On The Outskirts of Beinost

The mid summer’s sun warmed the forests and fields outside the busy city of Beinost. Through the soft breeze carried the songs of birds and insects happily thriving in a lush, green landscape. The calm winds even smelled faintly of sweet flowers. In the midst of the tranquility bustled races of all kinds through the city streets. The soft sounds of birds and insects became swallowed in the roar of chatter. Merchants shouted about their wares and children laughed loudly as they played. The sweet scent of flora succumbed to the smell of bakeries, pubs, inns and restaurants oozing savory scents. The foul tinge of adventurers also lingered, hidden beneath the more pleasant of aromas.

Just outside the massive gates to the city, the lithe frame of a girl sat perched upon the stone fence along the road. Stark blue hair cascaded over her shoulder to one side and the hue of fair skin showed through the other half of her roughly shaved head. She sat in common clothes, no different than those around her and a black leather choker with a steel ring hugged her neck. This girl loved to watch as people came and went. Some smiled, some scowled, and most paid her no mind. Despite her love of the people, she felt as if she could never truly be one of them.

Her name given by those who once known her, Flick, mirrored itself in her hands as from time to time she flicked her nails as though trying to get something off her fingers. A low grumble came from her stomach and she placed her hand over it. Days of small game and foraging waned on her. She craved a hot meal and warm mug of mead. Something about the city unnerved her. Although she seemed no different from the rest, her hesitation wore openly on her expression. There, just outside of the city she sat, waiting to build up the resolve to enter the place she loved but also feared.

(( Open to anyone for any reason. Just trying to meet new players. ))

It was lunchtime. Cildorian was squatting on the ground just off the roadside, eating his. He was about an hour's march from the Gate of Beinost. The road from where he stood wound its way ever down, a gentle slope downwards from the foothills of the Emyn Naug to the coastal city. He tried not to look at it too much, so much of it was changed, so much lost, so much art and beauty vanished. The city was lively, in its own way, but only part of it. So much of it beyond the central district was nothing more but a graveyard, a quarry built of bones and rust and blasted stone. And the parts that could be repurposed and mined for materials were the best that could be said. He tried not to look at the part of the city where a charred husk was all that remained of the great library that once stood there, rival and peer of no library save perhaps the Great Archive in Ettermine. An eon's worth of knowledge, lost at a stroke.

Instead of looking towards the library, his eyes turned towards a ruined battlement where the fortress of Tel Megilindari had once stood. He remembered days spent in that yard, teaching the cadets, testing himself against the veterans. Good days. Hard, yes, but not his hardest. His hardest had taught him how good the days actually were when the most grievous thing he had to worry about was whether he or old Oronra would come out on top in the bouts. It was usually Oronra, but towards the end of his time there Cildorian won as much as he lost. Perhaps it had made him overconfident.

As he slowly bit off and swallowed morsels of journey-bread and dried goat jerky, with a few bites from a ditch onion he'd found growing a mile or so back, his eyes wandered at last to the portion of the city that was starting to come back to life and be rebuilt. For a moment, he regarded the distant Gate of Beinost with the air of an appraiser sizing up a gemstone.

He was not impressed.

Unbidden, words came to his mind he had not thought of in years. "Child, get a little older and you'll learn why the best myths of the humans are all about escaping death. Next you'll learn why our best myths are about escaping deathlessness." He could still hear Headmistress Séregon's voice echoing in his head. One of many voices that he could only hear any more as echoes in his head. He had certainly grown old enough to understand the first part of what she had to say.

And regarding the gate with an almost sullen gaze, he understood a bit of the second. The gate was massive, yes, and functional. It did its job, at least. But the old gate of Anebrilith had been a thing of beauty, a carved monument to the marriage of purpose and poetry. It had seemed to grow from the earth, like a tree of stone. It had seemed that if you watched it long enough, you might even see it breathing, churning the air through the delicately carved leaves on its many-faceted surfaces. If you weren't careful, you might walk right up to it and try to pluck a berry from the rock, only then realizing that you'd fallen prey to an art as old as the Endaralin-music woven into its masonry. It was, after all, just stone. But what a stone it was! Had the berry actually come off in your hand, you'd be forgiven if you went ahead and ate it anyway and didn't notice the chalky taste, so powerful was the illusion and the artifice of those who had built that lovely city.

