Interlude - Halfseekers (Pt. 3)

He had so much to do and so little time. So he didn’t stop, even to lean on an old friend’s shoulder and weep. The tears would undo them both, like a crack in a mountain that a river tore through. And he was no great mountain.

Not yet, not ever in likeliness. But he was all Liscor had, so the half-Giant walked.

——

It had always been like this, you see. Whenever he ducked to enter a room, heads turned. He was never unnoticed; even after weeks, the young Gnoll woman lounging on her couch jumped when she saw him.

“Oh, hey. It’s you again.”

Liska was taking her ease, idly sending people through the door, but she sped up when she saw Lord Moore in line. The half-Giant smiled faintly. He often smiled. In the past, he’d hunched over and even picked flowers to wear.

Anything to make the small people feel less nervous. Because when they were nervous, they got violent. As if his being larger than them alone was a threat.

It was enough to drive you to madness. To hate them. But you had to also love them and their silly little ways. Silly, in that they did all the things that he did. They loved, laughed, and had secrets and ambitions—but whenever they saw him, they seemed to think he was somehow grander, more dangerous, more important than they were. Just because he was tall.

Liska was sending people through the doors faster now, but they lingered, turning to stare up at him. Lord Moore found this, too, funny. He was merely ten feet tall. True, taller than even a Minotaur might be, horns and all, taller than Centaurs, but quite, quite short for a half-Giant. Still, they stared, and children pointed as their parents hurried them back, as if he might fall on them.

It was true, if Moore fell and hit someone, it would hurt them more than he. But the danger was exaggerated. Strong men tried to puff out their chests around him. Warriors checked their blades, then pretended not to. [Mages] were the worst; they tried to act as if he were natural and they were unimpressed.

To walk amongst smallfolk was to always be an outsider, to ever be noticed. It was hard. A younger man, a younger Moore had been more self-conscious, more embarrassed, more alone. The Halfseekers had given him a family.

The [Lord] of future days, who called himself Mireden Raithland, the Moore of a world where Erin Solstice had never woken up, ten long years into the future—he gazed around, and everything here hurt him. It was all so…innocent. For all they had endured, this city had never fallen. The inn still lived.

He had sworn the moment he turned around and ran back towards that door in the [Palace of Fates] that he would keep his future from ever becoming reality. But he had…no…time.

So much to do, but he did not shove ahead in line and took the moment to speak to Liska.

“Hey, Lord M—Raithland. Uh, sorry about the delay. How’s it, uh—I always wanted to know, is being tall really inconvenient?”

His lips cracked into a real grin as she blinked up at him. He had never really known the Liska of his world well. This one was higher-level, and her banal questions were funny, because she asked the ones everyone did. He replied in a low voice that could boom over anyone else’s.

“A funny question, Liska. I once met a group of Fraerlings in Baleros.”

Her eyes widened. The people in line turned to him, fascinated by a species they thought never to meet. If any of them wanted, they could have made the journey, and it was far easier with Paeth. But so many said, ‘that shall never happen to me.’

If they wanted to, they could have an adventure. They dreamed of it, wrote it in their books, made great boasts. Few realized they could if they dared it. Fewer still had the courage.

What a waste, Moore would have said as a younger man. In his forties, now, he thought it made sense. If you were happy, why make the journey into the unknown? If you never saw monsters and wonders with your own eyes, well, had you lived a life any worse than his? Moore had slain horrors and held Relics of the old world in his hands.

He had no children of his own. He had never married in his other world. You could place his deeds and the city he had helped rebuild on a scale with a father and his son, and who could say which weighed more?

So—the half-Giant smiled down at Liska.

“The Fraerlings I met asked me the same question. What is it like being so tall? I told them that it was surely special. I must be the most unique of people for I am so much taller, just as they are extraordinary and their lives so much harder for being so small.”

He paused.

“We laughed upon it for hours.”

Liska was slightly open-mouthed as she gazed up at him. She didn’t realize he had finished until she saw him ducking towards the [Door of Portals]. The half-Giant felt rainwater touch his skin. He shielded his face with one hand, then straightened.

A [Guardswoman] standing in front of the [Door of Portals] backed up, the Drake’s mouth open as the half-Giant emerged from the door to Liscor. The people in line backed up a step, and again, Lord Moore grinned.

He stood in his city, in Shivertail Plaza, and gazed around, breathing in the wet odors of the spring rains. To him, it was so familiar though this city seemed too poor, too dingy and small compared to the one he remembered. His heart still wept for the citizens, so few of whom had escaped into the [Palace of Fates].

This time, I will build it better. Rest easy, Moore of the Halfseekers. This is my task, and I am readier for it than you could ever be.

He was Mireden Raithland now, he reminded himself. Not Moore. He bore only his memories and knowledge from the future. The other Moore, the one who had lived and died on Liscor’s grounds, was an old stranger to him. He might not approve of all that Lord Raithland did. The half-Giant wished that version of him who had left for another world all the love and life he deserved.

This was no task for young men. He had a silent and secret war to wage against the Mother of Graves.

