The Wayward Witch Chronicles

The Copper Whistle inn was one of six buildings forming Whitecreek’s rarely-frequented town center, and if it was in the best repair, that only meant it had the fewest missing shingles. Two long, rough-hewn tables filled the stale-smelling main room. Beyond them, the innkeeper’s family occupied several chairs near a fireplace– his elderly wife, two grown daughters, and a gaggle of grandchildren.

On one end of the parlor, the innkeeper sat at a small desk and worried over ledgers. On the other, splintered stairs led upwards toward the promise of lodgings. The building was small for its purpose, and West couldn’t imagine it having more than a handful of proper rooms. At least with so few visitors to town, the beds were unlikely to have lice.

Roman’s group must have been staying several days already, as the inn family greeted them with familiar waves. In contrast, the soft-spoken innkeeper’s attention went straight to the new money, offering West a supper and a cot by the fire for the night (the inn’s few private rooms having already been booked by the adventurers he arrived with.)

As West paid his dues and sat on the bench at one of the tables, Roman peeled off his cloak. “Vera,” the swordsman said, slinging his cloak over his shoulder rather than trusting it to the hooks on the wall, “why don’t you keep the Investigator company? I believe he wanted a look at your papers, and I’d like to get into some clothes that haven’t been coated in dust.”

Vera looked like she’d bitten into a slug. “Right, sir.” Roman waved acknowledgment and climbed the stairs. Barros gave her a sympathetic shrug as he hung his own cloak up, then followed Roman.

Pouting, Vera picked a spot at a table across from where West had already claimed a seat. She laid the wand case in front of her and worked its latches. They were simple at a glance, but West spotted her triggering a hidden switch before flipping them open. He wondered what might happen if an unfortunate thief tried opening that case without unsetting the switch.

“So, I take it Roman's one o’ those folks used to gettin’ their way,” West said, attempting some good-natured commiseration. Vera sneered brusquely. “That isn’t to say anythin’ bad, lass, jes’ talk!”

“Talk less.” Vera waved down the attention of the second of the innkeeper’s daughters. “Pitcher of ale, bottle of wine,” she ordered– and it was very much an order, sharp and snappish.

The inn-daughter straightened. Interrupted from spooning broth for a babbling toddler, her face flashed irritation, but she smoothed her scowl to a passive smile. Motioning for the inn-wife to take over the feeding, the woman simpered, “Right away, miss."

West didn't doubt that the drinks would be just as watered-down as the insulted woman dared. He almost kept quiet for fear of drawing her ire but, after his long day’s travel, couldn’t keep from asking, “And would ye get me a drink o’ water, please?” The woman studied him for any sign of disrespect, then softened with a snort before disappearing into the back.

The toddler, meanwhile, managed to get its pudgy hand around the spoon. It set to work splashing broth to and fro as its older siblings howled laughter. Tasked with helping, the inn-wife took three tries to get out of her chair. Her back cracked loudly as she stood. Her hand searched at the side of her chair, only to find one of the children had seized her cane for a game of make-believe.

"Got quite the handful there." Road-weary West rose to his feet. "Let me give ye a bit o' help. Vera, if ye'll get those registry papers ready fer me to look over meanwhile?"

As Vera pulled out the paper rolls organized behind each of her wands and heaped them on the table’s scuffed surface, West set to work. He rescued the cane ("nae nae laddie, the ol' wizard tricked ye, the REAL magic sword's o'er by yonder tower"), relieved the toddler of its spoon, and mopped up its sodding mess. As he helped the innwife resituate in her chair with toddler and broth bowl on her lap, Roman trotted down the stairs, Barros trailing behind.

"Family man, are you, Investigator?" Roman asked, sliding onto the bench.

West shrugged. "I've had a couple o' nieces and nephews to look after." The innkeeper's grateful wife squeezed his hand and released him back to his table.

Nearly at the same time, one daughter and the next returned, distributing bowls and tankards and pitchers alike between the group at the table. The curly-haired woman set a large loaf of fresh bread on the table, winked at Barros, and went back to her flock of children. Barros’s scalp pinked, and he drank deeply.

The food portions were surprisingly generous. West admired the bowl and spoon, simply carved but well shaped, smooth and polished to the touch. Old furnishings, old building… fresh food, new dishware. "Interestin' place, this,” West said, fitting in spoonfuls as he reviewed the first set of papers. “Seems like there's been recent money comin' through, is that right?"

"That's my understanding as well,” Roman said. “Old town, not much work, but they've been getting a number of monied travelers the last few years. Which accounts for their decent wines– can I pour you a glass, Investigator?"

"Nae lad, thank ye." West adjusted his water cup pointedly.

"Ah." Roman eyed the drink with a small smile. “Don’t have a lot of experience yet, do you?”