This new gate, though...it was just a big block of rock with some bits of metal in it. It would keep enemies out, certainly. Physical ones. But it wouldn't drive them from your soul and mind, make them fade and make your heart ready for the day's trials. The old one could do that, simply by looking at it. And so he decided he didn't want to look at the new gate anymore. Doing so was starting to feel a bit like scratching at a scabbed-over wound. He quickly finished his lunch, only a few mouthfuls more, then bound the rest up into his traveling-pack, tightening the straps, and hoisting himself up to his full height.

He trudged along, the noonday sun starting to wax into the glorious, hot sun of the early afternoon. But as he walked towards the ocean, the growing heat of the furnace in the skies was ameliorated somewhat with every step he took towards the ocean. The seabreezes were starting to come in off the surf, and the smell of salt was in the air. Xem'zûnd might have destroyed much in Raiaera, but he had not destroyed the salt spray, at least, nor the wind that rises from the water.

Lost in thought, he put one foot in front of the other, the crowds of travelers and farmers and merchants around him steadily growing. Before he knew it, he was before the gates, the brutal slab of stone. A dwarf could have told him whether it was sandstone or limestone, or some sort of poured concrete, but he knew little of masonry himself. He kept walking, preparing himself to pass underneath the cool shade beneath the arch, when suddenly he stopped cold.

There, sitting on the side of the road along the stone fence...a gossamer wing, a glimmer, a glitter. His breath caught in his throat, and a word, a name, came unbidden to his lips. Could it be her?

"Nata..."

A second later, the spell passed. It wasn't her. The face, though lovely, was wrong. The wing was too colorful, and the wrong color at that, to be hers. The face was curious, reserved, cautious. Natamrael was bolder, less tentative.

And she was dead. It was unsettling. He had come to hunt ghosts, but he hadn't expected to see one before he even got started.

He stayed, staring at her for a moment, certainly long enough to be impolite. If she noticed him, she showed no sign, but finally he tore his eyes away and walked with newfound speed into the city, passing under the cold arches. He would need to find an inn tonight, and a hot meal. His business would begin in the morning.

As her eyes drifted from cobblestone to cobbler and back again, she felt this unease persist from the corner of her eye. A gentleman, worn but refined, paused with a gaze toward her direction. Had she been noticed? Her wings. She forgot to disguise her wings! Flick turned her eyes away and her hands fiddled with the plumage at her hips. Feathers became fabric and fluttered from her hands as though a mirage. The rich blues as dark as the depths of the ocean and as light as the sky turned to sheer and lace. As the illusion of a sash settled around her, Flick's eyes drifted enough to check for the gentleman from her periphery. Gone.

She turned her attention in full to where he was. She was certain he was just there. Glimmering cerulean eyes darted from merchant to farmer and commoner alike. Where did he go? Thoughts raced through her mind, none of them good. Then, she caught a glimpse of the massive pack he was carrying. A well on conflict rose in her chest the farther he ventured into town. Does she follow? Does she pretend it never happened?

Her stomach growled.

With worried brows scrunched together, the girl let loose a sigh. She wanted a hot meal and what she wanted was in the same direction of this stranger. If she tailed him, maybe she could put her worry to rest. Would he meet up with shady characters and mention her? She hoped not. Flick hopped off her perch on the stone walls framing the road and nervously worked her way into the crowd. Her hands clenched and relaxed. Her fingers flicked. She couldn't help but to avoid eye contact with those around her but all the same kept watch from the corner of her eyes. People unnerved her.

She kept a long stride behind this stranger, sure not to lose sight of him. All the same, she kept her mind focused on maintaining the illusions that helped her appear more human. Hunted or feared... she didn't want to be perceived as either by the public.

"You've got this," she mumbled to herself. "It's going to be fine. Everything is fine."

The last time Cildorian had been in the city of Anebrilith, it had been sometime in Astacu or Alstana, those months when the grueling cold of winter was finally beginning to relent and soften into the flowering of spring. It was a time when the snowmelt and the spring rain together would swell the banks of the river flowing into the sea, flooding the plains around the city and making possible the fertility of its people.

Now it was Asta-Megil, just over two lemnari later, and it was hot, but the thing Cildorian found he missed the most was the music. Anebrilith had been a song of a city, always alight with the voices and murmurs of joyous people going about their business. Weighty matters had been left to the capital. In Anebrilith, the most important thing anyone decided was when to send out the merchant ships to avoid the worst of the summer squalls.

