, anyway. But how many Khadija's could there be in Elbion? And how many of those would literally eat clocks for breakfast if they had the teeth and stomach for it?

Bettin' time.

"Oh, you remember Khadija? Khadija Han?" said Scythe.
"Of course he does, Samuel," said Nyght.
"How could you forget, am I right?"
"She is quite the character. Did I mention she loves the piece you made for her, Farrick?"
"Loves it to death."
"How could you not? It is a splendid little thing."

Nyght's eyes flicked up from the crate. Met with Greldyrn's. And she asked with a smile, "You remember it, don't you? Silver. Time wheels on the back. And this majestic sun enwreathed by flowering ivy on the front." A pause. "That strike you as familiar, Farrick?"

 

[Greldyrn Il Farrick]

“Familiar? It was the most difficult request of the entire year. Burned into my eyes, if you ask me. The piece she commissioned was convoluted, specific, and by far one of the the most complex watches I have ever made.” Not as elaborate as his own, personal timepiece, but elaborate nonetheless. “It took nine months to make, you know. I don’t think I could make you one like hers, if that is what you are asking for.” Turning back towards the opened crate, he shuffled through its contents once more. “Simple on the outside, but far more complex than its outward appearance would lead to believe.”

Reaching into the hay, he picked out a small, round, golden pendant. It was a half-disc, hanging by a narrow thread of woven electrum, and was adorned with one of his newer clock designs on the front. Two hands to tell the time – the shorter for the hour, and the longer for the minute. One need only remember the position of the two to know the time, but noblemen were lazy, and liked to read numbers. It was a shame really. The design was a classic.

“Her piece was more than just a clock,” he muttered lowly. It was a charm – something truly special. At least Han asked him for something more than just a simple timepiece. The woman was utterly insane, but at least she was different.

Fishing the rest of the necklace out, he untangled it from other chains, before holding it up from the rest.

“What do you think about this one?” Greldyrn asked. Sam seemed fairly excited to see his work. The girl was practically going to fall into the box given how far she was leaning over its edge.

Flipping the pendant over, he showed the design on the back. A single flourish of roses, with a few runes etched on the edge. His name – his signature – carved in the ancient, arcane script. All of his pieces had it. It marked that it was a true work of Farrick, and not some cheap imitation.

Seeing how Khadija’s piece was charmed, the dwarf thought the woman might like a charm for herself.

“Bit of magic on this one, if I do say so myself. Not as potent as the one on Khadija’s, but I suppose it will help you… with whatever you do when not wandering ‘round the market,” he said, eyeing the crossbow on her back. He was, of course, referring to the fact that they were not common aristocrats. Mercenaries most likely, or perhaps bodyguards. Their steps were well-practiced, but perhaps a bit forced. He could tell that the way they walked was not natural to them.

Fairly suspicious, but then again, if they tried anything, he had an axe in his other hand, and he was well-versed in using it.

“Do you like it?”

 

[Scythe and Nyght]

Bullseye. They were in the money now.

Greldyrn knew Khadija. He was their man. Hopefully. It was possible that Khadija knew how to keep her trap shut when completely surrounded by all the objects of her obsession. Possible. But the cat's best laid plans broke down in the presence of catnip. And familiarity was a big step toward complacency. Maybe she had gotten to talking. Couldn't stop herself from slipping or didn't even know she had. Conversations wandered all the time like that. From clocks to mechanisms to timekeeping-in-general to 'Oh, fancy we should be talking about time, I'm late for such-and-such at the so-and-so inn'. Big important things tended not to slip, but the little things...the little things always betrayed you.

And, if the Philanthropist was correct, she seemed the type to be one of those irritatingly frequent customers. Good for one's business, bad for one's ears. Chit-chat, chit-chat, small talk, oh is it ready yet? How about today? Oo, that one looks nice, tell me about that one. Hello again, Mr. Farrick, you wouldn't believe the day I had down in the Port district. Here's a convienent information trail for those sellswords on my tail to follow.

Scythe and Nyght should be so lucky.

"Oh dear," Nyght said. Responding to the nine months and complexity remark. "But I understand, Farrick. I'm not one to rush a true artisan."

Then, a nonverbal slippage of their own, Scythe and Nyght's eyebrows both perked up in unison at the mention of Khadija's clock being more than a simple timepiece. Shit. Flip a coin on that one. Could be good or bad for them. Maybe something that could make tracking her easier. Maybe something that could make catching her far more difficult. A bridge to be crossed if and when they got there.

Asymmetry. Back to it.

Scythe's body stroked his chin in a considering fashion as Greldyrn pulled out the round and golden necklace clock and presented it. And Nyght's body let an awed gasp as she cupped her hands over her mouth. Perhaps a little too much on the theatrical side.

"It's beautiful..." said Nyght. Then, back to Scythe for show. "Do you think it might make Khadija a tad jealous?"
"Think so? I know so."
"She does so love her clocks."
"She does indeed."

Scythe swiped the right side of his coat back. Opened a leather pouch on his belt and pulled out a small brown sack, jingling with the sound of coin inside. Part of the stipend of local Elbion currency provided to them by the Philanthropist, since they normally did business with Allirian coin, to help get the job done. He viewed it as a small investment to ensure an enormous payoff.

Grease the axle of the wagon with the promise of a purchase. And carefully steer the conversation back to the target.

"I do like it, Farrick. I do," said Nyght.
"I will say that your friend and fellow down the street was right about you," said Scythe. "You do know legions more about your craft than the rest."
"And a bit of magic you say?"
"Sounds expensive."
"Sounds terrific!"

Intentionally acknowledge what he was looking at. Weave it into the story.

"Say," said Scythe, "you wouldn't happen to have seen or heard from Khadija as of late, would you, Farrick?"
Nyght patted the crossbow on her back. "We like to do a little game hunting out in the Savannah every now and again."
"Khadija, Samantha and I, and a few others are due to head out today."

Nyght leaned toward Greldyrn and gave him a friendly elbow to the shoulder. "But you know Khadija, am I right?"
"Can hardly find her at the best of times," said Scythe.
A wink from Nyght. "She is flighty, that one."
"She comes and she goes, that's for certain."
"And we wouldn't want her to be late, or, gods-forbid, miss out on our adventure."
A hearty laugh from Scythe. "You'd think with her collection of clocks that she'd never be late, but you'd be mistaken!"

