Daughter of Wreath, ch.5

Author's Note: Our heroes' -- if they can be considered such -- journey continues!

[story]

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It’s difficult to leave the grotto behind. Fresh fish, clean water, a good place to rest. We do waste an extra day there, though, tending to hangovers from the ‘goblin-milk’ Gelyn had passed around, cleaning our clothes, resting sore feet, chapped asses, and all the other unpleasant rigors of a wanderer’s life. After our second night camping, though, the three of us finally set off once more in the direction of Tague – a place that, now, does not seem quite so far away as it once had.

Two full days of travel eastward pass before that closeness becomes immediacy. City walls, jagged and partly-rusted, can be seen in the distance. The road becomes smoother, now paved with cobblestones ranging in color from gray, to blue, to green, all flat and dirty, with green and yellow grasses sprouting up from between them. Around us now, with increasing density, are structures and small settlements, though while I might have expected to see neighborhoods, farmlands, or outposts, the goblin lands’ outskirts are a great deal more focused. Neighborhoods take the form of massive apartments and flophouses, with very few actual homes (and those somewhat ramshackle), while much of everything else out here lends itself very specifically to merchandising – a taste of Tague for those who find themselves incapable of entering the city itself. Markets, taverns, and even full-scale attractions surround the city’s walls, filling me with an unexpected excitement. My life has been a simple one, with a few exceptions, and this place looks… well, anything but simple.

My knowledge of the goblin lands is limited, despite my passing interest in them. Tague is a city that doubles as a tiny nation, entirely sovereign. Though some scholars consider the place licentious to the point of imminent ruination, the goblin lands are wealthy and well-defended, so remarkably so that any attempt at open war would cause far greater harm to Graicea than it was worth. As such, Tague remained within the larger nation’s borders unmolested, and a powerful trade dialogue had been formed in place of hostilities.

“We’ll reach the city by day’s end, I think,” Vexabeth muses aloud as we walk. “We’ll finally be able to find the Shrine of the Second, and… hmm. After that, perhaps I’ll stay. The Order has no presence in Tague, from what I’ve heard, and goblins can be a pleasant enough folk if you don’t rile them up.”

“You’d leave so soon, Vexa?” I say aloud, though I didn’t fully intend to. With the sentiment aired, though, I continue. “It’s been so much better traveling with companions than always alone.”

“You only travel until you find what you actually wanted,” Vexa scoffs. “How about when you find your mother, mm? Plan to stick around with rickety old Vexabeth, then?”

“I wouldn’t call you rickety,” I say, offering a small, thin smile to the elf. “Not after the other night. I’d say you’re still every bit as spry as you need to be.”

“You’re looking for your mom, Nowa?” Gelyn speaks up. “I guess I never really knew what the… quest was actually for. But I think this makes it even better! And we’ll definitely find her – Tague may be big, but so am I!”

“That you are, bigstuff,” the witch chuckles.

“Lassies, lassies, lassies!” comes a voice from just off the grassy edge of the road, a small figure scuttling out from behind a vendor wagon that already had two other goblins hawking wares inside of it. “Ye look fine and fit as three fiddles, don’t ye! On yer way to Tague, then?”

The woman was a goblin (as, predictably, most folks in this area were), though rather better put-together than many of the hawkers, entertainers, and scofflaws on the city’s outskirts. She’s shorter even than I am, likely not even broaching four feet in height, and pleasantly bottom-heavy for how toned she is. Smooth emerald skin bears just a tint of blue, her large purple eyes are inquisitive and intense, and her jet-black hair is put up in an odd style – a high ponytail in the back, spiked in the front, and shaved on the sides, leaving her large, pointed ears uncrowded. Her brows are dark and sharp, cheeks high but chin narrow.

“Oh, uhh–” I begin, my first instinct to be untrusting, but I quickly relent. “We are, yes! Are there any problems ahead?”

“There may be, lass, there may,” the goblin muses, striking a post that rests her chin between thumb and forefinger. Her nails, I notice, are painted a dark blue, but unlike Vexa, it looks freshly-applied and well-maintained. “But nae somethin’ that can’t be put right by makin’ the right people rightly chuffed, and nae somethin’ we can handle by cuttin’ aboot streetwise, aye?”

“She talks funny!” Gelyn exclaims. “Can we keep her?”

“Just trying to sell something, sweetheart, don’t pay her any mind,” Vexabeth scoffs. “You’ll find a great deal more of them beyond the city walls, I’d say, so you’d best get used to saying ‘not interested’ now.”