Now, for all the hustle and bustle around him, it seemed quiet. People were going about their business, the industry of lives and trade carrying on. But there was no joy in it. Anebrilith had been a city that had not seen war for over two thousand years. This city, this Beinost, knew what it looked like, and bore the scars on both its body and in the eyes of its people.

But there he went again. His thoughts were wearing the edges of his emotions to the point of fraying. He had to stop thinking about what had been. All that mattered was what was coming.

With an effort of will, he turned his mind to an old soldier's meditation. One of the earliest he learned when training with Tari, ages ago. Walk. Look left, look right. Look up, too. Threats from above were most commonly missed. Stop. Look back. Let your eyes linger on whatever wares are being offered in the window, like you wanted a second look at whatever caught your fancy as you passed, but in that motion let your eyes sweep across the crowd. Catch anyone who was staring at you, and mark them without them noticing. Then repeat again.

Walk. Look left, look right. Always aware, apparently busy, but seeing everything and missing nothing. The exercise had been second nature to Cildorian for over a decade, and slipping back into it now felt easy and freeing, like play-acting at being alive in a more innocent time.

On about the third or fourth pass, he noticed her. The young woman he had seen earlier. Her wings had vanished, a fact he immediately noted and filed away as a question to be answered. She seemed to be tailing in his direction, but...in an odd way, he couldn't quite place it. It was nothing like how someone with clear aims would follow a person. It was like she moved in his direction without being aware of her reasons for doing so. An actual tail would have known where he was at all times. Their eyes would be on him as surreptitiously as possible, but the eyes would be on him all the same. She, on the other hand, seemed more listless, uncertain, as if she hadn't actually seen him at all.

Keeping up his routine, he slowed just a bit, his curiosity getting the better of him. He planned on staying at an inn he had heard about on the road, a comfortable-enough affair, and more importantly, one with a well-connected innkeeper.

And so when he arrived at the tavern, perhaps just a few minutes behind when he would have arrived keeping his own pace, she was still there, just behind. Where most might try to elude a tail, this time, he made sure that she had kept up.

He walked in, scraping his boots against the scraper at the door first in an act of simple courtesy, and slung his heavy pack down by the slender bar near the door. It was a beautiful piece, that desk, though in some ways it didn't quite fit the rest of the inn. It had the look of one of those rare pieces that survived when the rest of the city fell, and he was grateful for that. As strange as it seemed, plucked from the rubble and set down in this utilitarian space for travelers, he was glad something of its like had survived the devastation when so much else had perished.

"I'd like a room," he said to the clerk at the desk, who paused for just a second before Cildorian slapped a single gold piece down on the countertop. The clerk immediately nodded and busied himself with the paperwork and collecting up some keys.

"And if you don't mind, I'd like to speak with the innkeeper. I'll be in the common room later for provender, happy to speak then." Another coin on the countertop, as a gesture that he would be worth the innkeeper's valuable time. The clerk nodded, handed him a key, and gave a quick description of the room and which floor it was on, and when the common room would be open for dinner.

Cildorian nodded, and turned to leave, then a thought gripped him, and he turned back, a sly smile on his face. Taking out one last coin, he plopped it down on the countertop.

"And, just one more thing. A woman is about to walk in. She'll seem a bit confused, I'm sure you'll agree, but pay it no mind. She won't know me, but she'll likely be interested in room and board. Tell her that her room's already paid for, and if she'd like to wing her way downstairs in an hour or so for dinner, she's more than welcome to join me." The emphasis he placed on the word, he hoped, would be clear to her where to the clerk it would just be a figure of speech.

"Make sure she knows it's her choice. If she'd rather spend an evening upstairs, that's her prerogative. I'll get my business conducted with the innkeeper either way."

The clerk merely nodded, secreting the coin away in a drawer somewhere. Cildorian had paid well, though not exorbitantly. The amount should cover a stay for two for at least a few days, and a little bit of the well-connected innkeeper's consideration.

The young girl struggled to keep her attention on her target. Other people around her stole her attention and flooded her mind with anxious thoughts. She tried to calm her nerves, and only did so long enough to see her target enter a tavern. Outside, she stopped. As the sea of people parted around her, Flick's hands worked nervously as she eyed the sign. It had been weeks if not months since she last braved town for an honest meal, let alone a soft bed. Her little camp outside the city in the nearby forest came to mind. She could always go back. It wasn't too late. There, she knew it was safe. Well... safe enough.