Nyght smiled. The most inviting 'Tell me more, I'm your friend' smile they could muster on her face. Time to roll those dice.

"And so," she said, "we're stuck here wondering, just where in the world has our friend gotten off to now? You might be able to point us in the right direction, at least."

 

[Greldyrn Il Farrick]

“Han? Going hunting?” he echoed with eyebrows furrowed. That was rich. The people in front of him clearly had no idea who they were talking about.

The corner of his lip curled up into a half smile as he gave a toothy chuckle. He had finally put the pieces together. “I would have never believed it if you didn’t tell me yourself,” he said with a careless shrug. “Always thought she was a recluse, or at least some obsessed noblewoman at that. Never thought that she was the type to go on a safari with others.”

Standing up from the crate, he walked towards the workbench, looking over his shoulder while keeping the two in view. His face had a knowing grin plastered on it as he shook his head. They weren’t her friends, he concluded. They were simply looking for her. The pair were mercenaries – sellswords on the job. They didn’t come here for a new watch. They came here for information.

“–As for where she is, I imagine she’d be where you last saw her. You’re her friends, as the both of you said – she would have told you.”

It wasn’t like Khadija Han kept many secrets. Even he knew where she was. The Broken Quill, if he recalled correctly, was the inn where Han was staying and conducting business. He distinctly remembered her invitation to her abode – always paranoid that people were following her. She constantly insisted that he should work on her clock there where she could keep a watchful eye on her precious item. Greldyrn declined her, of course. Most patrons didn’t want to leave their homes, and sent errand-children to fetch for him. When they did, the dwarf declined them as well. He was no servant, waiting for some master’s call. If they wanted to buy something, they could walk to his shop and look through his items like the rest. Coin spoke more than heritage, anyways.

No. If Sam and her partner didn’t know where she was, then they weren’t her friends. Greldyrn had always made an effort to keep his benefactors' private lives confidential. Wouldn't be good for business if he was known as a gossipmonger.

Knowing full well what kind of people the two behind of him were, he didn't let his eyes leave them. Their hands would be the ones to move first, or perhaps their feet. Thrice he wrapped the golden chain round his hand, and then unfolded the half-disc like paper in his palm. The act of opening would be what activated the charm, but the two mercenaries would not know that. Knowing that he had a countermeasure for those heavy-crossbows they carried gave the dwarf some solace, but he knew that he was not in the clear yet. The charm would only take a few shots should they turn on him – perhaps a single blow if they struck with a blade. Any more, and the toll on his own body for using the enchanted item would leave him in a state where he would not be able to fight back.

From this point onward, he would have to tread with caution.

Men and women like them would kill for their contract – torture if they felt particularly generous. Greldyrn knew firsthand what it was like to extract information from the unwilling. In the past, those who went through his own interrogations were left to two fates: battered and bruised, or in a bloody sack next to the gutter. Hunting monsters was not as glamorous a business as children's stories would portray.

The hand which held the necklace reached towards a rope attached to the window. Farrick pulled it taut, and the window shutters clacked open, letting in light, and a view to the outside. Should things go awry, at least there would be witnesses who would attest to his case. Self-defense was the obvious scapegoat.

Then again, he would have liked to avoid a fight as much as possible. Too many goods in the shop, and too many delicate instruments that could be broken. Holding his hand up to the light, he pretended to examine the piece that dangled from his fingers. It sparkled in the filtered sunlight, glimmering as gold oft did in flame. His hand-axe was still in his other hand. His grip held firmly, but not too firmly. Comfortable, relaxed – no need to look tense.

“One of my better works, I would say,” the dwarf said, looking back to the twins, eyeing their feet more than their faces.

“I actually crafted it from a single docatto if you’d believe me – that and a zoldo. If you want to buy it, then the price is just that... one docatto, and one zoldo...”

With a flick of his wrist, the necklace swung around his hand, rewrapping itself until he grabbed the pendant in closed fist.

“… but you two didn’t come here to buy a watch, did you?”

Greldyrn had information they wanted – no, needed. With that kind of leverage, you could get paid a lot of money just for a single hint. That, if they could convince him to divulge it. On one hand, Khadija wasn't exactly his favorite person. The woman's saccharine sweet demeanor could not hide the occasional dagger-like glares she gave to him and his kin. The only reason she fraternized with him so warmly was due to his profession, and her obsession with the fruits it bore. Han was most definitely racist; however, she was also a valued customer. Her loyalty as a patron would not be betrayed so easily.

That was one possibility.

If Samantha and Samuel opted for the other route – the more violent of the two paths –, well, he was ready.

 

[Scythe and Nyght]

He didn't buy it. Not with that reply and tone of voice.

Shit.

The fucking Philanthropist could have at least told them half of what Greldyrn had apparently observed about her. He was the one who got brown-nosed to for weeks and had a nice long chat with her anyway. Going into a contract blind was fun...when it worked out. When it didn't it was like treading through a damn pig sty with no shoes. Just a godawful mess. In fairness, though, they could have ditched their weaponry in an inn room. Might've made the whole thing more convincing. But they couldn't stand the thought of walking around unarmed. They had each slept with their weapons back in the raider band. Always. You just didn't know when a situation would turn south.

As for where she is--

Betraying their practiced asymmetry again, Scythe and Nyght both perked up. Oh. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe this was the lucky--

No. Not the lucky break.

They couldn't get a good read on him. As Greldyrn opened the shutters to a nearby window and examined the clock pendant in his hand, they pondered it some more. That last remark of his had forked the road of their assessment. I imagine she’d be where you last saw her. You’re her friends, as the both of you said – she would have told you. Two different ways to interpret that, by their lights. Could be cagey. He might know something useful, might not, just didn't care to say either way. Maybe he was a stalwart professional businessman. Only talked shop, not about other customers. Not beyond noncommittal answers and speculation, anyway. Maybe he did know something and was trying to protect her? Too valuable a customer to potentially endanger? Maybe he fucked her a few times? Who knows.

