Gregor The Cripple

Gregor sat stolid in his shadowed seat. The revelry of the tavern was far insufficient to penetrate his lonely listlessness.

It had now been a full week since the wizard had known the loving embrace of opium. His condition had changed, but not improved. His eye now gave him less trouble than his stump and the fever was diminished – for which Gregor thanked the pleasurable excitement of the fight – but the punishment of withdrawal had increased to a peak.

An untouched pint with a paper-thin head and a now-cold beef stew sat before him. Randolph was enjoying some cheese on the table.

He wanted to eat and drink, but nausea forbade it. The headaches and the emergent threat of vomit were constant, and the cold sweats had never abated. Presently, Gregor was quite miserable, and the comparative merriment of the other patrons of Waldsgarde’s only tavern did little to improve his mood.

There were all sorts of people carousing outside the shadowed booth where he brooded. The sawdust floor was decently populated. Merchants were dealing, barmaids were suffering, travelers were resting, and a pair of adventurers were planning, no doubt with intentions toward Der Hexenwald, which loomed a mere two miles hence.

Gregor stared at these two as he forced down a single spoonful of stew. They were young. Younger than him. The shorter one – whom he judged to a girl rather than a woman – had an old recurve bow slung over her back and a banged-up percussion revolver at her hip. The taller one – who was similarly more boy than man – stood in too-large boots and carried a cavalry sword at his hip, wearing a thick leather coat.

Between remarks and gestures toward a map upon their table, they both kept turning and looking about the room with particular interest being given to the door, which constantly flip-flapped to allow the egress and ingress of patrons.

They were looking for someone in particular, a companion, figured Gregor.

Continuing his idle observations as a distraction from his renewed sickening efforts to eat good food, another face from the throng caught the wizard’s eye.

It was a traveling bard, warbling to the enjoyment of the many and the annoyance of the few as he plucked at the sinews of a small harp. Rather shockingly, he was familiar. It took a minute, but Gregor recognized him as one of the bandits from the week prior. He was legitimately surprised than any of them had survived.

Quite like Gregor, the man had a large facial scar. It ran across his nose, cheek to cheek. Unlike Gregor, it neither destroyed anything important, nor detracted from his overall appearance. It somehow suited the man.

“Hmpf.” Gregor huffed. Lucky bastard.

Suffering the discomfort of another spoonful, Gregor decided to risk a sip of beer, which he knew to be a poor decision.

Leaning forward with a grimace as his stomach rose into his ears, he spied the pair of adventurers making their way toward him.

Walking in front, the girl seemed quite cheerful, while the boy behind was doing his best to conceal his nervousness and project a serious demeanor.

Gregor glared at them and frowned, being as proactively anti-social as he could without exerting himself. He really wasn’t in the mood to talk to anybody about anything.

“Hey! Um. I’m Greta, and this is Dieter.” Introduced the girl, gesturing between herself and the boy, who was trying altogether too hard to maintain a particularly stoic expression. “Might you be Labourd?”

This odd inquiry made Gregor quirk his brow and turn his head to the side to better inspect the pair with his monocular gaze. How bizarrely coincidental. He briefly suspected that they were members of whatever organization it was that Labourd belonged to, but dismissed the thought quickly.

If Labourd was the standard for their people, then they could have no possible use for the pair before him, furthermore, they probably wouldn’t need to ask who he was.

“I am not.” Responded Gregor is an even tone, deciding that these two had information that was worth the displeasure of conversation.

“Oh.” Uttered Greta, her cheer giving way to dejection. “Um, do you know him, uh, seeing as you’re both wizards, that is.”

“Labourd is dead.”

They both looked at each other, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry.” Offered the girl, who was evidently the mouthpiece of the pair. “Did you know him?”

What was she really implying that Gregor might feel grief? She must be unfamiliar with the ways of wizards. Even if Gregor had known the man, news of his death would produce very little impact. “No.” He answered, “We were only briefly acquainted.” He paused, considering the situation. Labourd must have been on his way here. Was it mere coincidence that they traveled the same road and happened to meet, or did the undead wizard have business with both Gregor and the young pair?

