by Jeff Wilcox
I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. “Good thinking. All right, I’ll let her go to the bathroom.”
Dingo shrugged. “Okay, she enters, and you don’t hear her leaving. But then, a minute goes by, and you hear nothing.”
“We’re patient. We can wait.”
“Five minutes pass.”
“Luna,” Xavier said, “Is everything all right in there?”
Grinning, our DM replied, “You hear nothing at all from inside.”
I slapped my palm to my face. “Aw, crap. I forgot nymphs have dimension door once a day. Not that Kaiyr would have known.” Looking at the others, I shook my head. “She’s gone, but considering the state she’s in, she’s not going to be back until she gets some healing.” The other players sighed but said nothing, so I went on, “I’ll open the door.”
“Nothing’s there.”
“Thought so. Well, I’m going to tell Wild that she’s gone, and I’ll go find Astra and tell her what happened.” I sat back in my chair, defeated. “Kaiyr’s going to be pretty miffed at this, so after I tell her, I’m going to go sit at the prow of the ship for a while, meditating. And lowering my blood pressure.” We all chuckled.
“All right,” Dingo replied. “You find Astra and tell her. She pretty much just laughs at you and is like, I told you so. Luckily for you, Luna doesn’t reappear anytime soon, and the rest of the trip goes without further incident. Um, Kaiyr, you finish your robes. Wild, you get to keep those rings you stole, as well as an additional… oh, hundred and fifty gold worth of small gems. Just mark it down as currency.”
“I’m going to shell out five or ten gold to any wizard or sorcerer on the ship willing to cast prestidigitation for me,” I said.
“What for?”
“To clean my old robes. They’ll still come in handy as a spare set of clothes.”
“Fair enough. You find a wizard who’ll do it for five gold. Anything else?” We all shook our heads, so he finished up for the night. “Well, then. All of you get to Andorra in one piece. Astra leaves you there, saying she has a few things to tend to, but that she’ll meet up with you later, in town, and not to worry about her being able to find you.”
“Figures she’d run off again,” Matt grumbled, but Dingo ignored him.
“And I want all of you to level up. That was some pretty intense roleplay and after our past two sessions, it’s time,” the DM said. We rolled our dice with him there, because he wanted to be present for hit-point rolls.
[30] I recall rolling a low number and rerolling (due to the house rule Dingo had adopted from me). Is it sad that I still remember that I ended up with 28 hit points at level 3? It probably is.
After rolling hit points (Xavier, to his bad luck, ended up with a bad roll and opted to take half the maximum value of his d8 Hit Die, rounded up, for five hit points plus his Constitution modifier—a total of seven more hit points), we called it a night and packed everything in before heading to bed.
XIV.
Xavier and I were sitting in our little dorm room, me facing my computer, him with his Player’s Handbook, Spell Compendium, and Complete Adventurer open before him on his desk. Our desks being against opposite walls, our backs were to each other. I was using my Wacom tablet to draw a picture of Kaiyr on my computer, sketching a wireframe on one layer in red, then filling in details later before starting on the skin, hair, and clothing layers, among others. I had already leveled up my character and was ready to play.
Third level is an important level for D&D characters. It represents a large jump, especially for characters whose main focus is casting spells. Level three grants those characters access to level-two spells, which are much more potent than mere level-one spells. Further, every character gets a new feat at third level (and every other level divisible by three), representing an increase in ability. For my feat, I chose “Weapon Focus (soulblade),” which gave me a +1 bonus to all attack rolls with Kaiyr’s soulblade. Xavier had more to do but also reaped more benefits from it, since he received a feat and two level-two spells (one for being a level-three druid and one for having an exceptional Wisdom score—druids rely on their Wisdom to power their spells), both of which he would usually tend to reserve for splinterbolt, a rather potent level-two offensive druid spell from the Spell Compendium.
“Did I ever tell you where I got the name ‘Kaiyr’ from?” I asked.
Xavier looked up from his druid business and ran a hand through his very long hair. “No, where’d it come from?”