The second way to interpret it was that maybe, just maybe, he didn't really give a shit. Not his business. He wasn't her keeper. Everything she ever said unrelated to her commission went in one ear and out the other. Scythe and Nyght were her friends, according to their story, and so she was their problem. Not his. In that case he most certainly wouldn't have any useful information.

After the examination, Greldryn switched the subject. Back to shop talk. Points for both cagey and don't care. It felt like he was beating them at their own game. As if they were amateur, hotshot dice-rollers getting cleared out by a real gamblin' man. They were about to comment on the price and what a great deal--

A soft thwap.

The dwarf caught the pendant in his hand.

And a silence followed.

Scythe and Nyght glanced at each other. Habit, again, often turning up when they were uncertain. Now came the choices. All of them ranging from bad to worse. And this was why big cities and broad daylight were a problem. Both complicated things. Made the easy option untenable. There were people right next door. People walking around outside. Through the window behind them and the one Greldyrn had opened the shutters on. Scythe and Nyght were no strangers to beating a tip out of some unlucky bastard, but that dog just wasn't going to hunt. Not in the middle of Elbion. Or at the very least without a little damn privacy. If only that clock's charm made people turn around and plug their ears for a minute or two. It'd be worth a hundred docatto. Hmm. A hundred docatto.

They decided. Both turned their heads to look back at Greldryn.

And shrugged in tandem. So much for the act, but fuck it.

"We could still buy the watch," said Nyght.
"They are stylish," said Scythe.
"And we're reasonable people."
"Businessman to businessman, let's make a deal."
"You did offer that piece to us for a fantastic price."

Scythe's hand rocked the bag of coins. The heavy clinking of gold against gold. This would end up being practically all of their stipend if they came to an agreement. They'd have enough left for a night's stay a bad inn, a couple flat beers, and a lousy tip for the poor barkeep. But the dice had already been thrown.

"A hundred docatto, did I heard you say?" said Scythe.
"Oh my, what a steal," said Nyght.
"But you can't put a price on taste, can you?"
"You certainly can't."
"And Khadija will absolutely adore it when she sees it."
"If only we could find her and show her..."

 

[Greldyrn Il Farrick]

One hundred docatte. Well I’ll be damned, he thought, eyebrows raised at the mere mention. It was far more than he expected. That was nearly twice the amount he charged for the piece he sold to Khadija. Whoever was backing them was wealthy – wealthy enough to trust their hired hands with such large sums of money. A political figure? Aristocrat? Merchant? Crime lord? By the way the man shook the bag, the mercenary made it look disposable – of little consequence. That meant there was more coin to be had.

Gold. One hundred pieces of it. A truly enticing offer.

– To be dropped just for a single, iota of knowledge: the location of Khadija Han. Of course, the duo would not say it directly, but he knew what they were asking for. He hit their true intentions right on the mark with that last comment, given that they’d all but given up their act.

His lips flattened as he inhaled deeply. What kind of person would he be if he just sold out his own customers? They came to him, they paid him, and they complimented his craft.

Resting his hand axe on the workbench, he took a good long look to the side, at the items still laying on its smoothed, oak surface. He doubted the duo would hurt him – not after what he had hinted at. No, they wouldn't. Gave him time to think. Gave him time to ponder. One hundred docatte was a topic big enough to occupy his entire mind. The costs, the benefits – framed in a light shifted by the things he saw. Wandering eyes meandered across the desk. There were four items in particular that his eyes focused in on: his pipe, his axe, his coin-purse, and his pocket-watch.

First was the pipe. It was a twisted, gnarled piece of wood, deep maroon in color, and hollowed and carved by his own two hands. The chamber of it was all but blackened, but its varnish outside still shone like glass. Greldyrn needed to think. He needed a smoke. There were still flecks of half-burnt leaves still smoldering inside. One good puff left.

Lifting the lip of the pipe to his own, he took a breath. Hold it. He needed to feel the burn in his lungs. It helped him focus. Grow deep in thought. Yes, he needed to think.

He looked to his hand axe. Dwarven steel – some of the finest smelted metal, forged in Belgrath. There were old runes – not the magic kind – that covered the flat of the blade. They were the names of its previous wielders. Warriors, in their own respect, and heroes he could look up to today. Once, he had been a man of character, and to some extent, he would have liked to think that he still was. Han was a strange one, yes, and perhaps bore ill will towards dwarves, but did that mean it was right for him to sell her out? These two could very well try to kill her. They could very well try to kill him. Would it be right to take the money from their breed of people?

He shifted to his purse. For the moment, it jingled with money, full with gold coins, silver coins, copper coins – iron, electrum, brass. It had coins from across continents. Still, no matter how much he made, the dwarf always broke even. His earnings balanced out with the various expenses of living, crafting, and traveling. His personal book of finances was filled with constant scribbles, all trying to figure out how he’d survive the next month – find a decent place to live and run business – pay the right people so that his secret remained a secret. All expenses, and no leeway. An extra hundred docatte was a lot of money that could be put to a lot of things.

He could go on his travels, and spend a month away from the business. He could have time to sort out things he should have sorted out long ago. Things on the mind – things which burdened him greatly. In truth, the business was a hobby turned into a prison. One hundred docatte could let him disappear for a year. One hundred docatte could finally give him some time for himself – time to think. The dwarf had been so busy lately that he let his endless cycle of the traveling watchmaker define him. Consume him. Numb him.

Travel, sell, shift, kill, travel, sell, shift, kill.

For a time, the monotony was welcome, but now it was just exhausting.

Three days left, he read, looking finally to the watch. The curse had kept him running a wheel unending. Drowning himself in his craft and study was clearly not a solution. Perhaps it was time to get away from it all. Be selfish, as he knew himself to be.

Exhale, two streams of smoke jetting out from his nostrils.

Be a monster, like he knew himself to be.

Pause.

What to do, what to do? He was a templar once. He had morals, he had values. He wouldn’t put people in harms way.

– But the duo would try to get the information out of him anyways, even if he chose not to speak. Hard either way, he presumed. The two did not look the type to let up easy.

Then a thought came to him: what would his choice have on the two people in front of him?