“Well dinnae flap, aye! Ye won’t find much behind the walls if’n ye ne’er get there in the first place,” the goblin folds her arms across what looks to be a lovely chest, her black calfskin jerkin so tightly-fit enough to provide a pretty nest of cleavage below the neckline. Soft-soled boots and fingerless gloves match the jerkin, I notice, but her soft, baggy pants are of a scorched orange color, complementing her the light teal-green of her skin. Hanging in a scabbard by a heavy leather belt is a steel-pommeled seax looking to be a bit shorter than my own small blade, and a compact butt-pack rests at the small of her back. “But are we truly expected to negotiate wi’out first makin’ introductions?”

I sigh, side-stepping Gelyn and Vexa to approach the goblin personally, reaching down to shake her hand. If we’re going to have trouble getting into Tague, I’d rather have a way around it now, rather than trying to scramble for a solution when we get there. “Introductions, then. I’m Nowa Jarren – these are my traveling companions.”

“Gelyn Ul-Shan!” the shokari adds excitedly.

The elf sighs. “Vexabeth Inithel, the Birch Witch. Or if you’d rather, the Necromancer of the White Woods. Or ‘mommy,’ if you get that far.”

“A pleasure, then,” the goblin flashes a smile of mostly-even teeth, though her pronounced upper and lower canines are clear. “Then I, Paiz-Lee Funcheon – or just Paize if yer feelin’ quite familiar – find myself humbly at yer service. I work fer a real minted bloke hiveside who sent me out to scav some bawbees from the ruins just south. Took the job – ‘course I did – but I wouldnae say I’ve got the firepower to go down there oan my lonesome. Ye need cold, hard bits to get past the gates so the green folk know yer well to play, but a good favor can get ye far.”

I blink, then furrow my brow, chewing at my lower lip for a moment. I want to respond, but I’m… not… completely sure what she’s saying. “I’m sorry, can you, um… just that whole middle part, again…?”

Vexabeth took a deep, weary breath, leaning on her staff. “She works for a rich guy inside the city walls, who hired her to scavenge some sort of treasure from a ruin to the south. She took the job but doesn’t wanna do it alone. You need a down payment to get into Tague so they know you actually have money to spend, so it’s important for us to get on someone’s good side if we’re gonna show up broke. Which we basically are.”

“Aye, now yer ready to sing along, lass!” the goblin – Paize – cheers.

I’m a little awestruck. “I didn’t know you’d dealt with goblins before, Vexa.”

“I haven’t, bug,” the elf shrugs. “A species can’t have an accent. She doesn’t talk like that because she’s a goblin, she talks like that because she’s teshani.”

Suddenly it makes sense! Off Paraven’s eastern coast lies the Teshan Sea – deep, blue, and as far as anyone knows, basically endless. Those who live on the coast of the Teshan are called teshani, and while that’s the kind of thing I know from reading about it or being told stories by my mother, it’s not like I’ve ever heard a teshani accent before to be able to recognize it. That said, it’s an… intense one. “Oh! Uh, right, sorry.”

“Nae bother,” Paize shrugs. “Now, what d’ye say to my proposal? Four of us go on a wee trip south, start some trouble, come back with the goodies my boss wants – I get paid, I get the three of you into Tague, we go our separate ways. Sound keen?”

“We’re supposed to trust that this isn’t some sort of ambush?” Vexa grimaces, looking uncomfortable. Her distrust is fair – she is on the run, after all, not that we know if she’s still being actively followed or not. “You could lead us straight into some sort of trap.”

“She’s right,” I frown apologetically, “we really don’t know the first thing about you. You seem… like, nice and everything, though.”

The goblin holds up one hand, showing off her nails. “Favorite color’s blue. Not keen on snakes. I go zany for a good breaded egg. And, ahhh… oh, when I was wee I tried coarsin’ a zura wean, figured we were close to the same size, got the worst batterin’ I’ve e’er had since.” She stands on tip-toes, pointing to a thin white scar above her eyebrow. “Ruddy bawbag gave me this, helps me remember to nae act too much a goon.”

“Ooh, cool scar!” Gelyn interjects.

“That’s… great, but I don’t–”

“Now ye know me, aye?” Paize smirks. “Look, I can sit around here waitin’ fer someone else to go wit, but seein’ as one of ye’s looks the part of a speller and one’s got a big piss-off mace, I’d say my chances are best wit ye. I ne’er e’en promised it’d be dangerous, did I? Just dinnae wanna take the risk, is all.”