“What makes ye say that?”

“It’s my experience that the more you get out and see, the more reason you have to drink,” Roman said. “People who don’t drink haven’t been given a good reason yet.”

What a bloody childish thing to say, West thought, but said more neutrally, “And yer well-experienced, are ya?”

“Well enough.” Roman sipped his wine.

"Well, that bein' the case, why don't ye lend me the benefit of yer experience and tell me what you've been seein' in these parts?"

Vera glanced at Roman, worried mouth pulled tight, but the swordsman sat at ease. "As I imagine you know, there's not much to be seen yet. We've been following rumors, and who could say if they would amount to anything? But there could only be one thing to bring both of us to a little village like this."

"That’s my thinkin'," West agreed. "I’ve a feelin' ye might know a wee bit more than I do. After all, I'm workin' off of other folks' footwork, who don't always bother with fact-checkin' all the tribblin' bits and details. So what say we both share what we know?"

"Of course,” Roman agreed. “Why don't you begin, and we'll fill whatever gaps we can?"

"Well, it’s hard to get a breathin' picture from a bunch o' stuffy reports, but I dinnae mind tellin' ye what I got." Ever amicable, West laid the papers down. "We got stories datin' as far as three years back 'bout travelers goin' missing. Most've them come through this town right here.” His stone-faced audience nodded him on. “There's a rumor regardin’ some old ruins– real long, dry history there. There's some sort o' trick to get entry, so only people who figure that out and go lookin' fer trouble are findin’ it. Somewhere around twenty-five people we know about, mercenaries and adventurers and the like, what nobody heard from again."

Roman raised his glass to his face, failing to conceal a smile. “And that’s all they told you, is it?”

“Aye, well, I jes’ try and get a broad picture out o’ those reports. They never seem to get the details right, so once I get the basic idea, I like doin’ me own footwork and hearin’ from folks that actually know what’s happenin’. Speakin’ o’ which, would ye mind sharin’ what ye’ve heard?”

Roman leaned back, considering. Adventurers weren't known for giving away their secrets easily, particularly if there was a payday on the line. So West smiled, relaxed and unassuming, projecting more interest in the papers he was reviewing than the information he was asking after.

"Vera. Bring the Investigator up to speed, please." Setting down his glass, Roman began picking at his stew, soaking one bite of bread at a time.

Vera’s lips thinned as though biting down a complaint, but she didn't waste any time second-guessing her orders. Setting her drink on the table so quickly that several drops sloshed onto her hand, the scholar gathered her thoughts and started speaking in nearly the same moment.

“The ruins are occupied by a branch of the Tooth of Vaari, a cult of an obscure Zorrocean deity that can be traced back to an avatar of the god of bounty, Avdris. They were cast out from the Rockhearth in 456 LE, and after several centuries of nomadic movement, arrived in what would become the Steelelands. They split in several directions, coming into conflict with the locals. Most of them were eventually driven out or destroyed, but a few groups dug homes into the earth and secured themselves.

“The Vaari groups all share a common obsession with gemstones. They don’t mine them out of the earth like common Zorroceans, though– they’re alchemists and wizards, and they use their arts to create or conjure treasures."

Barros added in a rumbly voice,“When they aren’t pickin’ ‘em off the bodies of unwitting fools.” Vera assigned him a stern stare, which he warded off with his tankard. "Never mind me, Vera, finish up.”

“Thank you.” The scholar cleared her throat, trying to find her train of thought again. “Rumors point to this group having more success with their practice than others. They created a massive gem– size of a full-grown person– for their worship. Since the rumor’s gotten around, the group’s been quiet, likely trying not to attract attention. Obviously, it hasn’t worked.” Having spoken more in the last few minutes than West had heard since meeting her, Vera retired from the conversation, drinking deeply from her mug.

Roman picked up where she left off. “It’s a little complicated getting in– like you said, there’s a trick with the door– but we’ve been able to work out the secret. It can only be opened from the outside once a month, nearing midnight and on a moonless night. That would be tomorrow, but you must know that if you happen to be arriving at this time.”

Wiping a drip of stew from his face, West aid, “Aye, the timing was in me reports, but nae the means fer the door. Sounds like ye know it?” The adventurers exchanged a glance among themselves, but Roman only shrugged good-naturedly. Yes, but we’re not telling, his faint smirk seemed to say.

That’s good and fine fer now. If they could find an answer, then if it came down to it, so could he. West nodded and said, "That aside. What's the source o' yer information?"

"We've got several," Roman said. "The stories have been floating around for a good while now, after all."

"Yeah, but where’re the stories comin’ from?" West set another set of papers aside– his review was quicker now, as he picked out the small signs of authenticity more easily with each set. "Fer people to be gossipin', somebody's gotta be talkin'. Who's the person what started talkin' in the first place?"