“What do we do now?” Asked Dieter quietly, addressing his companion.

She slumped and sank into thought for a second, observing Gregor. They needed a new wizard, and a wizard was he.

The fellow was gaunt and pale, with an obviously recent wound to his eye. She got the distinct impression that he was quite handsome once upon a time, though he was haggard and sickly now. A lady’s intuition, Greta supposed.

He seemed a bit too young to be a proper wizard, but they were also young, and they’d need to take what they could get.

“Um, Mister wizard, we arranged for Mister Labourd to accompany us through the witchwood, but, well, if he’s dead, um….” She began fiddling with her fingers, not at all accustomed to interacting with this caliber of person. “…. Are you currently employed?”

Gregor was silent for a moment. From the way they had presented themselves in the conversation so far, he was entirely convinced that these two could not possibly be involved with the people behind Labourd. Similarly, he was certain they would perish if they entered Der Hexenwald without competent accompaniment, and that he had just deprived them of their escort.

Things were beginning to make sense. If Labourd had been made aware of Gregor’s location beforehand, it is more than possible that he had taken on a job nearby. The man was a wizard; they all enjoyed the idea of working until it killed them. It was problematic, but his new enemy likely had access to a potent brand of divination.

“Sit.” He instructed, motioning with his hand toward the chairs on the opposite side of the table. “As it happens, my plans take me through Der Hexenwald.” It wasn’t as if he felt honor-bound to make up the inconvenience he had caused them, but helping these two would cost him nothing, and perhaps he could learn something useful about the people behind Labourd.

A bright grin split Greta’s face as she moved to accept the invitation, while Dieter gave a stiff nod of non-verbal man to man acknowledgment. Gregor forced down another spoonful.

“What business do you have in such a dangerous place?” He asked, finding it professionally prudent to determine their intentions for the journey ahead.

This time, the boy answered, doing his best to sound competent and professional, “We need money, and we need to be somewhere that isn’t here. Two birds with one stone.” Curious. “The plan was to gather alchemical reagents on our way through, then use the money to maybe, uh…” He glanced quickly to Greta, before continuing in a less confident tone. “… settle down in Bosch.”

“Yep!” Chirped the girl, a new redness tinting her cheeks.

Oh, thought Gregor, A young couple. He was sure they’d be very annoying in the coming days.

“And what was your arrangement with Labourd?” He asked, straightforward and business-like.

“Well, we aren’t alchemists, so we needed someone who knew what to look for. Considering that, we agreed to give him half of everything.”

“He received half and you each got a quarter?” That was a suspiciously good deal for them, especially when Gregor considered that the forest was not a safe place. Labourd – and now Gregor – would be doing all the heavy lifting when it came to protecting the group from the things which stalked in the shade and mist. It was very peculiar.

“No.” Greta corrected. “He got half and we got half, because shared finances are the hallmark of a successful relationship!”

“….Then I will adopt Labourd’s original conditions, if you have no complaints.” Someone of Labourd’s stature going out herb-picking with a pair of kids for substandard compensation? It didn’t sit right. Was he just a charitable man? Unlikely. The situation had aroused Gregor’s interest.

“Well, actually, I was thinking it might be safer if we had another person with us.” Greta began fidgeting again. “My uncle, he um, he liked to tell stories about when he was young and went adventuring all the time, and he said that you should always have, um, a ‘sneaky bastard’ with you.”

This comment tugged at the corner of Gregor’s mouth, pulling it up into something that could imaginatively be called a smirk. “A sneaky bastard?” Perhaps they wouldn’t be nearly as annoying as he expected.

“Yeah, like, someone who’s good at shady things. A thief, ideally. Someone who knows how to hide and, um, avoid pursuit.”