“Oh, I hope it’s dangerous!” Gelyn insists, nodding her big, horned head excitedly. “I’ve been wanting to fight something again! We should go with her – like a little adventure! Or a big adventure, if we’re lucky!”

The elf folds her arms across her chest, clearly unconvinced, but turns her golden eyes to me. “Well, fearless leader? What do you think?”

“Leader? I’m not the leader of anything, but…” I glance at my two companions, then back to the goblin. “Alright, we’re with you. Just lead the way, and… hopefully you don’t get us killed.”

“Or worse, bug,” Vexa says ominously. “There’s always worse out there than death. Getting captured by the Order would be one of those things.”

“Order? You mean those anti-golem bawbags?” Paize lets out a brief, hearty chuckle. “Ye’ll find not a single kind word for any of their lot near Tague. If those dobbers had their way, the city’s defenses would be scrapped fer parts and Tague would be annexed. They’re not welcome here, and they right well know it. Consider yourself safe while yer in the company of the green folk!”

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Not all goblins, though, acted in the interest of Tague, or indeed, even for their own self-interest at all. Some were easily coerced by the allure of nickel, ivory, and the permission to do wicked things to decent folk. So it was with Pinzak. The gnarled little goblin struggled to keep up with the small force of Order soldiers he’d been assigned to travel with, his short legs pumping frantically beneath him to keep the same pace as the primarily human paramilitary squadron. Pinzak didn’t have any real hatred for all the ‘heretics’ the Order spoke of, or at least he didn’t seem to. He disliked everyone more-or-less equally. But who else in Graicea was going to pay him so handsomely to track down and pummel random magic-users? Official mercenaries that worked for the Archduke had to follow all those ‘rules’ and ‘proper conduct,’ Kou cults were rare and honestly just too weird, and selesril insurgent groups didn’t pay worth a dog’s tits. Nah, if you wanted to make good nickel to be a bad person, working for the Order of the Holy Vessel was the way to go. As long as you brought in your target, they never asked questions.

At least, most of them didn’t. Inquisitor Hall was a different story. “This is a… circus, yes?”

The third day of their journey south from Minoury had brought the small group of soldiers into contact with what appeared to be a wandering carnival, and while it didn’t seem like this heavily-armed group of people in uniform was the most welcome sight to these circus-folk, their leader – a tall, lithe elven man in red pinstripes – had nonetheless rushed out to formally greet the inquisitor. “Circus? Ah– w-why yes, of course! You’ve come across none other than the Picklehammer Brigade, Graicea’s most fantastic font of festivit–”

“Two women likely came through this way,” Hall interrupted, their tone as flat and stern as ever. “A younger human, and an elf. Have you seen either of them?”

Ribaldrous Toche hesitated, green eyes scanning Hall’s black-armored frame, lingering on the blade-and-crescent symbol on the inquisitor’s long white tabard. While this specific variant of Rul’s crest wasn’t familiar to him, he was clever enough to know the faction he was dealing with. “Two women… hmm, well, I’m afraid business has been quite dry, recently, my friends! Pesky cultists – cultists of the Waiting One, not fine, upstanding religious folk such as yourselves – have made the entire crossroads region terribly trafficked! Quite unsafe, quite unsafe! Why, we’ve gotten so desperate we’ve considered taking ourselves on holiday to the bluffs, a bit of safe, simple country living to calm the nerves! Of course, if–”

“You speak too much, and say too little.” Hall frowned. “You’re hiding something. You’re lying to me.”

Pinzak rubbed his leathery hands together anxiously at the inquisitor’s heel. He knew a bit about Hall, heard stories, but had never actually seen them work. The visible tension in Hall’s gauntleted fist, though, suggested something distasteful was about to happen. “Euh… ‘ey, guv, we don’t even know whevver or not they passed frough this way, yeah? Mayhaps they fled right south, or back west, the girl looked like a bluffsider to these old eyes, don’t see many redheads with a tan like that.”

Hall’s stormy gray eyes flickered from the elf, down to Pinzak. “You never said the girl was from the bluffs.”

“Didn’t fink it was important, did I?” Pinzak grimaced back.