He had a city to protect, to lead, and to do that, he would have to play the powergames he’d learned over the course of a decade.

Most of all…he wished to keep that legacy of the Halfseekers and to put a finger on the tiller of the events that would occur in this world, and that was not an easy nor light thing to do. It was a thorny garden he would have to water with gold, blood, sweat, and tears. Even he had no idea which flowers would bloom from them, but he could prune what he didn’t like.

So. The half-Giant set about his first task of the day. Not stealthily; eyes followed him as he walked out of the plaza. He could never be stealthy, so he did the opposite. He spun his staff, and when it struck the cobblestones, people walking ahead of him glanced up for the thunder in the skies.

——

Liscor’s elections were ongoing, a fact that concerned few in The Wandering Inn. Given what they had endured, it was no surprise to Lord Moore. The inn was rapidly becoming an independent force; the taxes incident was just further proof of this. They could let Liscor be, but he cared about these elections greatly.

It was his goal to win a seat on the Council. The problem was the contest for Liscor’s seats had been underway for months when he had appeared. He was a nobody, without support or backing. Also, technically, he wasn’t even a Liscorian citizen. He had no district to run in.

But if he wanted to move Liscor, he had to be on the Council. So the half-Giant had made several steps. First, he had borrowed money from Lyonette to buy a home in the 3rd District of Liscor. Citizenship was quite easy given the current Council’s attitude towards immigration. He was then in a runoff with anyone in his district, which would be accorded three new seats in the Council.

Technically, that was too low if Lord Moore’s rough count of the population in the new area of Liscor was correct. But the Drakes and Gnolls of the old city did not want to cede more of their seats to the new Human-majority areas in 3rd District. Even the old Council was biased, though he rather suspected he might like them more than the new one if the votes went ill.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t have the political capital to move any elections for candidates he favored. Getting a seat was hard enough.

Residency established—there was already some understanding of his presence in Liscor. People had seen him blocking spells when the Goblin King had been rampaging. And the rumor of ‘Moore’s uncle’ also gave him some credence as a [Lord]—a class he did possess.

Lord Moore was a [Green Lord of the Cured City]. His level, well…he’d thought about disclosing it. It might win him the Council seat on the merits of that alone, but he’d rather lay low in that sense.

Too many questions arose when people realized what level he was. In this, or his world, he was a dangerous force, but again, unsupported by a city’s might. So! The half-Giant’s task of the day was simple.

Establish his credibility and, in simpler terms still, attract attention. For a half-Giant?

It was so easy. He could do it even walking.

Lord Moore’s staff was a piece of Oteslia’s great tree. A branch had fallen to earth when, in his world, its Dragon rebelled and fled. He had paid a handsome sum for a carving of it; it was a broad staff, even for his hand, crowned with a huge emerald from Salazsar’s mines.

Not the finest Relic-class item ever to exist, but powerful and, most importantly, sturdy. It was wider than the legs of some Humans. As Lord Moore walked, he casually began to twirl it in the rain.

He had no fear of hitting anyone; even wagon drivers tried to avoid him before the huge staff began to spin. It whirled through the air, faster than you could believe, spraying water around as he rotated it one-handed.

Moore transferred the staff to his other hand as a vendor at their stall ducked, fearing the staff might slip from his grip. He saw a Gnoll boy gazing at him, mouth open, and winked one eye.

Thum.

When the butt of the staff struck the ground, it sounded like thunder. People around the half-Giant jumped, and he struck the ground twice more.

Thum-thum!

Then he whirled it around overhead before his right hand caught it again. The simple whirling pattern was so easy to do as he walked; he could have done it for hours. Lord Moore debated throwing the staff up, but suspected he would be asked to stop if he did that.

These were not the capabilities of old Moore, incidentally. In magic and combat, Lord Mireden was far ahead of the Gold-rank adventurer.

And it worked. As was the way of things, it was children who first paid attention to the thrumming in their shoes or saw the figure moving through the crowd and tugged at their parents’ hands to see. The busy men and women saw the spinning staff and first moved back out of ‘danger’, then hesitated.

They had jobs, lives to lead. This emergency or that event. Did they have time for…?

Then they looked twice and remembered something they’d been told.

The last half-Giant of Izril was dead. Then who was this? They felt their knees shaking and saw the bearded head turn as he walked with robes that rustled like the whisper of old forests. His gaze passed over adults who remembered reading stories as children, books about Giants.

So, shoppers stepped out of line. [Shopkeepers] locked up for a second. Parents and children followed, pointing, and a procession began. Like people going to a festival. Hurrying, steps tripping over each other to keep up, as if they had to follow.

In case they missed seeing something that never would be again. The last sight of their lifetime, and the world’s. He walked so proudly, as if he knew it all. And he nodded at them as they halted, unsure if they were just bothering this stranger. But his smile said, silently:

Yes. Follow me. I do not mind. I know who I am.

So, they did.