Her stomach rolled and growled. The meal of berries and herbs this morning ran empty with the sun so high in the sky. A lump formed in her throat and she took a deep breath before choking it down. At least inside would have less people staring at her as they walked by, right?

Flick mustered up her courage and walked into the tavern. Inside, she was immediately greeted by the aroma of food cooking in the kitchen. Her mouth began to water. Trying to contain her urge to leap over the counter just to claw at some freshly prepared fare, Flick nibbled at her lower lip. As both a distraction and a precaution, the young woman looked over the interior of the tavern. It had a homey feel to it. Nothing stood out as too lavish, aside from the front counter. Some chairs littered the main area with a central hearth with a clean but well worn rug laid in front. To the rear, several long tables stretched with a few smaller, circular tables scattered along the far walls. Above hung animal antler chandeliers and signaled all the trimmings for a dining area. Again her stomach protested.

With a mixture of worry and uncertainty, Flick approached the front counter where a man busied himself with several leaves of parchment. Her target seemed nowhere to be found, but she was certain he entered the tavern. Her mind flopped between food and the traveler with a side of nice, warm bed.

"Excuse me," she voiced timidly.

"Ah, well I'll be..." commented a weathered looking fellow behind the counter. "What can I help you with, miss?"

"Um... I was wondering if you've seen a man--" she gestured about a foot higher than her own head. "About this tall? He had a big bag about..." She scanned the room for something to compare its size to until she eyed a small barrel behind the clerk. "About that big?"

The clerk raised a smile. "Well miss, plenty of folk come on in here about yay tall with a sack."

Her pose deflated. She looked toward the stairs and wondered if she'd be okay just letting it go. Maybe he wasn't meeting with others to tip them off about her. Maybe he was just some weary traveler she decided to creepily follow. Then again, this could be where his friends met. Maybe they would be interested in hunting a daughter of Valhalla.

As though he had enough fun with watching her ruminate, he leaned in with an elbow on the fancy countertop.

"I reckon I may know the fellow you're looking for. Told me room and board is on him if you like and in about an hour or so when we open up for dinner, you'd be welcome to 'wing it' downstairs to join him." The clerk stood back with a grin.

Flick stood with her mouth almost agape. Her heart fluttered from nerves. What could this mean? Should she take the offer? What if this was some kind of trap? Why did he say "wing it" with such-- Was he trying to lure her in?! Wait. He did see her wings! But what does that mean? Also, how does she know he's bad? Maybe he is kind... Maybe it's just uncommon hospitality?

She wrung her hands and flicked her fingers. She struggled to give him an answer.

"Look," he sighed. "He made certain to tell me it's your choice. You can just take the room if you like. I can see you're worried but the locks are solid. We're a safe establishment. If you don't want to stay, you don't have to. Just a kind gesture from a stranger."

A kind gesture... She took a deep breath and nodded.

"Okay."

The clerk raised a brow as if to wait for more.

"Okay, I'll take the room." She placed her hand over her stomach and pinched her lip between her teeth.

"You got it miss, just fill out these forms and I'll tell you to your room." The clerk fetched some pieces of parchment from a pile and set it in front of her with a quill. She eyed it and then him.

"Um... Could I not fill out the paper?"

The clerk righted himself and turned his expression sour.

"I can give you some extra!" She turned to her hip where a worn burlap pouch hung and began to rummage through it. She sifted through various oddities one might consider junk but managed to produce a handful of miscelaneaous coins. Some of this region, some not, but all copper and silver the same.

"I just-- I'm worried..." she stammered.

"Forget it." The clerk shook his head and motioned a hand as to push the coins back to her. "No paperwork."

He turned around and produced a key upon the counter. He nodded toward the stairs.

"Go on up and take a left. Yours is the one in the back to the right of the window. Can't miss it."

She nodded and scooped the key into her hands.

"Thank you." Flick bowed her head, then turned for the stairs.

"Dinner in an hour, miss!" The clerk reminded.

She heard the reminder her way up the stairs but at the moment, her nervous wreck of a mind centered on one thing: her own room. She jogged down the hall and found the room. With a wiggle of the key in the lock, it opened to a quaint little living space with small sitting area and a bed. A smile crept on her lips. She turned, bolted the door, made a straight line for the bed, and leapt into it.