The inquisitor’s jaw tightened, the closest thing Pinzak had ever seen to a full scowl from them. Those wrathful eyes turned back to the elf, then. “This doesn’t change the fact that you’re keeping something from me. Something you are going to tell me.” As the inquisitor spoke, more circus folk gathered, some staying to the shadows and mostly out of sight, others approaching more fully. One of which was the tattooed, mustached man, Braull.

“I saw ‘em, yeah,” the man said before Toche could. As he continued to speak, he loaded his pipe with dried blackthistle, lighting it on one of the standing torches in front of the circus. “The bluff girl and the spooky elf, right? They stopped by here, had dinner, a few kips of mead, went on their way.” Popping the pipe between his teeth, he took a few long puffs of it, his eyes distant.

“So you did see them,” Hall let out a soft sigh. “Good. And which direction did they go, as they left?”

“Honestly, hard to say,” Braull shrugged, taking another puff of his pipe, savoring it as the flower’s pleasant buzz began to warm his thoughts. “We was at a crossroads at the time, and it was late. Might’ve gone any ol’ way, says I.”

“No way they went north,” Pinzak mused aloud. “Not now the witch knows the Order’s on ‘er arse.”

“I’ve spoken with two of you, now,” Hall sighed again, but this was one of disappointment, not relief, “and two of you have lied to me.” The inquisitor’s armored arm snapped out, batting away Braull’s pipe and taking a firm grip around his throat, all in one fluid motion. There was a collective gasp from the circus folk, a few cries of fear, many smaller shapes retreating into their tents. An instant later, the sound of the drawing of a dozen arming swords as the inquisitor’s soldiers prepared to attack, if given the order. Only Ribaldrous Toche didn’t flee, backpedaling a step or two as Braull gasped for breath.

“I… swear… I…” Braull choked, breathing growing more difficult as Hall’s fingers tightened around his neck, slowly lifting him into the air with impossible strength.

“What you swear means nothing.” The whites of Hall’s eyes grew dark, stormy silver rings now staring out through a pool of darkness, boring into Braull’s wincing, gasping face and bloodshot eyes. Thin trails of blood began to leak from the tattooed man’s ears, from his nostrils, caking his dark mustache. “You were given an opportunity to give me the information you have. Now... I will take it.”

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

“I admit, the thing I was most looking forward to when we arrived at Tague wasn’t more walking,” Vexa groans as our trio – now a quartet, with the addition of Paiz-Lee – travel south from the city’s outskirts, now no longer with even a road to walk. Ankle-high grasses, low hills that gradually carry us to a lower altitude, and tiny yellow flowers escort us onward, along with something I’m coming to deeply detest: large, spiky bushes that sprout bell-shaped white flowers from a woody central stalk, which have provided numerous bloody knees and ankles in the few hours we’ve been walking. Talongrass, Paize calls it, and claims that the roots, when sliced and fried, are a delicacy in Tague. I hate it.

“Nae worries, bonnie hen, we’re not awful far,” Paize is keeping good pace with me, managing to stay light on her feet while Vexa and Gelyn are growing visibly exhausted. “We’ll have a quick sit after we get there, then see wit we can scrape up.”

“Yay for sitting!” Panted Gelyn. “I’m all good for… hah… lifting things and hitting things and stuff? But all this… phew… walking and climbing is starting to get to m– AH-SCHNEW!” A thunderous sneeze erupted from the shokari, followed by another, then a third, ultimately leaving the horned warrior-clown staggering, dazed and drippy-nosed, in place.

“Fuck!” I exclaim under my breath, then call over to her. “You okay, Gelyn?”

The shokari holds a thumb up. “I’m – eeehhh – good!”

“Grasspox,” Paize chuckles. “She’ll be right as rain once we get back inside.”

“I don’t feel right as rain,” Gelyn mumbles, one of her pale eyes going bloodshot, a single continuous stream of tears dripping from it, smearing her makeup down her face. “But I’m, uh, good to go! Heroes never give up!”

“What are we looking for, anyway?” I ask, “I mean, ruins at some point, yes, but in the ruins?”

“Well, we’ve gotten this far, so,” the goblin sighs, pausing to stretch out her back, then hopping down a short, grassy outcropping. “Tague’s defended by golems. Thing is, whate’er a’body says, golems don’t last forever, aye? They wear oot. An’ most of Tague’s are a hodge-podge of auld keech we cobbled toge’er from the scraps of some bawbags we ne’er met. So corsairs – like me – get paid to dip back into the auld cookie jars wit surround Tague, and see wit else we rustle up.”