I chuckled. “It was funny. I didn’t realize it at first, but I thought his name sounded familiar. I checked, and in a story I’m writing, I’ve got a bit character named ‘Daioskaiyr,’ but he goes by ‘Kaiyr.’”
“Ah, cool,” Xavier said, genuinely interested. It’s hard to be friends for a decade and not have an interest in each other’s creative abilities. I, for one, would like to see him write a novel, because despite his protests to the opposite, I know he is at least as creative as I am.
“And Kaiyr’s last name, Stellarovim, comes from another story that’s been bouncing around in my head.” I gestured toward his books. “Have you settled on a feat for Caineye yet?”
“Well, I’d like to take Natural Spell, but I don’t qualify for it yet. I can’t wild shape
[31] yet, but if I cast aspect of the wolf
[32] , I can’t cast spells unless I have the feat. I’ve got my spells done, too, but I still need to level up Vinto,” he said as he picked up his character sheet and looked at it.
I slapped my knee. “Right! And since he’s got two Hit Dice and he’s gaining two more, he’ll gain a feat, too!”
He grinned but rolled his eyes. “Great. More things for me to decide on.”
XV.
Wild woke up the morning after the party had arrived in Andorra. After arriving late yesterday afternoon and booking a room at this cozy, little inn, the three of them and Vinto had desired nothing but a good meal and a decent night’s rest, especially after the taxing events that had occurred during the trip here.
Yawning and stretching, he wiggled his little toes and threw his legs over the side of his bed. As usual, Kaiyr and Caineye were already up; over dinner, they had agreed to spend today seeking knowledge or rumors of the shadowy, wingless dragon the companions had seen in the forest to the south and which had reportedly been seen near Andorra.
Hopping to his feet, Wild pulled on his pants, shrugged into a shirt, and then wriggled his way into his mithril chain shirt. As he buckled on his dastana, he slipped his feet into a pair of shoes, and, after tying them, he skipped downstairs for a spot of breakfast.
When that was done, having found neither hide nor hair of the blademaster or the druid, he took to the streets, exploring the town. It was typical as far as northern elven settlements went; the buildings were hidden amongst the trees, with streets naturally forming between the wide trunks. The sun filtered through the leaves, a vibrant green luminance coating everything in a lively glow. A few of the buildings were not so well-hidden or graceful, but it was likely the result of integration with other races and cultures.
The people here, mostly elves, moved with purpose, always busy. Wild stopped one elven man chopping firewood; the elf was in the middle of wiping sweat from his brow. “Hullo, good sir,” the halfling said in Elven.
Looking up from his work, the elf brushed his fiery mane out of his face. “Why, greetings, small one,” he replied, using the Elven word for “halfling.” “How can I be of service?”
Wild smiled and clasped his hands behind his back, rocking from heel to toe and back again. “Oh, perhaps you’d just be inclined to trade a few words; I’ve no desire to interrupt your work.”
The elf put down his hatchet and returned the halfling’s expression. “Why, it is certainly a pleasure to meet a polite outsider; you know our ways well. Come, let us converse at length. You must have arrived recently; I’ve heard of no small folk visiting our fair forest lately.”
With
a nod, Wild moved off the road and opposite the elf’s chopping block and growing pile of wood. “Indeed I have. And, since I’m something of a tourist, I thought I’d ask a local about this fair town—what is it called, Andorra?” The elf nodded his accord, and Wild went on, “What kinds of services might a local find that would be more difficult for a traveler? And—where do I go to get some of that famous elven wine?”
The elf laughed, his voice like a string of bells chiming in a light breeze. “Very well, small one. Andorra is but a small trading town on the way to everywhere. We keep a large port because many airships pass over these woods. It makes for an excellent junction and stopover. I’m afraid we have little to offer but rooms and meals—and wine. You should find the most exquisite of these last at the Unicorn.”
Wild frowned; that was where he and the others were staying. “Well, I’ll be. And to think I was sleeping right above such a fine stash all night. Regardless, I shall make amends this eve. Thank you, sir, for your insight and your company.”
“Nay, thank you for yours,” the elf replied with a shake of his head.