The discomfort was like an itch lodged right at the base of his ribcage, an itch just beneath the skin. The city was so difficult to be in. Coiameth had taught him to listen well to the song that all things sang around him, and the song here was wrong. Necromancy had infected it, and the song of life and reality had been distorted ever so faintly. It was like the melody played on a viol left on the windowsill during a rainstorm. It was recognizable, but made you wince.

His room was nice, if not downright luxurious for a new inn in a rebuilt town. It appeared as though his show of gold had gotten him something, at least. His bed was big enough for two, a handsome dresser occupied the corner, and a lovely wrought-silver basin with an enormous copper ewer filled with clear water sat against the far wall. Opening the drawers, he pulled out the faded copy of Parmaina, an abridged affair containing only the core scriptures, and tossed it onto the bed. He was glad to see the Children of the Stars had resumed their mission of distributing holy literature to the nation's inns and taverns. Their version was always a little old-fashioned, even treacly, the abridgment unfortunately excluding some of the more interesting passages, especially the ones that might simply confuse a traveler. Pity, though. The confusing passages were always the ones you were most likely to learn from, if you took the time to wrestle with them.

Into the now-empty dresser he unloaded what he had brought with him. He had not traveled prepared to walk the entire way on foot, and indeed he'd been able to ride with a detachment of Tel Aglarim for some distance. They let him borrow one of their horses and he paid for their kindness with songs and music in the evening. With so many bards dead in the fall of Eluriand, one who still knew even a fraction of the old arts was always welcome, and had a place in a company.

But he had been prepared to walk the whole distance, if need be, and so into the dresser he put the accoutrements one might need. Into the drawers went several sturdy sheets of oilcloth prepared in a few sizes and useful for anything from wrapping around yourself in the rain to pitching a tent to keeping provisions dry. He had even used it at one point to fashion a small sail, moving swiftly down the Escaldor from Daer Taurë to the ruined Vanwanen. Rope and tackle went in as well, for tying down gear and hanging it from trees to keep out curious creatures, and two lightweight hooks that were useful for stringing up any game he hunted on the trail to keep his provisions up. Into the drawers, neatly organized, went his bowstrings and a set of small knives of varying lengths, a whetstone. What small bits of food were left, though any good traveler knew to eat almost every bite right before arriving at a new place to restock. His great longbow was too large for the drawers, so he leaned it up into the crook between the dresser and the wall, along with his hip quiver and all his arrows. At last he layered in the handful of changes of clothes he'd brought with him.

On top of the dresser he laid his bedroll, his mess kit, and the deep, thick-bottomed cookpot he took with him on his travels. It was carved on the side with a sigil, a gift from his friend Lomal in Coiameth. As long as he channeled a song into it once a week, the cast iron pot would be as light as mithril. It was extraordinarily useful for a long journey, though Lomal had warned him that he would need to be back in Coiameth by late Autumn, or the spell would wear off. Such enchantments could be made permanent, of course, but it was often more trouble than it was worth. Lomal had promised to teach him this art one day, but keeping the glyph maintained was, according to Lomal, the first step of such training. So Cildorian did his best, once a week, to restore the magic with the songs that Lomal had taught him to song. And he had to admit it had other uses, as well; the pot was less likely to be stolen when the magic in it was wholly temporary.

The minor bits and bobs accounted for, Cildorian turned his attention to the great locking chest, a sign that the room was nicer than normal. Unfastening the lock with his room key, he laid into it his sword, a few more knives, notably fancier than the others, and covered them with a spare cloak, folded several layers thick. On top of the cloak he laid his shortbow, his pouch with most of his coin, and placed a statue of a small silver fox. The statue was valuable, to be sure, frankly perhaps even more valuable than the sword he dutifully protected. But the sword would be frustrating to replace, if it was stolen, and even locked an inn was never fully safe. Put something valuable enough on top, and there was hope a petty thief would grab it, consider his risk to have been repaid in full, and escape quickly before digging for me. He closed up the chest, locked it, and tucked the key into a trouser-pocket.

Thusly unpacked, he picked out one of his smaller knives from the dresser-drawers, and walked over to the silver basin. Pouring water from the ewer into it, he held his hand over it and sang a few verses of a melody, woven together from both the Dagoralin and Ostalin schools. Had he wanted, he could have sent either melody in a certain direction; in one way, a bolt of fire would have sprung from his hand. In another, a shimmering shield of fire would have burst from his body, and laid waste to his enemies. But the bardic arts were so much more than these base and simple spells. Now he sang both songs together, mingling them together, and imbuing both the aggressive sound of Dagoralin and the solid sounds of Ostalin with a gentle, careful, caressing emotionality. The result was simple: the water warmed, until at last it started to gently steam.