Turning back to the two individuals, he scrutinized them in full. Now that they shed their masks, he noted things that most would not – things that Samantha and Samuel let slide by. Hints of their natural tendencies showed involuntarily, and they were uncanny. His previous assessment was on point. They were so in sync, that they may as well be the same person. Every move, every action, every twitch – hers in line with his. A fated pair, no doubt.

It was funny. He knew someone like that, someone so like himself.

The weighted silence was cut by eight words.

“You two are just perfect, you know that?” the dwarf grunted unceremoniously, going far off topic from their original conversation. Why entertain the extravagances and theatrics associated with negotiation? He knew their words were salted with false sweetness, so he had to rely on the signs instead. Farrick was truly tired, and just wanted an honest conversation.

Were they lovers? Siblings? Who knew. They were close, and looked out for one another. They worked well together, and jived well together. Too familiar, they were, to a distant memory. Was he misinterpreting it all? Overthinking it? Unlikely. They fit too well together. “Wrought from the same steel,” he said to himself, loud enough for the them to hear. An old, Arragothian saying, if they knew it.

He once had a person like that – a person he called his own, a person that close. A person he chose.

Too bad she was dead.

Greldyrn sighed. The coming of a full moon always made him pensive. Made him think. Best not to think too much about it, he would tell himself. Still, it is hard to forget a person when they take a piece of you with them to the grave.

“You can drop the formalities, and the act, and whatever fancy things you two are thinking. Talk to me bluntly. I’ll give you the information...”

Before they had a chance to speak, he tossed the necklace to Samantha, and continued.

“She’s at The Broken Quill.”

Lighting the end of his pipe, he opened a drawer, reached into it, and added a bit more leaves from it to the chamber, before taking another long smoke.

“– And I don’t need one hundred docate,” he suddenly said. “Just one docatto, and one zoldo. That’s all it took to make the watch.”

“Tell your boss that you spent all your money bribing me for the information, but keep the coin for yourselves.” Hired hands were often underpaid for the perils they put themselves in. Some were paid well, and some were paid poorly, but no cost could cover the expense of one’s life, should it be forfeit. Their line of work was a dangerous one, and they were so young.

If one were to lose the other, then both may as well be dead. That is what he saw in the two, at least. The dwarf would be one to know. A few coin should ease the nights, and let them run their daring lives for a few more days. Better spent together in comfort than in squalor. He'd make this part of their job easy.

One more smoke.

It was a pity. Greldyrn could have chosen himself, or justice, or some other shade in between. In the end, he chose neither, instead choosing a fleeting feeling from the distant past. He wasn't a monster nor a hero. Did that make him a fool?

“Do you need anything else? Shop’s open – I guess.”

 

[Scythe and Nyght]

Scythe and Nyght glanced at each other again. Not full on, but a shift of Scythe's eyes down and to his right and Nyght's eyes back and to her left. Bribes were a straightforward affair. Yes or no. Sometimes 'hell yes' or 'fuck off', but the result was still the same despite the wording. And it never took long. Not long at all.

They looked back to Greldyrn as he lit his pipe. Two sets of eyes offering two slightly different views of him. And neither could decipher him and his ponderous silence. They each tensed up, a nervous chill working its way down both their bodies from their shared mind. Money was easy to figure out. Always easy. You either wanted more of it or needed more of it. Period. How you got it was another matter. But when it just fell into your lap like this? You were either practical or moral. Realist or idealist. Yes or no. Reflexive. So what was Greldryn possibly thinking about?

Was he buying time? Did Khadija suspect or outright know about the Philanthropist's plot and their presence, and he was working with her?

Scythe's head glanced back while Nyght's eyes kept watch on Greldyrn. Distorted figures through the frosted glass of the door. Some came into sharp focus as they passed by the regular window with the closed sign. Others started sharp and became muted as they walked the other way. But passersby all. Nothing seemed out of order.

Scythe's head snapped back around when Greldyrn spoke, having said something similar to Ruth'ti's remark. But somehow, given the situation, it was far more menacing to them. Like the sort of thing one might say before putting up a fight or springing a trap. And he said something else, half-whispered it. Wrought from the same steel. Oh shit. Was that some kind of code phrase? Spoken into the clock pendant? Nervousness started to give way to a creeping dread. A ghostly feeling of being watched. Nyght's right hand started to creep up her leg, toward the inside of her coat and the holstered throwing knives within. The opened crate of wares in front of her partially blocking view of her arm.

And he spoke again. Told them to drop the formalities. Whatever they were thinking. Fucking hell, how good was he? Ex-dwarven elite ranger or some--

Greldyrn tossed the clock to Nyght.

They both jumped back from it as if it were a poisonous snake. Wide, combat-ready stances, and wider eyes, Scythe staring at the dwarf, and Nyght down at the clock. But what followed after...they weren't ready for. And as their stances and faces relaxed, their mind raced.

First, Greldyrn gave them the information. Point blank, right there. It wasn't even made up, they'd seen The Broken Quill inn before. Then, he lowered the price back down to his original request. After he had already given them the information. After. And he even offered up a fantastic idea concerning the rest of the coin.

But Scythe and Nyght were beyond bewildered. They honestly couldn't comprehend what the hell had just happened, and their tense to relaxed to puzzled faces revealed it plainly. The world just didn't work this way. Everything cost something. Even if you couldn't see it at first, the price always came around. There was no such thing as something for nothing. People knew what they were owed. And they always collected. The idea of a gift, in the truest sense of it, was horseshit. Look at the Philanthropist. He sure as hell didn't give away his pittances of coin to the unwashed masses for free. He was the world personified.

Even the only real family Scythe and Nyght had known, the ragtag band of raiders, only took them in after they nearly bled to death overnight in a battlefield on the off-chance that they might prove their worth. And still, after they had done so, everyone in the band had to carry their own weight. Old friends were left to die if they were too sick or injured to contribute. That's just how it went. That's how things worked.

Damn it, this was supposed to be a simple bribe.

There was no way. Greldyrn had an ulterior motive. A trick up his sleeve. Something. Because of course he did. There. Were. No. Gifts. Freely. Given.

But this was too good to pass up. Fuck it. The strings were on their arms and legs and heads now. That was the power of an offer that couldn't be refused. They'd be at Greldyrn's beck and call, whenever and wherever he needed, once he called in what he was owed. But, for now, they didn't have to worry. They'd pay that price when the time came.