——

The half-Giant strode across the main street of Liscor, people parting around him, until he reached his destination. Surveyed it in a moment and nodded. He was conscious of the crowds following him, and also unbothered at the same time. They would always be there. Like background noise. He happened to need witnesses, now and later, so it was doubly fine. But his words were only to himself.

“Yes. This will do.”

His destination was the northern gates of Liscor. Lord Moore swept his eyes over the little altar that Jelaqua had found, closed them, breathed in and out, and then did something odd, if anyone was watching. And everyone was watching out of the corner of their eyes.

He planted his staff in the ground where it stood straight, without wavering, and then clapped his hands together. He bowed his head, briefly, then picked up his staff and turned around. He began marching back the way he’d come. As if he’d confirmed…something.

Odd. Baffling. Perhaps he was paying respects to the shrine for his nephew? But he hadn’t even approached it. Again, if you were watching, he was an enigma, this half-Giant. Lord Moore felt vaguely sorry if you were lurking in an alleyway, rain dripping onto your raincoat like, say, a certain Watch Captain and two other [Guards].

He knew he’d gotten on Watch Captain Zevara’s list after his first encounter with her in Invrisil. She was an unknown quantity to him; she’d died before he’d become enmeshed in Liscor, and he knew Embria far better. The Watch following him wasn’t a problem, anyways. Moore strode back the way he’d come at a pace that would have them running to keep up.

He only halted once when he heard the familiar sounds of a commotion. The half-Giant turned his head as he passed a side street, then went down it.

In a city, there was always daily strife of some kind. In this case, a crowd of dozens, people hurrying out of the way, calls for the Watch, to stop—people hurrying children back or watching—the half-Giant saw the cause since he could easily gaze over the heads of everyone else.

A fight. A Drake and a Human man going bare-knuckle in the rain. One had a bloody mouth, and the other’s shirt was ripped off as well as his raincloak; he had two bruises on his scales. They were grappling with each other, cursing and slipping on the cobblestone street, when Lord Moore walked through the crowd.

Without slowing, he let go of his quarterstaff, grabbed both men, and pulled them apart. So gently that they were still throwing punches and kicks when they glanced up and froze.

So did the crowd. One of the fighters gasped.

“Who the—let go of me! Who the hell are you?”

“This your backup, Human?”

The Drake sneered, but he took a step back, searching around for his buddies. They all gazed up at Moore with that sudden reassessment of men wondering if they wanted to fight someone four feet taller than they were, counting their numbers.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. It seems too wet for a brawl on the streets. May I ask what started this?”

Lord Moore’s voice was pleasant. And because it was, instantly, both fighters took umbrage.

“None of your business! Hands off! Who are you to interfere?”

The Drake slashed at Moore’s hand as he let go. The Human man made a beckoning gesture.

“That’s right. You want some, you can get in line!”

The glance he gave Moore suggested that if the half-Giant did get in line, he’d quickly get out of it. But it sounded good, and their dander was up. Lord Moore raised his brows.

He could have said he was technically Junior Guardsman Raithland. Or claimed, rightly, that he was a [Lord]. Or a former adventurer.

Instead, the half-Giant smiled around at the crowd.

“A busybody. What’s this over? Something important?”

Neither man really wanted to say. They were eying each other, but clearly wondering if Moore was going to pick them up like children again, which would be embarrassing. They edged back.

“Just stay out of it…whoever you are!”

The Drake snapped. To his great surprise, Lord Moore nodded. He picked up his staff and took one step backwards to give them space.

“Very well. If all parties agree, then I will stand here as witness. The first man to not get up is defeated. No blades, no others in the ring, no magic. So, fight well.”

He struck the ground with his staff and left it standing there, then folded his arms in the crowd as every eye turned to the two brawlers. And they…hesitated. The Human raised a fist, looked around, and the Drake half-heartedly brought his fists up.

They suddenly grew conscious of the crowd of nearly a hundred people, swelling as more came to see what was going on. The two circled, and after a moment, Moore made an encouraging motion.

“Well? What’s the matter?”

One of them had just been about to go for a kick to the balls. Moore’s comment drained the momentum out of the two fighters, and one of them glared at him.

“We’re all waiting.”

The half-Giant smiled at him, and the Drake snapped back.

“You interrupted us! How the hell are we supposed to fight with—?”

He lamely gestured around at the onlookers, who were murmuring, eying his form, even placing a few tentative bets—the things crowds did. Only, without his blood running hot, the Drake was suddenly awkward. Self-conscious.

Like that dream many people had about showing up naked to a party. Neither man was a [Fistfighter] or used to this much attention. The Human clearly felt different and spat on the ground.

“I’m not getting in trouble with the Watch in front of everyone. I’ll settle this with you later. You’d best not see me on the streets!”

He jabbed a finger at the Drake, and some of the man’s buddies jeered. It was a good way to salvage the situation. Moore didn’t let them get away with it. He loomed over the two fighters as they tried to retreat from the ring.

“No fight in the two of you? Truly? And here I thought it was important. For if it was, you two would fight even in the center of a wake. It surely had to have been. Important enough to endanger bystanders and children and interfere with everyone’s day. Come now, tell us. What was so pressing?”