He dipped a towel into the water, rubbed the grime of the road off his skin, and shaved a week's stubble off of his face. This was the true gift of the elves: a shave, and the miracle of warm water. It was a sign of the decline of the elves, Cildorian thought, that they had debased these simple magical pleasures into the arts of war and conquest.

* * * * *

A hour or so later, Cildorian was in the common room, and before him sat a small feast. Four roast quail, a whole platter of roasted potatoes, thick crusty bread and butter, and plates of of what looked to be seared venison in gravy and roasted pork with rosemary and mint sat before him, along with a half-finished mug of ale. He was eating hungrily. It was the first day of real food after a journey of seven hundred miles, and though it had not all been taken by foot, enough of it had been to leave his body famished.

The innkeeper had come and gone, and from his breast pocket a small journal was tucked, where Cildorian had dutifully recorded what the well-connected man had to say. He was pleased with what he had learned, and hoped the morning would bring him exactly what he hoped to find. But it would be tricky; the Moontae could always be a bit fickle, and the troubles between the siblings seemed to have become more difficult during his long, self-enforced ensconcement among the mystics in Kilya Gorge. But no matter. He was long past the point of worrying about the future. The present was difficult enough, but at least the present was made less difficult by the piles of food in front of him.

Suddenly, he sensed a presence behind him. He'd like to claim it was a slight shift in the song of all things that flowed around him when he was willing and able to listen that let him know of the presence, but it was nothing quite so mysterious and magical. No; he simply heard someone's stomach rumble coming from behind him, where whoever it was must have been standing for who knows how long.

He didn't know who was watching him, but he knew they were close, and right behind him. So he simply gestured at the seat opposite him, and the quail that lay glistening in its juices and waiting to be eaten.

"Why don't you have a seat, fellow traveler? I'm sure you're hungry, and I'd love to chat with you. We find each other fascinating, it seems, and while my reasons for it are rather innocuous, I'd be interested to know yours. Sit, and perhaps we can share them with each other, know?" He sucked the last bits of meat off a quail bone, and placed them back on the table, gesturing to the tavern server to bring more quail and potatoes. When the presence didn't immediately move to join him, he chuckled a bit, and spoke once more.

"Come! Do not fear me, please. I haven't scared anyone in a long time. My name is Cildorian. It will be, I believe, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but to do so, you have to sit."

Flick buried her face in the down pillow with a smile frozen on her face. No matter how she tried to soften the ground in her camp with leaves and moss, it could not compare to a mattress. She turned and flopped with arms outstretched. For the first time in a while, she looked up to wooden support beams and ceiling instead of blue skies or a sea of stars. She admitted sleeping indoors had that one downside, but the benefits far outweighed the detriments. With a deep breath, she sat up in her bed and surveyed the rest of her room. Of the common furnishings, the tub caught her attention the most. For the past month or so, the small stream that ran by her camp provided enough cold, clean water to wash herself with a rag. The idea of an actual soak and proper clean appealed to her.

A moment of hesitation crossed her mind. The young Valkyrie looked toward the door. She had to double-check. Flick swung her feet off the bed and walked to check the handle. The lock rattled and the door stayed. She hung her head in relief, then looked toward the one window that filled the room with the luminescence. Beside were two bunched of draped sheer— enough to obscure a wandering eye but still allow light to filter through. She pulled them closed and spent a few moments trying to look at the street below. Through them, all she could see were rough blobs of color moving about, nothing more. Still slightly unsettled, she felt safe enough in this small enclosure to let down her facade. Illusions faded around her person and the lace sash around her waist stretching into a pair of blue, iridescent wings connected at her lower back. It felt good to let them breathe.