And so they dropped their act, their put-on air of sophistication, despite how much they were warming to it.

Nyght stepped forward and crouched down and picked up the clock pendant and stood back up. Scythe scratched the back of his neck.

"So. This is awkward," he said.
"We thought you were about to attack us," she said.
"Would've been genius, really."
"You know, if you were. We hope you're not."
"We mean, you even told us the pendant was charmed."
"What a lad, giving us a sporting chance."

Scythe's hands opened up the bag of coins. Pulled out two docattes while Nyght walked up next to Greldyrn. He tossed each to her and she caught them and presented them to Greldyrn.

"Sorry we don't have change," said Nyght.
"But what's a few zolde between friends?" said Scythe.
And they both grinned.

And then their grins both morphed into the tell-tale O of an idea suddenly striking one's mind.

"You mentioned anything else?" said Scythe.
"Shop's open, right?" said Nyght.
"You sell much else other than clocks?"
"Like, say, some special dwarven crossbow bolts? Enchanted, maybe?"
"Or bolas? Grapple wire? Devices we've never heard of and can't pronounce?"
"Something...not lethal, is what we're looking for."

The Philanthropist, gods-bless him, didn't manage all the little affairs of those doing work for him. He gave them incredible leeway, so long as the job got done. Hence the stipend. He even took their suggestions and ideas into consideration. A real merchant, constantly negotiating. His dirty workers were the experts in their own trade afterall, so he viewed it.

It was pretty clear what the Philanthropist wanted this time around. Khadija. Gone. One way or another. But killing her was small time. Dirt packed into a gaping wound. No permanent fix, and maybe even the worst one.

Taking her alive? Using her as leverage against this Luminari she belonged to? For profit, security, or both?

Now that. That was big time.

 

[Greldyrn Il Farrick]

“Something not lethal?” Good news. It was a kidnapping then. At least Han wasn’t going to die… immediately. That eased his a bit of his conscience. “Not sure if I have that – or any weapons if that’s what you’re looking for. Just a trinket-maker, you know? If you came earlier, I might have been able to do something about those weapons of yours, but I’ll be heading off in three days, so you’ll have to look at what I have here.” They’d look at what he chose, of course. He wasn’t going to unnail every crate for them. The dwarf would make them nail back every cover if it came down to that.

With a nod and a smile, the dwarf took the two gold coins from the girl’s hand, and set it on the table. Greldyrn didn’t believe in tips, but the gesture was appreciated. He would have to pay them back for it later. A dwarf always repaid his debts, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant it was.

“Oh, and Samantha – you may want to close that,” he said, squatting down and reaching out towards the clutched pendant. With the care of an artisan, he took her hand, and opened her fingers, one by one. They were thin and petite like a woman of her age, but were also rough and calloused. The corners of his lips betrayed a brief frown at the observation. Harsh life, he noted.

When her hand was fully flattened, he took the golden object which lay nested in palm. The pendant looked much like a coin now, the size of a docatte in fact. This side was lined with an imperceptibly small script – rune magic crammed into the interior. Words formed shapes, and shapes formed drawings. It was a tessellation of magic, surrounded by a single circle which bounded the formulae in hold.

Holding it up for her to see, he folded it back into the half-disc she was probably more familiar with. “I wasn’t lying about the charm. It only works when the medallion is unfolded. Serves as a clock and a shield.”

Putting the necklace back into her hand, he closed her fingers around it before giving her fist three pats.

“Might sap your energy though if you leave it open too long. Good with arrows and blades. Prevents sharp things from poking holes in you by spreading out the force, but it does that with all things. Getting punched, walking – even opening a door-knob would count as an impact. Takes the energy out of you real quick if you leave it.”

“If you can imagine taking a ball clay and flattening it into a plate, that is what the spell does. Just does it with something different.” Physical forces was what it acted on, in this case – spreading and thinning out the overall effect. “Hard to pick and choose what it does, though. Getting magic to do something is easy, but telling it what not to do is hard.”

“–But,” he said standing up, “I do have a few other things that you may find useful in general.”

Navigating through the maze of stacked boxes, he stopped in front of what looked to be a closet. Taking out a key, he opened the door, revealing a small alcove with a ladder going up.

“It’s in the bedroom upstairs, just give me a few seconds to get it,” he said as he started up the wooden rungs. It was where he kept his more important, more private creations.

Farrick stopped, and took a quick step down, peeking his head so that he could see them. The dwarf shot a sharp look at the two mercenaries.

“Feel free to look through the rest of the items in the box I opened, but...”

“Don’t touch anything else. You break it, you buy it.” He was looking at Samuel.

With that warning, be continued his ascent up into the attic.

 

[Scythe and Nyght]

No weapons? Damn. Chalk it up to bad timing. But it wasn't a total loss. Oftentimes the mere threat of violence was the most effective non-lethal weapon at hand. Worked best on those targets who had never even touched a sword in their life, let alone knew how to swing one. Violence of action, loud commands, surprise, projections of authority, all those things working together tended to put someone into a submissive daze for a couple crucial moments. And before they even knew what happened they were already hogtied and being carted off to whatever rich bastard wanted them for whatever reason.

If their luck held, that'd be their encounter with Khadija in a nutshell.

"Hmm?" said Nyght, somewhat puzzled as Greldyrn gently took her hand. Opened the fingers that held the pendant. Scythe's hand felt it as well, a ghostly touch on each of his fingers. The three pats on her hand, and an echo of the same on his. Such was the nature of their shared mind.

Oh, well, that was useful. Especially in their line of work. They'd all but dismissed the notion that the charm might actually be something protective instead of something destructive after their collective jump scare at the thing.

"Well, if anything," said Nyght.
"I think we might win a few more bar fights now," said Scythe.

And Nyght donned the pendant and tucked it between her coat and fine white shirt.

There was more? Well, would you look at that? A secret door. Scythe and Nyght had a small fancy for secret doors, trap doors, tricks doors, illusory doors, all those. They hadn't been burned by one yet, which helped, and they had used them to great effect in a few contracts. They hadn't managed to pull off a mid-conversation switch on someone yet--got busted all three times, Scythe's body didn't lend itself to cross-dressing well--but it was still in the deck. There was no good practical reason for it. But they just wanted that notch on their belts and a funny story to tell.

