‘I’m… erm… Donalt.’ He said, slowly. ‘And this is… erm… Andreton.’ He pointed to Andreton, ‘Warrior,’ then to himself, ‘Rogue.’
‘Wonderful!’ Felicity said. ‘So now we all know each other.’
‘Wait, wait a minute.’ Donalt said, finally feeling that his grasp of things was returning. ‘Who are you? I mean, I know you are Felicity, a Mystic and whatever else it is you just said but, who are you? And where’s that dog gone?’
Felicity realised that Spyra had vanished.
‘Oh, he’s probably around.’ She smiled again. It was a truly disarming smile. ‘I’m here to form a party, a group, a fellowship to enter the mountains and seek a quest.’
‘You’re a party leader?’ Donalt said, frowning.
‘Wait a minute.’ Daisy said, stepping forward. ‘Valeran and I were forming the party.’
She looked at Corbett. ‘We were in the middle of interviewing him when you appeared. He’s our Wizard.’ She said firmly.
‘I am?’ Corbett said, then repeated it as a statement rather than a question. ‘I AM.’
Given that arguably he had just performed an error in judgement concerning the use of his power he fancied that his
chances of getting in the Town ever, were at best remote and at worst the population would lynch him.
‘Granted that you started the ball rolling dear.’ Felicity said and didn’t appear to mind that Daisy grew an inch in height as the condescension flooded over her, ‘but I completed the most important part.’
‘We have a healer already.’ Daisy said, her black look indicating imminent thunder.
‘Healers, Wizards, Fighters, they are all redundant without a Gate.’ Felicity said, maintaining a bright smile.
‘Oh, and you have a Gate I suppose.’ Daisy fired back.
‘No. I don’t.’
Daisy snorted.
‘But my Rogue does. Don’t you?’
Donalt looked startled. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You know where there is a hidden Gate.’
‘I… well, maybe. I mean. I don’t know exactly.’ He said. Having no leverage in any discussion always made Donalt nervous. Plus, did he want to give away his ace card so early?
‘Oh. I think you know a little more than you are letting on Rogue.’ Felicity said, she offered him her winning smile, then turned to Valeran. ‘Valeran, without a Gate any party that goes into the mountains is doomed. I know this is your first-time questing but even a novice knows that without a Gate there is no quest.’
Valeran looked about him, still a little shaken from his sudden carriage upon the head of the Steppe-beast, then looked into the eyes of the strangely confident young woman.
‘Yes, I suppose that makes sense.’ He said.
‘And here we have a group that is both ready to pursue a quest and with a member who can guide us to our Gate.’
‘Wait.’ Donalt said. ‘I didn’t agree to a party. We’ve got to talk about distribution of swag, that’s vital that is. And if there’s a ballad that comes out of it, who gets the copyright?’ He shook his head. ‘Can’t just wander into a quest without sorting the looting rights and intellectual property. Ain’t that right Andy.’
‘Andreton vant to go. Vill be fun.’ Andreton said. He turned to Felicity. ‘Vere is your little dog? Andreton vant to pet him.’
‘Oh, he comes and goes Andreton.’ Felicity replied, she touched Andreton’s sinewy arm as she addressed him, ‘and, in fact he’s not mine. He belongs to our Ranger. Our final party member.’
‘Ranger?’ Daisy said. ‘We don’t have a Ranger.’
They all turned as they heard the sound of hooves beating at the road.
‘Here he comes.’ Felicity said. ‘I’m afraid he’s going to be a little cross at me so do forgive him if he’s a bit sharp with us.’
‘Us?’ Corbett said.
They all watched as the horseman thundered towards them, then expertly braked upon approach, turning his mount to the side in a heroic fashion.
‘Felicity.’ He shouted. ‘Whatever your explanation is it better be pretty bloody amazing.’
Daisy took a sidelong glance as this attractive, personable, confident young woman and predicted that it probably would be.