Finally comfortable enough in her solitude, Flick removed her studded leather breastplate and worn clothes. Without ceremony, they fell to the floor. Fair skin exposed, Flick crawled into the tub. Not much warmer than the chill of the spring, her skin prickled with cold. Still, the difference was enough to be pleasant by comparison. She spent the next few moments unmoved. The soft sounds of civilization outside mixed with the muted clatter of cookware below. Through closed eyes, she could just envision what kind of warm meal awaited her. An hour felt so long. She couldn’t truly relax and enjoy herself with the anticipation that weighed on her mind. A soft sigh drifted from her lips. She at least resolved herself to finish freshening up. Of her entirety, she spent the most time gently preening the feathers of her wings. So much time on the ground collected all manner of dust, dirt, and debris. As she cleaned, she wondered about her mysterious benefactor. Who was he? Why did he pay for her room? Did he want anything to do with her wings? She could only imagine the price they would bring in certain markets. Wings of a Valkyrie? Even a half blood such as her? She shuddered at the thought.

Finally clean, Flick left her bath. She dried herself with a set of linens neatly left for her atop the nearby dresser. She eyed her dirty clothes on the ground with a snarl. To finally get a good wash only to put on filthy garments sat poorly with her. She paused to reflect with a grip of her chin. Should she? It would be a risk. Maybe at least her lingerie? She nodded. Flick put on the very bare essentials and threw the rest into the tub to soak. Her armor she hung where one might hang a cloak or shawl. Standing in the middle of the room, she let her magic encircle her. A moderately fashionable blouse appeared over her chest, white as the northern snow. Over her waist and legs materialized a long, flowing skirt, blue as clear skies. A black lace choker wrapped around her neck and her wings hugged tight to her side where they became the same elegant sash as before. Clothed in her illusions, Flick gave herself a spin and final inspection. She felt confident. On her travels, she had yet to encounter anyone that would see past the reality she presented.

From the hallway, she heard doors open and close. The sound of voices collected under her feet, and a faint savory aroma seeped from beneath her door. Had an hour passed already? Her stomach reinforced her curiosity and anticipation. With key in hand, she opened her door and turned to lock it behind her. The lack of pockets forced her to be creative and tuck the key into the waistband of her faux skirt and subsequently the only garment physically on her person. Nerves again gripped at her chest. Despite her confidence in her abilities, she still felt the worry of being around others. She always worried about others. Flight proved a great way to escape most situations, but again, the amenities of the indoors had its few detriments. Now, she paused in the hallway. Uncertainty hung in her throat. The stranger likely waited for her below. Was she so naive as to trust him? He did pay for her lodging and meal and without his charity, she would have likely been forced to fill out the tavern’s form. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but the less of a trail she could leave, the better.

“Alright,” she muttered. Her hand flexed in front of her, and the air chilled enough to produce wisps of vapor. If she had to, she could defend herself enough to make an escape. She bolstered her confidence and nodded again.

Flick made her way down the hall, stairs, and into the common area. An eruption of smells bombarded her and her mouth began to water. Tenants from the tavern and those seeking a hot meal already gathered around the long tables. She eyed the lesser used sitting areas along the walls. As much as she would rather keep her distance, the familiar head of hair she had followed into town sat in the middle of the room. Her anxiety caused her hands to ball, and she flicked her nails in worry. Biting at her lip, she approached the mass of people partaking in the feast.

She wove herself through the tables until she stood behind him. Her stomach growled. He spoke. He urged her to take a seat, where an entire roast quail waited ever so patiently to be devoured. Temptation sang its sweet song. The hesitation lasted only a second, and she took her seat, careful to keep hidden wings against her hips. She wasted little time in tearing a leg from the foul and taking her first bite. Campfire food could not compare to the herbs, spices, and slow cook of a proper kitchen. She almost couldn’t contain the wash of flavor and satisfaction. It took tremendous willpower to not tear into her food like a primitive savage. She stilled herself and turned her head ever so slightly to her side where the stranger, Cildorian, sat.

“Flick,” she replied quietly. It wasn’t a name she was proud of, but it was one most came to know her by. She picked at the quail in front of her. Hunger begged her to grab it with both hands and take a huge bite. Instead, she peeled a chunk off its breast and popped it into her mouth. She savored the bite and swallowed.

“Thank you…” she followed then paused. “But why?”

Caution and unease crept up the back of her neck. Her hands sat in her lap and frost chilled her fingertips.

As she sat, he took her in calmly, concentrating almost as much on her appearance as on the juices running down the quailbone he was focused on picking clean.

There were little things amiss. Extraordinarily little, really. It was good work, almost great. But the cloth on her blouse did not always seem to move in perfect tandem with her movement. The skirt would go right when the breeze went left. At least, sometimes. But barely perceptible. No, it was good work. And her face looked exactly as it did when he saw it earlier, so either the illusion did not extend that far or she was an exceptional talent.