The halfling pursed his lips; now was his chance to bring up a potentially touchier subject. “Listen,” he said, edging closer and speaking in a lower voice. Interested, the elf also leaned in to hear. “I’m also here following a certain rumor I heard during my travels. A fellow tourist mentioned that he caught sight of a shadowy dragon terrorizing the woods in and around Andorra. Surely you’ve heard of it. Is its presence anything to worry about?”
It happened suddenly and faded just as quickly, but Wild caught it: a faraway expression in the elf’s eyes. Then, looking down at Wild, the elf frowned. “Why, no,” he said, almost dreamily. “I’ve not heard of such a thing. We’ve not spotted a dragon in these parts in over three hundred years.”
Not giving away the fact that he’d just witnessed something strange, Wild straightened and patted his belly, laughing. “Well, I suppose I can just chalk it up to rumor, or perhaps false tourist advertising. In any case, let me thank you for your verbal generosity and be on my way.”
The elf smiled wanly. “Of course.”
Wild trundled off, but when he looked back, the elf had already stood and left his firewood as though having forgotten it; he strode down the street at the same purposeful pace as everyone else. “Strange fellow,” he muttered. Then something else struck him. “Even stranger. Where in the Nine Hells are these people’s children?” Looking around—and he could see far down many of the streets—he spotted no children playing or laughing, nor being carried by their mothers. The moment was not yet finished showing him odd things, and he stopped upon sighting a holy symbol rising high into the air beneath the forest canopy. “A temple of Alduros Hol? In an elven town?” he asked nobody, incredulous. Then his eyebrows wriggled alternately up and down in thought. “A temple of Alduros Hol, huh?” he asked, this time slyly.
Overcome with curiosity and heedless of the potential for danger, Billcock Wild scampered toward the temple.
The door creaked open at his touch, and the halfling slipped inside the small hall. It was not a foreboding place, being lit partly with natural light and with torches mounted in sconces.
A figure in gray-brown robes knelt before a simple, wooden altar adorned with a few rudimentary holy symbols common to the religion of the god of nature. Upon hearing the door open, the figure rose and turned to face the newcomer; it was a human man with a slightly graying, neatly trimmed beard and similarly well-kept hair.
One hand in a pocket, Wild deftly slipped off the constable of Viel’s ring, leaving the one he had taken from Cobain’s body. “Hullo, Father,” the halfling greeted the man cheerfully. He paused, trying to remember the words from a priest of Alduros Hol he had once met. “Uh, may the forces of nature be gentle unto you.”
The cleric smiled gently, light crow’s feet forming at the corners of his eyes, as Wild approached. “May the forces of nature be gentle unto you, as well…” he glanced at Wild’s hand, now out of his pocket, “… Father…?”
Wild returned the smile and extended his hand. “Father Wild. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Father…”
“Orson,” the man replied, taking Wild’s hand and giving it a gentle shake.
“Father Orson,” Wild finished. “Well met. What brings a man such as yourself to move all the way out here to establish a temple in the middle of Vintiens?”
Orson released Wild’s hand and led him up to the altar, where he meticulously rearranged a wooden bowl of natural water and some sprigs of plants Wild did not recognize. “Oh, bringing some nature to those who don’t need it, I suppose,” he said wryly. “What brings another leader of our faith to these parts?”
“Oh, I’m just passing through on my way to here from there,” Wild chuckled. “I’m actually on my way to be stationed at the monastery outside of Viel, under the order of my bishop.” He turned around and looked out, over the few rows of small pews between here and the door.
Orson nodded. “I heard what happened to Father Cobain.”
“Did you, now?” Wild asked, distracted by the rest of the room. Something didn’t quite fit, but he couldn’t place it. “You should be careful, lest the same thing happens here. Cobain, apparently, was a werewolf and working with what seems to be a larger organization.”
“That… is grave news. How did you come upon that knowledge?” the real priest asked, shock written across his features.
“I’m not actually going to Viel,” Wild admitted seriously, looking over his shoulder at the taller man. “I’m coming from Viel. Cobain attacked me and my companions, and we were forced to defend against him when he… changed.” He breathed a sigh.