You have my Sword
The row had lasted little more than ten minutes, which surprised Corbett, he was used to arguments he was involved in, even indirectly, going on for many hours. Day’s occasionally. But the agreement was that, with the exception of the Ranger who called himself Dorian, which Corbett thought was a bit of a girl’s name, they would all have a great deal of difficulty going back into the Town without something awful happening involving a mob, and sticks.
But, despite all of this they had decided to stay together. It had been Felicity of course. The sweet girl with the lovely smile and terrifyingly reasonable attitude. She had convinced them that given their current circumstance pressing on as a group was the obvious solution to each of their individual needs. He didn’t trust her. Then again, he didn’t trust any of them. He had two Demons in his head. They couldn’t be trusted. But he supposed Demons got off to a bad start where that kind of thing was concerned.
And they had their group. He had resisted. Something was wrong with it all. The girl had said she had received a vision. That each of them was in it. She had seen them all in her visions.
‘Each of you came to me in spirit as I floated on the Essence.’ She had said as they sat around a fire the Rogue had put together.
The Warrior had gone off to hunt and soon returned with an aged buck. There were no wounds visible on it. Corbett thought that the brute had either broken its neck or simply scared it to death. The Ranger dressed the animal and the Rogue took over cooking duties.
‘There is something for each of us inside our quest.’ Felicity told them. ‘Something we all desire. The Gate will only become accessible to us if we all cross through as one body.’
‘How is that possible?’ Valeran had asked.
‘As one body? Oh, we’ll figure it out.’ Felicity said, and she smiled, as she always did.
Once they had eaten, and the night seriously got to work being dark, Daisy announced that she would be guarding the camp in case of townspeople coming to look for them.
‘Andreton vill also guard camp.’ The Warrior had said, but Corbett had watched him doze off with five minutes of him saying it.
Corbett didn’t sleep well. His mind was frequently buzzing with the sound of magic roaring through him. It didn’t help that Carl and Kezra would also flit in and out, questioning him, trying to engage him in conversation when all he wanted to do was fume about the injustice of the world, specifically the world immediately situated around him.
He observed the Ranger. Dorian. The man with the girls’ name. He was typical of all he disliked about heroic types. He was fair, and patient, and good-looking. He stood with poise, whereas Corbett knew he walked like he had a piano on his shoulders. He also had something to do with the pretty Mystic, but there was some kind of mistrust in place around them, or at least of her to him. The Ranger looked at the girl like a hunter admiring a lion. He appreciated its beauty but had no doubt that should it get peckish it would make lunch of him.
The Blink-Dog, he had discovered that it was called Spyra, slunk around the camp sniffing at packs and eventually curled up next to girl. Dorian the Ranger didn’t appear to be happy with this either. The Rogue was pretending to be asleep, but he could tell that he was faking it, or at least maintaining some degree of alertness with his eyes shut. Corbett doubted if that man slept for more than an hour a night. He had the restless, nervous mannerisms of a person who believes that in every shadow is a thing that the shadow belongs too, waiting to jump out and job him. No wonder he travelled with the warrior thing. By the Gods that man was big. He was strange too. In his travels he had worked alongside many a warrior. They were all absolutely mental, he had no doubt of that. But each
tended to be insane in a s
lightly different way. Some were brooding bulks of enmity, some were lithe, with perfectly accentuated muscle tone and hair that would make any man or woman swoon, and some went the other way. Large but fat, these were men and women who relied on their skill with a sword or axe to take what they liked and to bully others into doing all the heavy lifting when outside of a fight. Not so this Andreton.
As a Steppe-lander Corbett knew that the warrior would have had a harsh but loving upbringing. The people of the Steppes lived in a brutal environment, it was cold, colder than the mountains in the distance it was said, and it was unpredictable, death could visit you in many, many different ways, and so the lessons of life had to be equally hard to prepare you for it. Yet this Warrior gave the impression of being kind, generous, and simple. Yes, simple. He was certainly a simple man.
Corbett allowed himself a small grin.