Roman pressed his lips together. “I presume the original source must have been someone in contact with the Vaari, or perhaps a survivor of a raid that overheard them talking.”

“You presume?” Barros leaned over the table, displeased. “You said this was a sure thing, Roman.”

“As sure as anything in our business can be,” Roman answered, unfazed. “Vera researched the history herself. She confirmed a group of Zorrocean alchemists took up in those ruins a centuries ago. They menaced the southern highway for decades, until the reports of their raids stopped. There’s no record that anybody ever routed them out. No reason to think they’re not still there, and that there’s not a good reason they stopped making trouble for travelers.”

"It makes ye think." West sipped at his water. "If it were all that straightforward, there'd be nary a problem. If it were jes’ a couple o’ Zorroceans, well, they can be a mite tricky, but they’re nae gonna be slaughterin' so many folks without a one comin' back to tell the story.” The table listened keenly. Barros had an especially dour look on his face, brows pinching. Turning over a paper, the Investigator said, “So somethin's nae right 'bout the story being passed about. And if ye three are goin’ off of that bit o' fakery, ye’ll–”

"End up like the rest," Vera murmured, fingers twisting around her mug handle. West nodded, and the table stared at their drinks.

Roman was first to break the silence. "Let me guess then, Investigator. You're here because you think there's some rogue wizardry responsible." His tone sounded light enough, but his hard stare demanded a satisfying answer for the Investigator’s presence.

"Might be. Havenae got half o' what I need to speculate. But next time that place opens up, I'm anglin' fer a closer look."

Vera's mug thunked on the table as she aborted a swig. "Edging in?" she said, narrowing her eyes.

"Hoooold now, dinnae worry, lass. There's nothin' in that place what interests me nor anyone I be workin’ with, beyond what's killin' people what go in it." West stacked the papers together and offered them back to her. She accepted them with a wrinkled nose, tsked at the order he'd left them in, then straightened them to her own satisfaction.

Roman smiled stiffly. "But you're not preventing anyone from going, of course.”

"Well, I cannae recommend doin' it, given the record o' folks not comin' out again.”

"We’ve been gathering information on this for two months, and we paid good coin to get it. So you understand, we won't consider turning back now."

"Well then,” West said. “If ye willnae be dissuaded from goin', ye'd be best goin' with me."

"Kind of you to offer, but no." Roman leaned toward the Investigator. "We've got a good group here already. Experienced people. We don't need a fourth."

Barros hunched over his drink, glowering. "Talking pretty quick there, Roman. Thinking about letting the rest of us get a say?"

Roman eased back to look at this companion, his eyes unfriendly. "You have something you want to add here, Barros?" The edge in his voice caught West’s attention. Oof… dinnae like havin’ yer people question ye, do ye? he thought, tapping a finger. Roman's type wasn’t uncommon among adventurers, but it spelled trouble for an authority figure like the Investigator.

Barros caught Roman's tone too, but wasn’t cowed. "Yeah. I think we should let him tag along. He's here on his own business, so he doesn't expect a cut. Government gets the best, so he's equipped proper. And if things do get rough, it won't hurt if there's someone with us who somebody else'd come looking for." Barros rubbed at a long red scar atop his bald scalp. "Some've us have responsibilities that we aren't keen to be dying on, remember."

“I’m aware, Barros.” Roman stared. Uncomfortable, Barros went back to his drink with a disgruntled sniff.

The party hierarchy successfully reinforced, Roman relaxed and returned his attention to West. “Am I correct in supposing you’ll be investigating, regardless of whether we accept you into our group?”

“Aye.”

“I see.” Roman drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “Vera, what’s your say?”

“No. No not never nope.” Arms crossed in front of her, slouching, Vera pouted openly at the tabletop. “Don’t want him. Just gonna be trouble, and,” she puffed up, “I’ve got a clause.”

“True enough.” Roman shrugged. “Sorry, Investigator. It’s nothing personal, but I simply don’t think our agendas align. Our group is operating under mutual contract, and we've built up a rapport. A newcomer would disrupt that. That’s the extent of it.”

“Huh. Well, if that’s the way of it, then.” West stood from the table, picking up his bowl to take with him. “I’ll be goin’ there, o’ course, but I’ll jes’ try and keep out of yer way.”

“Appreciated, Investigator.”

It was an agreement, of sorts– Roman’s party had their business, he had his, and they had no need to interfere with one another’s. But as he left the table, West couldn’t help but feel that letting things stand as they were would be a mistake. It would pain him to see these three added to the roster of missing souls, knowing that if he’d had sweeter words or smarter arguments, he might have been able to stop it.

In the end though, West could only do as much as they’d let him do for them. But if the chance came to change their minds– even if just for one of them– he’d have to be ready to take it.