Gregor’s slight smirk grew to the point that his two new companions noticed it. “Coincidentally, I know a bastard in this tavern who is phenomenally good at avoiding pursuit.” He pointed to the bandit-bard, who had now finished his warbling and was sitting idle at a table. “Him. If you can recruit him, I’ll surrender half my cut.”

Perhaps this excursion could be made entertaining enough to distract him from the pain. Compared to that possibility, losing a little money was nothing.

With that, chipper Greta scampered off to acquire their sneaky bastard, leaving feebly supping Gregor with an awkwardly stiff Dieter who didn’t quite know where to look or what to do in the absence of conversation.

“So,” The boy began, “What happened to Labourd?”

“He was killed by another wizard.” Gregor supposed that he didn’t need to obscure the truth much at all. “It was at traveler’s lodge two days from here. The proprietor told me about it when I passed through.”

Dieter nodded casually, trying to impress upon Gregor the fact that he was unaffected by Labourd’s demise. He was a man now, and a daring adventurer to boot. He wouldn’t care about something like that. No sir, not at all. “We only knew him through correspondence.” He mentioned. This guy was a wizard, the real deal. It would be terribly embarrassing if he mistakenly thought that Dieter cared about the death of a man he’d never met.

Trying the beer once again, Gregor noticed Greta returning with surprising swiftness, bastard in tow. Either the bard desperately wanted to leave this place, or the girl was an uncommonly gifted negotiator.

As they came up to the side of the table, the bandit caught his first glimpse of Gregor’s face. Despite the considerable pallor and disfigurement, the bandit recognized the wizard immediately. It was him. The man froze, eyes wide, ready to bolt.

Gregor’s waning smirk came back in full force. The feeling of others being scared stiff at his mere presence was an indescribable delight. With a wheezing cough, he offered his salutations. “Hello again. I see that we remember each other.” Realizing that the man might actually run away, he added, “Don’t worry, I am not in the habit of carrying grudges between jobs.”

With extreme trepidation, the bard-bandit-bastard stood his ground. “You said that you’d kill me if we ever met again. I’d really like for not to kill me, please.”

“I said that I would probably kill you.” Gregor couldn’t actually remember if this was true, but continued. “My circumstances have since changed.”

The bandit knew that if the wizard wanted him dead, there would be no need for trickery. “Are you sure?” He asked, cautiously hopeful.

“My previous employer died violently.” Gregor swallowed a small spoonful of stew. “In a fire.” He added, after some delay. “I’m no longer being payed to care about our previous encounter.”

“Guess you guys aren’t exactly friends, huh?” Interjected Greta, nervously hoping to mediate.

They both shrugged.

“Just to be sure,” Started the bandit, “You’re NOT going to kill me, right?”

“I do not currently have plans to kill you, correct.”

The bastard surveyed Gregor though squinty, distrustful eyes, fully aware that wizards held no aversions toward lying. At length, he uttered a,“Fine.” Before straightening up and addressing the whole group, “I am Briar the Ban-” He caught himself. “-ard. Bard. Briar the Bard. That’s me.”

The big-hatted invalid nodded. “I am Gregor the Cripple.”

“How does someone die violently in a fire?” Mumbled a still-cautious Briar.

Gregor offered no comment.

***

It was in the morning that they set off, their backs warmed by a newborn sun still lingering above its cradle. Gregor had insisted that they leave early, for daylight was a precious resource in Der Hexenwald, and to waste it was folly.

Staring them down from the front was a vast treeline which sprawled from horizon to horizon. The trees – tall, ponderous old things – sprouted abruptly from the miles-unbroken meadow-land of the vicinity. Their canopies loomed high and thick, permitting entry to only the luckiest and littlest rays of light.

As the coincidental quartet trudged closer – for surely only coincidence could have allowed people so oddly connected to meet and associate – a conspicuous gloom arose. The air grew heavy, and brightness seemed to disappear gradually from the world with every step forward.