Scythe grinned. Put his hands up in surrender at the remark directed at his body.

"We'll be here," he called after the dwarf.

And the two shifted their attention to the opened crate. Scythe stuck his hands in first, then Nyght, each pawing through the cushioning of hay to find the clocks within.

And they spoke their thoughts out loud, as they did on occasion.

"A clock that fits around your leg?" said Scythe.
"Can't be much different," said Nyght.
"Than one that goes around your wrist."
"Longer strap."
"Sure."
"But how would one even use it?"

They both stepped back. Balanced their bodies on one leg each and held each other's shoulders for support. Scythe with his right leg and Nyght with her left, brought them up so their ankles were just above the knees on their standing legs. They each peered down. Considering.

"The ankle's a lot like the wrist," said Scythe.
"Though the thigh is more practical," said Nyght.
"The ankle is closer to the foot."
"So if we kick someone in the face."
"They'll know the exact time when they got their nose broken."
Together: "Genius."

Then, a moment later after they went back to searching through the crate.

"But how will they see the clock?" said Nyght.
"If our foot is in the way?" said Scythe.

Another moment. Serious consideration. Another funny story was on the line.

But they came up with nothing.

And they shrugged.

Kept looking through the crate for a similar pendant for Scythe's body.

 

[Greldyrn Il Farrick]

Thin beams of light entered through tiny holes in the attic walls, highlighting motes of dust as they floated aimlessly, undisturbed. Upon nearing the top, Greldyrn skipped the rest of ladder, and hoisted himself up onto the second floor, leaving yet another set of hand prints in the thin veneer of dust that caked the floorboards. The entire building was one of the older tenements in the merchant district – one of the few not yet renovated. To some individuals, it may have looked unsafe, but it was good thing it wasn’t rebuilt. Poorly maintained buildings meant cheaper rent, which was important given that real estate prices soared in this part of the city. It was also located in a bustling, commercial district of Elbion, which made it too good a deal for the dwarf to pass up. Good for business, and it wouldn't bankrupt him. It wasn’t like he was going to be living in the decrepit room forever.

The rest of the attic was scarcely adorned, leaving much to be desired. His bed was a simple cot with simple sheets that were provided by his landlord – blessed in a sense that it was white and holey. There was only a single window to let in light, covered by tattered curtains and nailed shut with splintered planks. Aside from the pile of dirty clothes and a few cobwebs in the high corners of the ceiling, that was it. The floorboards were old, smooth, and dark like the room below, and the walls weren’t even real walls – just beams supporting the shingles. It was a drab, tasteless room, with practically nothing of interest in it.

– That is, if you didn’t account for the case.

At the foot of Greldyrn’s bed, there was a thin, slender, rectangular case. It was no thicker than a bound tome, and was roughly half as long as Farrick was tall. Its exterior was bound with mahogany leather, and was secured with ornate, iron slats, latches, and leather belts. Along the entire front, there were dwarvish designs of knots and dragons, with the occasional splash of runes for flare. Finally, there was a single keyhole in the front – the kind that beckoned curiosity.

Surprisingly enough, it was not the case of a single weapon, nor a set of neatly packed tools in a box – it was a trunk. Yes, it looked like a flattened trunk, and seemed that it could not hold anything other than a single sword or bow, but it was indeed a trunk.

Greldyrn took a deep breath. This unassuming, little case would be the hardest thing to move – harder than the large boxes of clocks down below. Those were light. This box was not. He knew he would eventually have to bring it down sooner or later, so taking it down now was as good a time as any.

Grabbing the bottom edge of the trunk, he lifted one side up with all of the strength he could muster. The flooring beneath groaned in protest as the weight of the case shifted onto its edge. When the case was upright – at an angle where it wouldn’t fall and crush his foot –, Greldyrn bent his knees and slid his arms into the arm straps once hidden underneath, wearing it much like a traveler’s pack or musician’s instrument. The only difference was the weight. It was heavy – extremely heavy.

The dwarf proceeded down the ladder once more, but this time with extra care. He had a lot of valuable, expensive things in that box. One slip, and he’d lose a fortune.

* * * * *

“Sorry… for… the wait!”

With a final hop from the last rung to the bottom floor, the dwarf gave a sigh of relief.

“Damn thing’s heavy,” he said, laying the case down on the floor with an audible thud, shaking a few nearby crates.

With deft motion, he produced a harsh-looking key from his pocket, and inserted it into the keyhole. The dwarf slowly turned the key clockwise until there were few metallic clicks.

… Seven, eight, nine, ten, he counted, stopping at eleven.

That was a cue. He pushed the key further in, and turned counter-clockwise. There was a loud clack; the lock suddenly opened. Done incorrectly, the case would be unable to be opened for a minute. It was a small countermeasure against thievery. Even if one had the right key, they’d need to know how to use it.

Three more clicks, and the latches were unfastened. Two slips of leather, and the belts were undone. One final lift, and the thin trunk was opened.

– Except it was much, much larger on the inside.

First and foremost, the trunk was deep. Five times as deep as its exterior may suggest. To the unaccustomed eye, it would look like the trunk was laying on a hole dug into the flooring, and to the experienced, a perplexing exercise against normal, geometric intuition.

The walls and bottom were lined boxwood and a black velvet, forming a simple, single compartment. Laying at the bottom of it were tomes, books, and various volumes of academic subjects.

Wrong compartment, he thought immediately. The dwarf had been reading the night before.

Flipping two latches on the interior, he laid his hands on the books, and shifted the compartment to the left – yes, the entire compartment. Like a drawer, it slid to the left, and out of view – seemingly disappearing into the left wall of the case. With its exit, a new compartment rolled into the box from the right.

Personal weapons?

No.

Letters and personal documents?

No.

Herbs? Metals and Gems? Glassware? Empty compartment where he was to pack his tools?

No, no – no.

“Ah yes, here it is!”

Inside of the trunk was a jumble of boxes – some metal, some wood, some velvet, and some leather. There was a crate stamped “moonshine” with various, dark colored bottles which were all corked shut, but he wasn’t selling that. It wasn’t even alcohol. The faint, silver glow on the inside each bottle was enough to prove that.