His smile invited the two to tell the class what was wrong. Then the Drake and Human were glancing at each other, and cheeks reddened.

“I think one of them walked into the other. Then one called the other a name.”

An annoyed [Shopkeeper] volunteered. Someone else in the crowd corroborated this, and a few jeers rose. The two fighters began to protest as Lord Moore folded his arms.

“Ah, a terrible offense. There is no use talking it out. Right, back at it, you two.”

That was enough. As faint laughter arose, the Drake strode back to his buddies, shoving at them as some of them laughed at him as well. The Human man tried to slink back into the crowd. Moore smiled as someone blew a whistle.

“Alright, break it up!”

A [Guard] was coming to break the brawl up—to the officer’s surprise, the crowd was already dispersing. He stared around, then at Moore as if the half-Giant was the culprit.

“What’s all this then? You, sir, what are you doing?”

Some things never changed. Lord Moore turned with great patience to explain his part in this, but someone interrupted.

“I have eyes on it, yes, Guardsman. This half-Giant wasn’t part of the fight.”

One of his shadows detached themselves from an alleyway and strode over. The [Guardsman] turned, then saluted.

“Watch Captain! Um, I—right! Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here!”

The Watch Captain of 3rd District gave Moore a sideways glance as she nodded to him. There went the [Guard], and Lord Moore glanced around. He was about to keep walking when someone waved a claw at him.

“Excuse me, Mister half-Giant?”

A girl holding an Antinium doll, Human, was standing with her parents. She stared up at Moore and backed up when he knelt, but he smiled.

“Yes, young one?”

“I have a question! May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

The girl’s parents watched as she piped up.

“Dad says you’re a half-Giant. But if you are, then isn’t that wrong? Everyone was saying the last half-Giant of Izril was dead. So what are you?”

His father opened his mouth, filled with chagrin, and Moore’s heart hurt as he listened to the girl’s plain question. He saw Beilmark’s ears perk up as he chose his words carefully.

“It’s true. The last half-Giant of Izril did die. Moore of Raithland. I am merely his uncle. I wasn’t on Izril when he fell. So yes, it was true at the time. Once more, I am the last half-Giant. Perhaps the last you will ever know on Izril’s shores.”

Everyone in earshot went silent. Lord Moore stood and looked around.

“I am Lord Mireden Raithland. I have made Liscor my home to honor my nephew’s sacrifice. If you see me, treat me as a neighbor and friend, please.”

He smiled. Then turned to the girl.

“Does that answer your question?”

She gave him a serious stare with faintly orange eyes.

“Yes, Mister half-Giant. Thank you. Um. Is it hard, being the last half-Giant? It seems really lonely.”

He blinked at her, then smiled ruefully.

“Perhaps it is. I wouldn’t know; we half-Giants have been the last for a long time. It’s not that scary. Being the last friend, the last member of a team, is far, far harder. So long as you have friends and family, being the ‘last’ anything isn’t hard, Miss. Do you have any more questions?”

She blinked up at him as her parents stirred, and he thought she saw some comprehension flicker in her tiny face. An inkling of mortality. She held her doll tighter, thinking, then pointed.

“…Is that a magic staff?”

He laughed and reached up to the emerald gem. To her delight and awe, he pulled a glowing flower with petals that shone like moonbeams out and handed it to her. Then he rose, nodded at her parents, and continued on his way.

After a moment, the Watch Captain followed.

——

Beilmark was not Zevara, a fact she was keenly grateful for. She had a different approach than the smoke-spitting Watch Captain that was simultaneously more subtle and, sometimes, more direct than the Drake.

Zevara probably would have been here in the rain, following the half-Giant around, but every person who saw her wanted to talk about the Hissl-Moass incident, so she was no good undercover. She’d tried a huge trench coat and hat, but that was so silly everyone in the 3rd District Watchhouse had laughed their tails off when they heard about that.

The Gnoll caught up to the mystery half-Giant after two streets. He did slow when he saw her, and she raised a paw.

“Excuse me, Lord Raithland. Do you have time for a friendly word? You are not under arrest, yes?”

“I had no fear of that, Watch Captain. You have the better of me; I confess, I thought you were Captain Zevara.”

“Ah, she is busy looking into someone stealing water or something silly of that kind. Now she is a detective, everyone has problems for her to solve. She’s found four lost cats already. I am Watch Captain Beilmark. 3rd District. May I ask what you were doing back there?”

“Merely interfering in a silly fight. I am sure your Watch would have handled the matter, but I interfered, as anyone might.”

She peered up at him. He wore a mysterious smile, and she had no read on him. The Gnoll sniffed, trying to memorize his scent.

“Hrr. Anyone of your size, perhaps. Did you mean what you said, that you intend to live here?”

He continued walking, a touch slower, still spinning his staff.

“Of course.”

Beilmark eyed the whirling haft of wood. It wasn’t too close to her, but she felt like ducking.

“I may ask you to stop swinging that staff around, Lord Mireden. It would be a tragedy if it hit someone, no? Where does one learn tricks like that?”