There were no paths though Der Hexenwald, so they had each sold their horses for supplies and were proceeding on foot, moderately laden.

Behind the young pair, Briar turned to Gregor with an important question breaking the bounds of his mind. “You here to get witches?”

“….What?” It felt uniquely odd to converse with someone who occupied a blind spot you weren’t accustomed to possessing.

“Y’know, it’s the witchwood.” He gestured loosely to the wall of dark growth before them. “I figure there’s probably a few witches somewhere in there, and with you bein’ a wizard and all, y’know….” The Bastard held up his hands. “Just makes sense.”

Not even Gregor’s peculiar ego could manage to be offended at such a bemusing question. “We aren’t waterfowl. We don’t migrate here for mating season.”

Dieter snorted, and Greta fixed him with That Look. The boy wilted, and continued ahead sullenly.

Briar pressed his inquiry, “But if we were to meet some of the witches-”

“Unfortunately for me, there probably isn’t anybody to meet.” A realization struck Gregor, “Do you actually think that there’s a population of witches living inside the forest and preying upon travelers?”

They were close to the threshold now. Peering into the misty boughs, Briar the Bard shrugged. “A lot of people say a lot of things about this place. It’s a bit difficult to separate rumor from fact.”

“This isn’t the natural habitat of the witch – they mostly prefer cities, although there seems to be a baffling swamp trend at the moment.”

“Swamps? Really?”

Gregor took his turn to shrug. It was odd, but he felt much better in the mornings.

“Then what’s actually going on?”

“This place is thin – a seam in the fabric of reality. The native and the foreign mingle here.”

Greta turned to face them. “You mean like, ‘foreign to this world’? Is that why the plants inside are so valuable?” She asked, referring to alchemical ingredients they intended to collect.

“Not just plants, the animals are affected too. There are some specimens here which can be found nowhere else.”

With that, the group fell silent. There was a strange scent on the soft breeze, like rotten fruit and rusting metal.

Turbulent tongues of mist wafted in their wake as they stepped between the first of the trees. The mid-morning sun dimmed to starlight specks of light upon the leafy ceiling above, which was supported by great knurled pillars of spruce.

Very little covered the ground in this outer region of the wood. Suspiciously little.

All the usual leaf-litter and underbrush was absent from from the forest floor. Gregor noted this with idle interest, but minimal care. In this place where everything was off, worrying about mere oddities would do more harm than good. He began searching for a threat to care about.

“Keep your eyes open.” He commanded. “Always be looking for something.”

The group obeyed because Gregor probably knew what he was talking about, and they continued on in tense silence. Dieter took to the front of the party, with Bastard Briar beside the cripple in the middle and Greta at the rear.

As they proceeded, Gregor found that he could feel many different types of foreign magic here. They were distant but distinct, bleeding though the permeable walls of the world. Very faintly, he thought that he could discern something familiar – that odd corruption of the bog shaman. It tickled his curiosity, but he decided not to hunt it down.

He was working now, at least nominally, and his professionalism wouldn’t allow him to chase idle curiosities on the job.

“There!” Hissed Greta abruptly, bow in hand and arrow drawn ready.

Dieter hustled over to be between her and the disturbance, his eyes jumping wildly from tree to tree. “Where?” He whispered low upon failing to discover an enemy.

“…. It’s gone. There was- I don’t know what it was, but there was something over there.” She pointed deeper into the wood. “It was there between the trees, I saw it.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even blink. It’s just gone.” The girl was wide-eyed and deeply unsettled. How could something just disappear like that? The creature had to be nearby, hiding.

Gregor hadn’t expected things to become exciting this early. “What did you see?” He asked, also searching for the thing among the distant trees.

“Uh, it was very pale and very thin, and it was riding something, I think. I’m not sure.”

“Did you see the face?”

She shook her head. “Not really. It wasn’t looking at us, but it had horns.”

That wasn’t nearly enough information, but it told him enough to inspire caution, for animals do not ride upon other animals. The creature was intelligent.