The Cleric was asleep. Like the warrior he appeared to have little trouble dozing off, no doubt comforted by some spell of defence granted by one the Gods that he flattered with his educated tongue. All the healers had this self-assured arrogance about them, perhaps with the exception of Witches.
Witches tended towards the solitary and their people skills were definitely lacking. A Cleric would just point a finger at your injury and fix it through divine channelling, a Shaman would drop some home-crafted totem on the floor. These often looked very cool and mysterious but were occasionally embarrassing and looked like something a child had made at school. Said Shaman would then dance around and raise her arms to the sky and then dance some more and then ask for some copper, ‘for the meter,’ they would joke, Corbett never understood what that meant and whenever he asked, they would reply ‘it doesn’t matter’, and then your wound would be gone.
Druids called upon nature, offering you a poultice made from any old shit they found lying around the place and told you it would cure you soon. Corbett had never heard of the word Placebo, but if he had, he would have understood why Druids
had the worst healing record of any adventurer. Even Necromancers could fix you up better than a Druid, although you would probably have nightmares for the next few weeks.
Witches, well they would ask you how you had come about your injury, question you about your eating habits, whether you washed regularly, did you have any other ailments, and did your body react to any particular herbs or plants? Then they would cup your balls and ask you to cough, give you a poultice with strict instructions on its use and tell you to come back if symptoms persisted.
Yes, witches were strange, but they did get the job done. The ball thing still puzzled him though.
‘Seven of them.’ He thought.
That was a bit top-heavy for a Questing group but not for a fellowship. The Mystic had called them a fellowship, although he noticed she had slipped the term in amongst others, so as to direct attention away from it. That was clever. If they agreed to go with her, and she would be the organiser, the leader, then they would travel as a fellowship. It was subtle, but it was there, a group or Questing party was a loose contract, even when it came to the spoils. Unless a Covenant had been made, which could only be between two people, then the percentage of swag could change as the adventure progressed.
If the Cleric felt he had been overworked for example, as they always did, then he might demand his cut increase, this would be usually just before a big fight. But a fellowship was different, there was no percentage discussion, or talk of divvying up swag beforehand. Instead loot would be distributed amongst the party as it was seen fit as a group, with the leader occasionally calling the shots on who might best benefit. There was a sense of duty, and loyalty about a fellowship. Corbett didn’t like it.
‘Evening squire.’
Carl appeared in his mind and reclined on a comfy pile of his memories.
‘Evening Carl.’ Corbett said quietly.
‘What d’ya make of all this then?’
‘The party?’ Corbett asked, looking about him. ‘I’m not sure. It all feels a bit… contrived.’
‘Yup.’ Carl said. ‘Prophecy mate.’
‘Prophecy?’
‘Yup.’
‘What do you mean?’ Corbett frowned. Carl had a tendency to talk as though you had already had the conversation.
‘It was Kezra who spotted it. While she was dancing. She says that all this feels like a Prophecy. You know. The girl. The group. The fact that we are all headed to the Gates when everyone appears to believe there are no Gates.’
‘Hmm.’ Corbett thought.
It was an interesting suggestion. He had once read a treatise on Prophecies by an Occultist. These ladies and gentlemen were not magic users but rather librarians of the Supernatural and investigators of the Essence. Occultists had tremendous knowledge of the powers that made the multiverse move as it did, and of the creatures within it. They were usually massive arseholes however, so people tried to avoid talking to them. There was a story of a man who had travelled into the world of his own free will via a Gate. Something that was believed to be impossible. You had to be summoned, or like a demon, sneak in as a disembodied parasite. And even if you somehow got through whole, the Void, the ultimate emptiness that lay between existence, would suck you into it once your Essence had run out.
Corbett shuddered.
This man, he called himself The Great Crowley, had spoken with many wise men and offered them his treatise on varied aspects of magic and the multiverse. His book ‘What You Pricks Don’t Realise’ was kept in the Great Library of Trestfall, but you could get a knock-off copy if you knew where to look and didn’t mind cheap paper and few spelling mistakes.