He was looking for a specific item. It was small, and buried underneath the other packaged works he had accumulated over the years, but he knew that it was probably at the bottom.

Digging through the jumble, the dwarf finally saw it at the base. It was a small, white, velvet box, and the dwarf dusted off the surface with a longing look after plucking it from its confines. The two silver rings inside were of no use to him now. It had been years since he made them, but there was no way they could fulfill their original purpose. Greldyrn didn’t even have the heart to take out the rubies and reuse them for something else.

These two would most definitely be able to put them to better use.

“Open it, and try them on,” he said gently, offering the box to the two.

 

[Scythe and Nyght]

Scythe and Nyght were still looking through the open crate. There were plenty to choose from, of course, just none to pick. This wasn't a new thing for them. After acquiring enough coin on the regular to support a more comfortable lifestyle, they'd taken quite a long time selecting and upgrading their outfits and armaments. Picky, picky. They probably ended up pissing off half the tailors in Alliria getting their coats and shirts made. At least one of them went home happy with a sack full of money for his troubles, though. Their excruciating pickiness was sometimes counterbalanced by the lightning strike of a rare impulse buy. The red ascot for Scythe's body, and now, the charmed clock pendant for Nyght's body as well.

And they glanced over at the dwarf after he announced his presence. Blinking eyes and pursed lips as the trunk hit the floor with the thud they'd expect from a tree felled in the woods.

"You got a few bodies stashed in there?" said Scythe.
"You're secret safe with us," said Nyght. With a wink from both.
"We've got a few skeletons stashed in our closet."
"Except we don't have a closet."
"As convenient as that one."

A laugh from both. Jokes, of course. Literally speaking, he'd have to chop up those bodies extra fine to fit in that thin of a trunk. And who had time for that? They'd eat their words if Greldryn did have the time and was about to show them something that'd make them skip lunch. In any case, that trunk sounded like it was full of rocks or some such--

Nyght's eyes saw it first when Greldyrn got the trunk opened. Scythe's body had to come around for a better view just to confirm what her eyes had seen. And they both leaned cautiously toward the opened trunk like a pair of rock-climbers peering over the edge of a cliff.

"No offense," said Nyght.
"But we think," said Scythe.
"Something's wrong with your box."
"It...uh...seems bigger--"
Together: "--than it should be."

Then. All those books. What? Scythe and Nyght each leaned toward the left, looking at the outside of the box.

"Okay," said Nyght.
"Now you're just fucking with us," said Scythe.

They had no magical talent. They'd seen magic before, sure. Hell, that's how they got their minds merged. But mages always looked like mages--most of the time. They could at least prepare themselves mentally to see some crazy shit. True, Greldyrn had only just sold them a charmed clock, but fat lot of good that did preparing them for--

"Moonshine, eh?" said Scythe.
"Like to party, Grel?" said Nyght.
And they grinned.

Then the dwarf took out something else. Something...unexpected. Scythe accepted the box. Held it as Nyght opened it. Twin rings. Inside. Silver and rubies. An awkward stillness as they gazed down at them. And a flushing of their faces.

"Hell, Grel, forget the rings," said Nyght.
"How much would you take for the trunk?" said Scythe.
"Kidding, kidding..."
"We couldn't afford it anyway..."

Their voices were distracted, trailing off at the end. Half-hearted in their attempt at mirth. Both pairs of eyes still stuck on the rings. Even their whole purpose for being in the store and the contract at large forgotten. The redness in the their cheeks starting to match the rubies.

They were elsewhere. Carried away by their shared memories.

 

[Greldyrn Il Farrick]

“I could make you a trunk, although it is very difficult to maintain,” he half-laughed in response. The spell was a fickle one, and sometimes came undone in the most inconvenient places. Best not to have a huge box in the middle of the woods since it is much harder to carry than a smaller box of similar weight. “Might take a year to craft, and a month to teach you how to use it properly.”

Time which Greldyrn didn’t have.

Thinking of time, the dwarf wondered where the times had gone. There was a burgeoning feeling in his heart, one sparked through observation of the two mercenaries. It was familiar, unwelcome, and made him think of things he would rather not think of. Its name – its name was...

Nostalgia – the wistful longing for a time long past. It was a rude, careless emotion that always managed to worm its way into the hearts of the regretful, and it always left a bitter taste in his mouth by the end. He had expected to feel this way after getting the rings out, but dwarf was never one who was truly prepared for its arrival. He could foreshadow its coming, but could do nothing to stop the rain.

The mercenaries talked about his trunk jokingly, but the dwarf could see that their focus lied with the rings. Their erubescent cheeks hinted at something more, and Greldyrn simply smiled. Youth and their love. It was sweet, melodious, bright –

– And bitter.

Indeed, they were a pair of engagement rings – his own in fact. The duo was right to be flustered. The dwarf could only imagine how many people spoke of the two as lovers, both to their faces and behind their backs. If Samantha and Samuel were siblings, it would have been even more embarrassing. The mere suggestion of a conjugal relationship with one’s sibling must have been appalling to two so young.

However, the rings represented something more intimate than marriage – something that the pair in front of him clearly had. Whether they were siblings, lovers, or two strangers who had just met, the rings represented a different kind of union. A ring was a promise to love and protect the other for as long as one lived. You didn’t have to have sex with another person to feel that. Couples had it. Mothers had it. True friends had it. The mercenaries fell into one of these categories, so the gift would be appropriate.

Greldyrn reached out, and touched the gemstone of one of the rings.

At first, nothing happened, but after a few seconds, a small ember of light grew from within the ruby. It was a soft, gentle light – much like the wavering flames of a hearth. Then, the small ember became a focused arrow, pointing towards the other ruby. The dwarf took a ring from the box, and waved it around, holding it in various locations in space, demonstrating that the arrow of light would never stop pointing at its companion.

“The two gems in these rings were from a twinned ruby, cut from the same stone. Tap once, and the ring will point you in the direction of the other. Tap twice,” he said, the ring’s light suddenly extinguished, “ – And it stops pointing.”

The dwarf put the rings back into the box in Scythe’s hands.