It's also possible, he thought, caution reminding him not to get ahead of himself, that every single mistake in this presentation is designed to make you think she's less expert than she is. Fastening his lips around the chunk of meat on a small wing, he sucked it off, and dismissed the thought. If the Moontae clan was truly going to cause him problems, they had the entire length of Raiaera to strike at him, and many of his campsites were much less secure than this inn. Doing it now wouldn't make sense.

"It's a good question," he finally said. "I can't say as I rightly know. Except I saw you at the gates, and you...reminded me of someone." He paused, considering, and began rummaging through the pages of a thick journal that had been set on the side of the table. It seemed to contain a mixture of both printed matter and handwritten notations, and it was bulging all over with scraps of paper and collected bits of errata stuffed into it all kinds of angles. As he searched, he continued speaking, slowly but deliberately.

"And then, of course, I noticed you following me. It's been ages since I was followed! A bit flattering, honestly, makes me feel good to think someone might still think an old warrior retired into mysticism and oblivion is worth setting a tail on. I figured, though, that if you were actually working for someone, it would be good to let you know that I was onto you. And if you weren't, well, I have to say...I was curious. Curious enough to spend a bit of coin, and see what you wanted. Ah, here it is..."

He produced a small drawing, about the size of a hand. He pulled it almost reverently from where he found it, tucked into a small, mostly handwritten section of the book that appeared to have water stains in a few places. But the drawing itself was on paper even older than the writing in the book, and appeared to have been done once in pencil, another time perhaps in charcoal, and then finally gone over with a fine ink to render the effect permanent. He placed it on the table between them.

"Please look, but don't touch. It's...the only drawing I have left."

The drawing was of the upper body of a woman, apparently young but with something ageless about the eyes. She was naked, but her hair fell about her breasts in a fashion that managed to both preserve her modesty and enhance her beauty. The drawing was, for all its sensuality, seemingly drawn in a chaste way, as though the artist's hand sought not to titillate or excite, but to elaborate, and articulate. Her mood seemed pensive, withdrawn, but smoldering like embers waiting for a breath of life to burst them into fire again.

And it looked ever so much like Flick. Not quite. But enough. The frame of the figure, after all, was a set of wings that managed to add a deadliness to the beauty of Natamrael Nito, fallen queen of the Moontae Succubi. The kind of wings one could imagine beating around the head of an enemy in one hour, and caressing the skin of a lover the next.

"Before you get any ideas, no, this isn't an old flame." He shook his head, a laugh lurking at the corner of his eyes, as if the thought was uproarious to him.

"Rather, an old friend. One of the oldest, and one of the first I lost. I made this drawing maybe a year before she died, and it was another year before I heard that terrible news. I drew this on the night she told me that she was bearing twins, the children of another old friend."

He paused, tapping the drawing for a moment, considering.

"Look, I can tell...you have powers. Of a sort." He gestured to her clothes. He smiled, but his eyes were cautious, not for himself, but for her.

"Be careful with illusions in Raiaera, friend Flick. Illusion is an art that has long been thought perilously close to Enarlin, the forbidden School. I know better, as do an increasing number of bards. Old Endaralindalë has been a much-maligned school of art, and hardly necromantic in the slightest, as the legends so inaccurately seem to tell. But there are those in the city who still hold to the old superstitions, and would call you a necromancer or worse if they knew you were cloaking yourself in glamours."

He leaned in close, his potatoes and quail forgotten.

"But you're here. You bear a striking resemblance to a dead woman, someone I loved in my own way, someone I miss, and someone whose death remains unavenged. You also have a remarkable talent, one that could be useful. And so I thought I might invite you here to consider a job.

"I could use the help of a ghost, you see, in putting the haunt to an old rival, and you seem to have the skills I need."

He gestured at the drawing one last time. "It's your choice, of course. I am not hurting for coin, and you do not need to feel a shred of obligation to me for your room and board. It's already bought and paid for, for at least a week given the value of gold these days, and no one will record your presence or ask about you while you're here. So you're always free to say no. And you can, of course, hear out more of what I have in mind, and say no then, too. My business is not so secret, at least not yet, that I would feel the need to put any more pressure on you than need be. But I also can't wait forever; I need to set things in motion, at least over the next few days. We can talk more now, or later. What do you say, Flick? Will you at least hear me out?"