The visit of this incredible being was sullied somewhat by the discovery that he had apparently stolen a bunch of items when he left.
To his surprise Corbett discovered that he had actually slept. He opened one eye, as he usually did, and darted it around,
looking for any obvious threats to his life. Satisfied there appeared to be none at the moment he sat up and yawned. The others were moving around him. Except for the warrior who was still utterly unconscious. Someone had thrown a green blanket over him making it look like a small hill had appeared in their midst.
‘Morning Wizard.’ Daisy said, she was chewing on something, which Corbett assumed must be leftover buck. ‘We’re holding a meeting in five minutes.’
‘Why?’ Corbett replied. He didn’t like meetings.
‘To sort out the plan.’
‘So, there’s a plan now is there?’ He said, his sarcasm undisguised.
‘There will be after the meeting.’ Daisy replied, unmoved.
‘Hmph.’ Corbett Hmph’d.
‘Well, it’s in five minutes and it’s up to you if you want to join in.’
‘I’ve not agreed to any of this you know.’ He said. But it was to Daisy’s back, as the fighter had turned and strolled away.
‘Cow.’ He muttered.
Francis mooed as though in response, waking Andreton.
‘Not you.’ Corbett said to it. He then watched as the Warrior rose and rubbed at his eyes.
‘Oh. Did Andreton sleep?’ Andreton asked.
‘You were out in seconds. You’ve been asleep for eight hours solid. The Ranger’s horse actually kicked you twice and you didn’t budge.’ Corbett said to him. ‘I thought you might be dead at one point. You stopped breathing for five minutes.’
‘Yah, Andreton vas dreaming of svimming in beautiful lake. Had to hold breath to svim deep and see all the colourful fishes.’
Corbett stared at him as though the Warrior had just spoken in tongues.
‘Right.’ The wizard said.
He rose to his feet and scratched at his crotch. He felt stiff and so stretched his arms, then put his hands on his hips and twisted his torso around a couple of times. The Ranger came running over at an alarming pace.
‘What are you doing?’ Dorian asked in a concerned tone.
Corbett offered him the same dead-eyed look he gave to the warrior.
‘I’m opening a supermarket. What does it look like I’m doing?’
‘Are you casting a spell?’ Dorian asked. Corbett didn’t like the insistent, accusatory way it was asked.
‘No. Of course I’m not you fucking moron. I’m warming up.’
‘Warming up?’ Dorian asked, uncertain. ‘Warming up what?’
‘Warming up me, idiot! It’s called stretching. A witch told me it was a good way to loosen my joints. You should try it, see if you can loosen up enough to let the stick fall from up your arse.’
‘There’s no need for that Wizard,’ Dorian said, taken aback by the vitriol of the magic user. ‘I was just concerned that…’
‘Get stuffed boy-scout.’ Corbett said, and walked off.
Dorian stood with his mouth slightly open and feeling a more than a little sheepish. He hadn’t meant to upset the man, but after he had learned from Felicity that the Wizard had destroyed the Tavern he was concerned that any further magic use might cause problems, especially this close to the town. He was just trying to be helpful. Why did everyone get so angry?
‘The Wizard is being an arse.’ Daisy said to Valeran, as he sat sipping at a cup of hot tea Donalt had brewed for them all.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s what they do. I’ve never encountered a more miserable collective. They have these rules you see. And they don’t like it. It makes them frustrated. Understandable I suppose. They walk around filled with magical energy wanting to burst out them, and they have to keep it locked away, suppressed.’
‘Do you ever feel that way?’ Daisy asked.
‘Me? Oh no. We Clerics are given our power from the Gods.’ He said, with a touch of pride. ‘It’s directly channelled into us. We do have a residual amount of Essence locked into various spells to protect us as we deliver the word of the Gods to others.’
He frowned. ‘Some people can be awfully touchy about their deities. Those monotheists are an absolute shower, but other than that we are free of the burden.’
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