Obligingly, he stopped spinning his staff. But rather contrarily, the half-Giant seemed to place it in the air, where it floated after him, slowly rotating around his body. He winked at her as even more heads turned.

“I picked the trick up on Chandrar when I lived half a year in the company of the Nomads of the Sky.”

“Oh, the ones who follow the King of Destruction?”

There were very few groups of half-Giants left. Moore nodded.

“Yes…though not when they were at war. Not all of them fight, you see. It was one of the few things I picked up of value there. The rest?”

He flicked a hand, shaking his head and smoothing his beard ruefully.

“It’s a silly fancy that comes across species who grow up far from ‘home’, Watch Captain. I was trying to find my people, much like that girl asked me about. Playing drums on the sand, mimicking the customs I thought would make me more of a half-Giant…”

He laughed and shook his head.

“Chandrarian [Nomads] are so far from how I was raised and lived. I wonder if you can relate?”

Despite herself, she grinned. The Watch Captain shrugged.

“You speak in a way most City Gnolls would understand, yes? Some of us aspire to be ‘real’ Gnolls, whatever that is, and copy our kin in the tribes. From how Plains Gnolls talk to how they act, as if that makes them more Gnollish. Myself, I have been a child of Liscor since before the Silverfangs came, so it is opposite for me, in a way. All their customs and habits seemed foreign to me. I’ve never longed to be on the plains. Too many bugs in the fur, I imagine.”

The half-Giant nodded with that twinkle in his eyes. He gestured at the quarterstaff.

“Well, if that concludes your investigation, you may write down that I am quite good with a quarterstaff, Watch Captain Beilmark. As a younger man, I used my fists until I realized I kept getting hurt…a quarterstaff is far more useful, especially as this is a magical staff as well. Everyone has heard the tale of the [Farmer] who beat a [Swordmaster] with a staff.”

Beilmark nodded. Moore tapped his staff and winked at her.

“I rather fancy I have better odds than most [Farmers], don’t you?”

The Gnoll woman grinned. And she privately resolved to never get into a fight with this half-Giant and make a note for the Watch to be highly careful of this Mireden Raithland. She thanked him for his time.

“And may I ask one last question, Lord Mireden? I noticed you had put your name in the elections for City Council in your area. Hrr. There are fifty candidates, and I doubt many would know you by name. By height, yes…if you fail to win your election, what will you do? Are you an adventurer? Or are you going to be a—a [Lord]? Forgive me, I do not know how that class lives.”

The half-Giant nodded at her as they came back to Shivertail Plaza. He halted in line and smiled at her.

“Fear not, Watch Captain. I have utter faith I will win. But regardless, even if I should fail, I intend to do a bit of business in Liscor.”

“Enchanting? Magical services?”

He shook his head, still with that twinkle in his eye that was slightly annoying.

“No. Sewer cleaning. I am a [Green Mage]. Artisanal work as well. Not that I’m a fine crafter. I practice some alchemy as well—I do invite you to visit the first shop I open.”

With that, he ducked back into the door and vanished. Beilmark folded her arms and sniffed as some of the other [Guards] who had been surveilling him came over. She growled at one of them.

“Alright, put him on the list of Crazy Inn People. At the top of the list, yes? Right next to the Archmage. He makes my fur stand on end. I hope he’s on our side.”

“Are you gonna vote for him, Watch Captain? You moved to his district, didn’t you?”

Beilmark snorted at one of the younger [Guards].

“I don’t even know what he’s offering Liscor. Shut up about politics. Back to work!”

——

Something to offer Liscor. Yes, that was the problem. He had to show them his value more than just being a helpful [Mage] who had blocked spells.

Gold was no good. No one respected someone just handing out gold. They might need someone like that, the quintessential [Lord] who could buy influence, but who really believed in someone like that?

…Well, enough idiots, maybe. But Lord Moore wanted genuine appreciation. He wasn’t worried. He had a plan, and he’d just confirmed it would work.

What he needed was help, though. He doubted he’d find it in Liscor; the city wasn’t quite right. Too much business flowing in, ironically. So the half-Giant went to the only other location he thought worked on multiple levels.

If Moore intended Liscor to be under his aegis, then Invrisil had been claimed by Magnolia Reinhart and her kin. Celum was, likewise, under the purview of Xitegen—he could almost see the Thigh Lord’s influence around it. Moore didn’t need to butt heads with Lord Xitegen yet. The same with Riverfarm. That [Emperor] was so…prickly in Lord Moore’s experience. And he’d broken up with Durene six years early. Definitely not.

So he went to the only other place that made sense.

Esthelm.

Not that the city was poor, mind you. Just not as prosperous as Liscor. Moore eyed the walls that had been reconstructed by the Antinium; they were actually more impressive than Liscor’s.

The waterproof solid walls of Liscor were impressive on an engineering level, but they didn’t have spikes. Nor cauldrons you could fill with boiling oil or three glittering enchantments that glowed at all hours.