Orson inhaled thoughtfully. “Well. That is terrible news, indeed. Terrible…” Wild heard the rustle of robes behind him and knew he’d been had. “… for you.”
*
I pointed at Matt emphatically. “See? I told you you shouldn’t have told the ‘priest’ about our mission,” I gloated, though it was a pretty empty gloat, considering what happened next could compromise our party’s safety.
He nodded, defeated. “Well, you’ve got me there, but it’s too late. Mr. Dingo, what happens next?”
Dingo took up his d20 and dropped it onto his folding table. “Well, if you’re hit with a…”
*
Wild whirled around just in time to raise his arm up and partially deflect the small mace that came crashing down upon his head. Having been taken by surprise, his parry was not the most elegant, and “Father Orson’s” weapon still clocked him hard enough to stun him for a few moments.
“Now, that’s not fair,” the halfling muttered in his own language. Then, in Common, he snarled at the cleric as he backed away and drew a pair of daggers, “So, you’re in on it, too, huh?”
The cleric gave Wild a wolfish grin and advanced, swinging with his mace, but the man was apparently more conversational than combative at the moment. “You have no idea what you’re messing with, gnome. You stuck your nose where it didn’t belong, and now it’s got to be chopped off.” Gone was any semblance of serenity in the man’s voice.
“Oh, I’ve got enough of an idea,” Wild shot back petulantly. “It’s you who doesn’t know what you’re dealing with.” Ducking under a blow, he slashed with one dagger at the taller man’s weapon hand, knocking the mace farther to the side. The cleric brought the weapon to bear just in time to block an attack by the scowling Wild, and the two of them locked weapons.
To the side, a door opened, and both of them paused to glance over at who dared disturb their battle. An acolyte in off-white robes appeared, looked up, and opened his mouth in shock.
To Wild’s surprise, the cleric he was battling suddenly howled, his face contorting and even stretching, becoming more wolf-like. “Leave us,” he snarled at the acolyte before disengaging his mace from the halfling’s daggers and punching his opponent with enough force to send Wild staggering back a half-dozen steps.
Catch
ing his breath, Wild stuck his tongue out at the creature before him, though his body did not mirror his eternal impishness. “Looks like the kid doesn’t know what’s on his master’s plate… or what plate his master’s been on,” the rogue commented blithely. As Orson advanced on him, Wild deftly spun his daggers in his hands and licked his lips. “You really don’t know what you’re dealing with.” Darting forward, he ducked underneath a powerful stroke of the mace, then dodged aside from the werewolf’s other claw. He tumbled around and stopped behind the creature as the acolyte stared on, motionless. As his daggers slid home deep into “Father Orson’s” heart and neck, Wild told him cheerfully, “I’m not a gnome, dimwit. I’m a halfling. Told you you didn’t know what you were dealing with.”
Orson crumpled to the floor, his form shivering as he transformed back into a human before departing the world to find his eternal punishment. Wild wiped his daggers off on the cleric’s cloak. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he said to the pale-faced acolyte.
“Wh-wh-what was that?” the young man stammered, staggering over to stand several paces away from the dead false priest, wringing his hands together. Wild chalked up the kid’s willingness to approach him to the fact that the halfling had, in fact, just defeated a terrible monster.
Wild almost responded, but he spotted something on Orson’s finger that distracted him from the question. Grinning, Wild pried the cleric’s ring from a limp finger and slipped it onto his own. Then he realized he had just been asked a question. “What? Er, a werewolf,” Wild replied distractedly, inspecting the ring; the acolyte didn’t seem to notice the theft. Pocketing the trinket, Wild looked up at the young acolyte. He reached up and patted the man’s elbow. “Well, congratulations. You’re the new priest around here. If I were you, I’d hightail it out of here before you take two more breaths.” He glanced down at the dead body of the “priest.” Something about the body bothered him, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Love to chat, but I gotta dash,” the halfling said cordially, slipping around past the stunned acolyte. Wild only hoped the young man could get out in time.