Vexabeth lets out the weirdest giggle I’ve ever heard, somehow both mockingly dry, and barely-restrained, like it slips out of her unwillingly. “Heee… so, old-ass golem parts. Got it.” My thoughts dart back to what I’d seen in her hut, the beaten-up parts and half-finished formulas. This is, certainly, of far greater interest to the elf than we first realized.

About another mile – and about twenty more explosive sneezes from Gelyn – and we finally arrive at our destination. It’s… not exactly what I expected, though in all fairness I’m not entirely sure what I expected. A crumbling stone structure no larger than a shed stands lonesome amid the grass and spiky plants, four narrow pillars holding up a small part of a roof, even the foundation cracked and split with untold age. Any signs of walls, windows, or a door is long since lost to time, and likewise, there seem to be no signs of other rooms or buildings, just this single tiny structure amongst so much nothingness. Easy to miss, if you didn’t know exactly where it was.

Also of note are the stray objects littered about the collapsed, white-brown room: broken lanterns, frayed ropes, old whetstones, snapped weapons, even what appear to be discarded bits of food, like bones and the pits of stonefruits. A thick canvas mat is laid across the room’s ‘floor,’ its four corners weighed down with more detritus and a few heavy stones. “People have been here before,” I muse aloud. “How can there be anything to find in such a place?”

“Pray to Thoph to open yer mind, lass,” Paize chuckles, immediately scurrying forward and beginning to shove the stones away. “This ‘place’ is quite a great bit bigger than it looks!” With that, she grabs one edge of the canvas and yanks it away, revealing something I had very much not expected from such a tiny structure – a stone stairway, leading down, deep into untold darkness.

A shiver rolls up my spine in an instant, but Gelyn, to my surprise, seems elated. “Oh, I was hoping we’d get to go underground! It’s always so comforting – which, I mean, I know, shokari and all that – but I always loved when taverns would let the brigade stay in their basements! Maybe we c– AAHH-SCHNAUUWW!”

“Those beyond,” Paize murmurs under her breath. “We’d best get down there, fer yer nostrils’ sake if nae else.” The goblin unclasps her pack from her belt, setting it on the ground and quickly opening it, beginning to dig through its many contents. From the few instants I observe her, it seems she’s quite well-prepared, all manner of little kits, sheaths, and even items that look like they may be weapons. Ultimately, though, the thing she withdraws is a compact lamp, constructed from thick glass and reinforced with pink metal, a sturdy handle at its top end. She flicks the side of the thing a few times with one of her fingers (of which I notice she has only three on each hand, rather than four) until its inhabitant sparks to life, a fuzzy, translucent creature giving off bright, clean light perhaps twice as powerful as that of an ordinary flaxen torch. A peal of shrill, though nearly inaudible, complaints came from inside the lantern as its tenant was awakened and put to work.

“A bound spirit,” Vexabeth says, a hint of admiration in her voice. “Impressive. You didn’t say you were a practitioner of the Dying Art.”

“Oh, I’m nae speller, if that’s what yer sayin’,” the goblin holds up the lantern, taking one step down the stairs. “Bought this old piece off a Candlestreet nutter in the Warrens, is all I did. We dinnae have the same kinda years to spare as you longshanks, most of the green folk dinnae bother with spellin’.”

“Ah. I retract my applause, then,” Vexa offers a thin smirk, but there’s no real malice in her words. “Off we go.”

With Paiz-Lee leading, the four of us finally make our way down into the ruins, the stairs extending quite some way down before finally opening into a proper landing, a ‘room’ perhaps fifteen feet between each wall and its opposite. The ceiling, I immediately notice, is quite low – comfortable for Paize and I to navigate, perhaps, but Gelyn’s horns bump and scrape against the stone above with every hunch step, and even Vexabeth looks rather cramped down here.

If the scattered trash had been noteworthy up top, its outright oppressive down here, with more bits of food, broken or used-up tools, empty containers, and even bedding strewn generously about the place from those who’ve come before us. Thankfully, it seems that nobody’s relieved themselves down here – if they had, I may well be turning tail and taking my chances getting into Tague some other way. “How many people have come down here?” I ask, both wonder and unease creeping into my voice. “Will there even be anything here to find?”