“Wear them, and you’ll each have a compass pointing to the other.”

“ – Figured it would be useful if you two were in battle, and lost each other among hordes of combatants.” That, or should they lose one another in the bustling streets of a city. “Useful in large, unfamiliar buildings too. Indispensable in your line of work – trust me.”

 

[Scythe and Nyght]

They were surrounded by the dead.

Samuel and Samantha were down on their knees. Held in place by two mercenaries of the company. Leona had gone up to the raiders. Talked with one of them. Gave him something. Dark gray clouds above. The stench of blood and viscera on the grass.

And Leona came back. Glared down at them. Pulled out her dagger.

"You disgust me."

And she grabbed a fistful of Samantha's hair and rammed the dagger into her chest. Ripped it back out. Kicked her down.

"You deserve this."

And she grabbed the back of Samuel's head and plunged the dagger into his chest. Tore it back out. Kicked him down.

Leona turned her head to the side. Spat. Cleaned the bloodied blade with a cloth. Tossed the cloth to the ground and walked away.

They were only children.

* * * * *​

The night had come. Campfires from the raiders. Orange beacons across the grassy field. The light, weak and diffuse by distance to them. They were on the edge of the dark.

Samantha breathed rapidly. Bursts of life. A desperate clinging. She could hardly move.

Samuel groaned. Spasmed. Fighting against the encroaching sleep. A losing battle.

Her hand searched. The soft dirt beneath her skin.

His hand searched. The cold grass against his skin.

And they found each other.

Samuel turned his head. And Samantha hers.

Their voices weak. Frail. Fading.

"Don't leave me," he said.

"I won't," she said. "I never will."

And it hurt. To squeeze each other's hand so tight.

* * * * *​

Scythe and Nyght blinked when Greldyrn touched one of the rubies and the tiny ember arrow appeared. Watched the demonstration in a half-daze, coming back to the here and now.

Cut from the same stone.

Greldyrn was right on the utility of the rings, certainly. Even in their case such a thing would be useful. A shared mind between two bodies brought two sets of senses, but not a psychic notion of where the other was at all times. It was still a danger that one or both of them could be disoriented, purposefully by a foe or by simple accident. And they had a lot to lose by becoming separated.

But to them, these seemed like...well, like wedding rings. Maybe there wasn't much superficial difference between wedding rings and a matching pair of rings linked by an enchantment. Even though the dwarf spoke of them as only utilitarian, perhaps they could be both. Represent something, even if that something was a secret between them and only them. Their own take on the tradition.

And who gave a damn about what other people thought. Not them. Not Samuel and Samantha Blair. The rings could just be rings with a neat trick to others. That's all they needed to know.

To hell with everyone else. They had each other. And that's what mattered.

"Only one question," said Scythe.
"How much are they?" said Nyght.
"And if we don't have enough right now."
"We'll come back as soon as we do."

 

[Greldyrn Il Farrick]

For a moment, Greldyrn lost himself in the facets of the two rubies. The faces of the gems glimmered as they did, reflecting the world with hues of maroon and red like an ocean of wine. It didn’t matter if the room was bright or dimly lit – as long as there was some light, the cut of the jewels would let them shimmer and shine.

One of his finest works, if he did say so himself. To put a price on the two rings was something he never really considered.

Gazing into the red, crystal drops which sat perched on wreathes of silver vine, he thought if she would like it. The woman the smaller ring was originally meant for. Granted, she would have probably preferred something green like emeralds. Something to match her eyes.

He would have paid anything to know what she would have said – to know what she thought about the two. He wish he knew what she thought about the possibility of them as something for the future.

He wish he could have told her that he loved her.

Blinking twice, he closed his eyes and nodded.

Best not to think about her. Best to forget.

“I’ll sell it for twenty-four docatte. No more, no less.”

Twenty-four seemed like a good enough number. Not too low – not to high. Seemed just right for all of the materials, magic, and time that were put into making the damned things.

A random price for two rings he’d rather give away then hold on to for any longer. The bands of silver burned his skin both in memory and in physicality, although he would say the memory of her scalded him more than any draft of silver swallowed.

Farrick didn’t realize it then, but the price he set was not arbitrary. Twenty-four was a special number.

It had been twenty-four years since the woman – the love of his life – died in his arms.

Twenty-four years since he buried Myrna.

“If you can’t pay for it now, just drop by on the morrow – I have to leave in three days, but before I depart, I will be very, very busy.”

 

[Scythe and Nyght]

Twenty-four docatte. Scythe's body handed the box to Nyght's, and he opened the small sack of coin and began to count it out. She opened the box once again the carefully slid one of the rings onto her ring finger, taking a moment to turn her hand slowly and admire it for the both of them. With the docatte counted out and handed to Greldyrn and the sack tucked back inside his belt pouch, Nyght slipped the other ring onto Scythe's hand. And he made the same slow turning motion with his hand, only now they could see it and appreciate it from two different angles.

Just twenty-four docatte. About a fourth of their stipend for the job, not even the actual payment in Allirian crowns. Funny. How you sometimes didn't know how much you wanted something until it was staring you in the face. There was just something about symbolizing their intimacy in a tangible--and beautiful--pair of rings that just seemed to complete everything. Like a word etched in stone. An idea solidified. A truth they could see and touch until they were dead.

And, best part, for all the damn Philanthropist knew, this was just the cost for getting the critical information to complete the job. All part of a day's work, boss.

Though the day's work still needed to be done. But...did they have a minute? Surely they had a minute. Khadija could wait. Where the hell was she going to go anyway? She needed to be here in Elbion over the next few days, and she already had a room that she assumed was mostly safe. And after wouldn't be nearly as fun. Never was. When you're ready to go, you're ready to go. Hey, that's just the way it worked, and they were no different.

"You've been a big help, Grel," said Scythe.
"And you're damn good at what you do," said Nyght.
"But work calls."
"And we have to answer."
"Take care."

They each turned to go, but then both slid on their heels back to face Greldyrn again.

"Oh!" said Scythe.
"We almost forgot!" said Nyght.
"Just where do you get those smokes?"
"It smelled fantastic."
"And we could use a good smoke soon enough."
"For...celebration. Yeah."