More Wistram magic. Esthelm’s Watch appeared sharp too. Moore noted the clay streets had been paved over with good, quarried stone in most places, and there were a lot of [Miners] going to work.

A good number of Drakes and Gnolls too; probably visiting to buy said gemstones or to try to order from the forges he could hear in the distance. Pelt was transforming Esthelm into a real city of industry. A good ally to have!

However, the Dwarf couldn’t revitalize everything, and the city’s association with Liscor had actually led to downsides. Just as Moore predicted as he walked down Gemcutter Avenue, aptly named for its stores, he noted more than one shuttered business or empty storefront.

He nodded to himself, then stopped someone on the street.

“Excuse me, do you know who the best charm-expert in the city would be?”

The surprised woman hesitated, but then pointed.

“That’d be Miss Ediya. Bezoar Street. Right at the statue of the [Florist] in the main square. Although, uh—if you came for charms, you might as well try Pallass.”

She gave him a guilty look as she glanced around, aware she was throwing the local artisans under the wagon. The half-Giant just nodded.

“Miss Ediya will do excellently. Thank you, Miss.”

He strode off. The [Florist]’s statue?

Ah. Of course.

——

The problem with the magic door in Liscor was that it allowed other cities to send goods through the door or buyers enter Invrisil and Esthelm. The effect on prices had already been felt by Liscorians, but the reverse was also true.

Buying ore in Esthelm cheap was an excellent thing for [Smiths]! Riverfarm’s huge agricultural industry suppressed food prices, and there was a valuable network of trade goods enabled by the magical door and Liska. No wonder she was levelling.

However, lowering the price of food meant local [Farmers] earned a lot less. In the same way, other cities could ruin local industries. To wit: Pallass.

The City of Inventions had too much magical expertise. Too many goods flowed into it; Salazsar’s gemstone mines could fill most of Izril’s southern cities with gems, and many [Merchants] brought such gems north to sell at high fees.

What happened when that many gems and higher-level classes in Pallass met Esthelm, who had their own [Runecrafters], [Gemcutters], [Jewelers], and so on?

Shuttered businesses or prosperous owners now struggling to make a decent wage. In fact, when Lord Moore checked Miss Ediya’s shop, she wasn’t even in. A rather dispirited half-Elf sitting in a rocking chair outside his home told the half-Giant she might not be in today.

“Sorry, Mister. There’s little point to us opening our stores. Not this week.”

“Why this week? I’m Lord Mireden. And you are?”

The half-Elf shook Moore’s hand, then gestured at his store.

“Malack’s Mystiques. That’s me, Malack. Ediya used to sell her runes, and I’m a [Gemcutter]. I used to have an [Enchanter] charm everything up, and we’d compete for business. She does cooling charms for the summer and warming for the winter; mine are good for keeping mice out of flour, teeth from rotting, that sort of thing. Just hang them up over your bed or wherever. They work.”

“I take it that’s not the case any longer?”

The half-Elf sighed.

“Oh, no. They still work fine. But my [Enchanter]’s moved to Liscor. And there are so many gems from Salazsar, pre-cut, that I don’t have much work. I’d say there is still a need for our charms, even if we can’t match a Walled City or Invrisil, but…we were doing good business on Lundas. Then the [Witches] put on a festival.”

He pulled a face, and the half-Giant nodded.

“Ah. They sell charms?”

Malack’s face soured with envy as much as despair.

“The kind of stuff none of us can make! Crow’s teeth—I didn’t even know they had teeth—weird wickerworks to catch bad dreams. I went there, and you know what the first thing I saw was? A charm made out of a bunch of teeth—real teeth. Tree rot, that turned my stomach. I was telling the [Witch] no one would buy it when she told me it unrots your teeth. Each tooth takes on the rot somehow. So it wears out, but if you have a mouth of cavities…”

Moore saw the problem.

“Hard to compete?”

Malack jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“I bought all she had. Sold them all at twice the cost. Unfortunately, my customers got wise to that, and they just go to Riverfarm. We won’t see work for the week, Ediya and I. Makes me want to move back home.”

“You’re from Terandria? Not many half-Elves live in Izril.”

The [Gemcutter] shrugged.

“It’s fine enough. Better than home. I lived in Pheislant. One day, I got a bit too tired of all the little comments. Fathers thinking I was charming daughters. Mothers asking about my charms to give them long life, better looks. [Mages] asking me where all my half-Elven secret spells of the ancients were. I’m seventy. I feel seventy.”

He looked thirty, though time had weathered him a bit up. Moore chuckled.

“And the Drakes and Gnolls and Izrilian Humans are that much better?”

The half-Elf winked at him.

“Why, sure. I’m better than those Drakes and Gnolls with the Izrilian Humans, and better than those Humans and Gnolls with the Drakes. The Gnolls think I’m better than the Drakes and Humans, and I can’t be worse than Antinium! Myself, I like the Antinium the most. They can’t even tell I’m a half-Elf most of the time.”

They had a good laugh about that. Malack seemed quite happy to chat about Esthelm—he’d fled the Goblin Lord then came back to rebuild. He was all too happy to credit Pelt with the improvement in the city’s fortunes.