“Oh, there’ve nae been as many parties this way as you’d think,” Paize shakes her head, her pointed ears jiggling slightly, “usually the folks wit come back only bring a few bits n’ bobs, many ne’er return at all. It’s only time and again someone comes back hiveside with a bonnie haul, reminds e’ery young green dafty to head back this way and hurry along to Sast.” The goblin takes quick survey of the room we’re in, and the many hallways leading out of it – examining each entry carefully, searching for something known only to her.

“Yet you seem so comfortable down here,” the elf says, sounding rather suspicious again. “What skills do you boast, that you have so little fear of what dangers these ruins clearly contain?”

“Yer a paranoid one, ain’t ye?” the goblin shot a smirk back at Vexa, “cannae a lass have her secrets? As I said, I’m a corsair. I find things, and maybe I take a thing or two back wit me. My skills are wite’er I need to make that happen.” She points down one hallway, to the left of the stairs we’d come down from. “We’re off this way, then.”

“Hey!” Gelyn exclaimed, her voice suddenly cheerful. “I haven’t sneezed in five full minutes! I guess it really was just from being outs– ahhhh… aahuuhhhh… ah-CHOW!”

“Spoke too soon,” I try to hold back a laugh.

“Grasspox takes more’n a wink to settle… and the dust down here likely in’t being much help.” Paize sets her pack back in place above her (now that I really notice, astonishly well-sculpted) butt, hefts the spirit-powered lantern back up, and heads off in the direction she pointed. “Yer a solid quine, ye’ll be brand new.”

She’s not wrong about the dust, not to mention the smell – weird drafts plague this place, coming from no direction I can discern, and carrying an odor somewhere between rotted onions and mildewed paper. Nonetheless, we came here with a job to do. I draw my short, leaf-shaped blade from its sheath, holding it tightly in hand, and walk quietly behind Paize. Vexabeth follows behind, and Gelyn behind her, the occasional bump of a horn against the ceiling (and the “whoops, sorry!” that inevitably follows) as much insurance as Paize’s lantern that our approach is not a stealthy one.

In that lantern’s pale glow, though, I examine the walls and floor as we walk. While it’s not so crumbled and decayed as the structure above ground, countless years have eroded whatever personality this place may have had, leaving behind nothing but square, pale brown hallways, caked with dust and sand. The path Paize leads us down is a long one, though not without branches – other hallways stretch out from it time and again, but she pointedly ignores them, except to add them to a growing count she’s keeping with near-silent mumbles.

“Five…” she whispers as we pass by yet another hallway, this one bit wider-mouthed than the others. “...Aaand six.” A short distance later we approach another hall, nearly identical to the last, and this one Paize leads us through – to a fresh set of stone steps, once again leading down – and down the steps we go.

“I really hope you know where you’re going,” Vexa sighs. “You know if we’d just gone straight to the city, I could already be drunk by now? Or in bed, one or the other. Are there massage parlors in Tague? Because let me tell you, I could really use a night of pampering; some wine, a good footrub, a nice book, maybe a cute little goblin with an insatiable appetite for elven ass–”

“Whoa,” I gasp, unintentionally cutting the witch off when we end up at the bottom of these new stairs. This place is better preserved, the smell of decay replaced by that of rust and lightning. This smaller ‘landing’ has only one hallway forward, but the walls to our left and right are both decorated with bas-reliefs, worn smooth by time but still legible. The carvings on the left show several humanoid figures with hammers, chisels, and kilns, and bottles of lightning, assembling many pieces resembling human limbs, though far greater in size. The bas-relief to the right shows the creature assembled, human-shaped but enormous and deformed, its great hands tearing apart its own creators. The hallway forward suddenly seems very ominous.

“We’re in the right place, then,” Paize says, drawing her own sax from her side, looking more nervous than I’ve ever seen her. “Be on yer guard, aye?”

“Guard? Are we gonna fight something?” Gelyn blinked, but obeyed nonetheless, unhooking her mace-ax from the frog in rested in at her side, gripping it tightly as she followed behind the goblin, into the hallway.

“I cannae say for sure, but I think–” The hallway opens after about thirty feet, into a far larger room, its ceiling easily high enough for our shokari friend to stand comfortably. Part laboratory, part tomb, the chamber is littered with ancient skeletons, the walls lined with half-built golems, stray notes and parts scattered all about – not unlike Vexa’s hut. In the very center, though, is a creature of iron and hate, man-like in shape, unfeeling, undying, and well over ten feet tall. This place’s creation. Its guardian. Its undoing. Swallowing hard, violet eyes wide, Paize finished her thought. “–I think there’s a really good chance, aye.”