“The door ruining our business is bad luck. But I won’t say bad things about that [Innkeeper] for all she’s unpopular in other cities. Nor will Ediya. She stayed and survived the Goblin Lord’s attack. Hid out in her cellar with three families. Brave as can be. She helped us rebuild our walls, you know.”

“Hmm. I do have a proposal for Miss Ediya. I don’t need Pallass-made gems or charms, Malack. Can you help me find her? That might mean some work for you as well.”

The half-Elf raised his brows. He noted Lord Moore’s clothing, which showed no signs of the rain he’d been in; the water just slid off the enchanted cloth. The half-Elf got out of his rocking chair.

“I can do that. If she’s not out shopping, like as not she’ll be in the main square with the statue. We’ve been having more and more guests to the city defacing it.”

They headed down the street and came to the square in no time at all. When he saw the image of the [Florist] and the thirteen Goblins standing around her with weapons in hand, Lord Moore nodded. Then he focused on the splotches on the stone.

It seemed someone had decided to throw mud, or possibly feces, at the statue. Probably mud; you had to be prepared to throw poop. There was a little fountain behind the statue, and the half-Giant and half-Elf saw an old woman with brown skin tossing water up on the statue.

It wasn’t the most effective method, but she seemed hardly able to climb up and just scrub it herself. The half-Giant halted with approval on his face, if not for the besmirched statue, then the actions of the old woman.

What drew his attention was actually the second statue in the square. Because he’d rather forgotten it existed.

In ten year’s time, it was long-since destroyed, an act of vandalism by unnamed culprits, probably Vampires. But even in this world, the second statue facing the opposite direction just seemed…well, less important. Perhaps, and this was unfair but accurate, perhaps it was just that Ylawes Byres was less interesting.

The [Knight] had one of those quintessential heroic poses as he stood with shield in hand, facing towards the southern gates, and the statue to the Captain of the Silver Swords commemorated his team’s efforts in saving the city. It was a good likeness of him, bold chin and jaw, good-looking armor.

But it just wasn’t the same as that [Florist] pointing ahead, a bouquet of flowers in hand, flanked by Goblins. Both were of Esthelm’s heroes, but the [Knight] was expected, praiseworthy, even mundane. The Goblins and the [Florist] were the story that made you ask questions.

There was nothing in the Ylawes statue that Lord Moore needed, but he did nod to it once. It looked good enough; no one was throwing poo at this statue as of yet. Certainly, Malack just strode past it as he cupped his hands to his mouth, loath to get mud on his shoes from the street.

“Ediya! I have a customer for you!”

Malack called out, shaking his head as he eyed the statues. The grouchy woman shouted back.

“It’ll wait, Malack! Send them to Riverfarm or Pallass! This is the third time this week! The Watch should post a guard out!”

Trying to clean a statue commemorating Goblins would have been unthinkable in another city. But Esthelm? Moore closed his eyes a moment as he approached and nodded.

Yes, here too. He saw several passersby eying Ediya and the statue. Visitors were askance, but citizens of Esthelm were not. Some looked like they might have actually come over to help if they weren’t so busy.

The cursing woman was telling Malack to bring her a long broom when Lord Moore strode over. He raised his staff, and she pointed a warning finger at him.

“Don’t touch the statue with that. If you damage it—”

“[Mass Cleanse].”

The mud and grime vanished. So did the water and all detritus on the street in a thirty-foot radius. The fountain was left untouched, though the waters now had a clear sheen to them.

Malack leapt back, and Ediya halted, open-mouthed, as the statue gleamed in the sun. The half-Giant calmly lowered his staff and bowed to her.

“I apologize for wasting your effort, Miss Ediya. May I introduce myself? I am Lord Mireden Raithland, and I hoped I could speak to you and Malack about a business proposal.”

She was sharp and spirited. Only a moment passed before she began wading out of the fountain.

“Well, if it’s something you can’t enchant yourself, I doubt I can help. But I’ll hear you out for saving my back the effort and giving the [Florist] her due. You know her, do you? Or are you new to the city? Not many look at her without questions.”

Lord Moore glanced at the Goblins.

“I come from The Wandering Inn.”

“Ah.”

They asked no more questions after that. Well, about the statue. Ediya leapt to the ground, and Moore conjured some warm air, though the sunlight was fair enough. She raised her brows at him.

“How could we help you, Lord Mireden? You have more magic in that staff than I have in my entire body. Every [Crafter] on Bezoar Street combined couldn’t match your mana pool, I’ll wager.”

He smiled at her.

“I hope to meet them all. And if you will help me, I intend to put a proposal before all of you for new work. It will pay well. I can offer you an hour’s worth of coin to follow me and hear me out.”

Her brows rose. Ediya glanced at Malack, then lifted a finger.

“I don’t take coin to hear a man out. It might take a second to find them all, but Gemcutter Avenue has more of us. This had better not be like the Golden Triangle.”

“Not at all. It’s a quick walk to Liscor, a demonstration, and then back to Esthelm. I can cover the door fees.”

She folded her arms, then shrugged and nodded.

“Malack, you take Gemcutter’s, I’ll take Lord Mireden to Bezoar. We’ll be back in twenty minutes by the statue. I’ve been meaning to visit Liscor anyways. Ever since that City Runner, what was his name? Fals. Ever since he came by, my fortunes have gone up and down.”

The [Runecrafter] eyed him, not quite concealing the faint hope that he had brought a shift for the better. Lord Mireden just gazed at the statue.

“The fortune was here all along, Miss Ediya. I just hope to show it to you.”

After a second, she snorted.

“You had better not be a [Charlatan]. Or I will carve a [Rune of Itchy Feet] into your boots.”

He laughed at that.

——

When Liska saw Lord Moore returning for a third time in the same hour, with thirty artisans from Esthelm in tow, she had to protest.

“Oh come on. I know you’re a guest, but there’s limits to the door’s reserves! We’re at 36% today already! Some idiots just had to bring in a bunch of goods from Invrisil. Idiot [Merchant] complained when I charged him for it too. We’re not made of mana here! Okay, we have lots, but…”

Lord Moore turned and tapped the [Door of Portals] with a finger. Mana didn’t work like lightning; it didn’t arc from his fingers to the door. Rather, a nimbus of magic swirled around the door, almost like water moving in three-dimensional space.

A far more complex technique than any of the other [Mages] had ever seen; a regular artifact might just draw the mana from an unguarded source, like a gravitational pull of airborne particles. But the half-Giant seemed to create a cloud that infused the very air with force, then…melded into the floorboards, the wall, and the doorframe?

Some of the crafters following him from Esthelm gasped at the display of magical power. Miss Ediya just nodded to herself.

Liska halted mid-rant, mouth open. She croaked.

“Okay, we’re at 120%. I thought you couldn’t recharge…er, where do you want to go? Priority location change!”

“Liscor, please, Liska. Thank you.”

The half-Giant moved through the door and spoke in a carrying voice as the [Crafters] filed through behind him.

“My hope is that you’ll all sell the new type of charm I intend to teach you. There are those in Liscor who could do the same, and I hope, in time, they do want to learn. But I would prefer you to have the first chance.”

Malack glanced at some of the other men and women, mostly in their advanced years, who were following him. Ediya spoke in a carrying voice.

“For a cut of our profits? If it sells well, you can be sure we’ll do it, but how much of a cut will determine whether or not we’re working ourselves for nothing, Lord Mireden.”

He lifted a hand.

“A small cut, perhaps, for the teaching. But I would rather take my investment in the form of charms. I may need…quite a lot. I intend to be your best customer.”

That provoked skepticism, as well it might. Malack frowned as he shivered under the rain. Then he glanced up as a barrier spell bloomed overhead like a huge flower, shielding them. He nudged Ediya silently and then spoke.

“I don’t need to tell you this, but most charms conflict like artifacts, Lord Mireden. They don’t explode—mostly—but if you put too many together, they’d just…tangle. Nor are ours the sort that can last more than a few months. Ediya could do half a year, maybe? No more.”

They were all peering at him. Ediya nodded.

“I could do years if I worked my best, but charms are a trinket at best. Even a Gold-rank adventurer would only carry two if they had the magical capacity.”

“Not these ones.”

Lord Moore was remembering an archway hung with hundreds, thousands of bells. He lifted his hand, and the vision was replaced by grey skies. He turned to the others.

“These ones only grow in conjunction with each other. And they can last forever, even if made by a Level 10 [Artisan]. The making might take six times, ten times as long as a regular charm. But the cost is low in raw material, usually. It’s time and other factors that determine the difficulty and complexity.”

“You’re selling us an idea made out of Dreamleaf smoke, Lord Mireden. No such charm exists…that I know of. Are you from Wistram’s Terras faction?”

Ediya shot back, and everyone gazed at him hopefully. Once more, Lord Moore grinned.

“No. I’m from The Wandering Inn.”

A few of the crafters trailing behind glanced at each other, then picked up the pace. And some of Liscor’s citizens who had that nose for these moments, like Miss Ambiese who had just come out of The Wandering Inn, followed.

——

He took them to the only place that mattered. He could have never left Esthelm, of course, but this was his selfishness.

Lord Moore halted at his destination. The north gate of Liscor was closed, obviously. It was reinforced by a glowing barrier spell, and the door had been caulked up with mud and braced—beyond it lay the floodwaters of the filled plains, so of course it was inspected daily and people were kept well clear of it.

However, he didn’t need to get close. The small crowd of people gazed at the place he had brought them. The artisans were in fact a group within a group, for again, he had summoned a crowd just by his nature and walk.

Well, that and the floating umbrella spell that sheltered everyone from the rain. It followed the group as they moved, and Liscorians, especially those with magical backgrounds, were drawn to it.

They were used to parasols, and yes, some umbrellas, but this one looked…different. And movable magical barriers? The Archmage of Izril and her apprentice didn’t do that; even when Valeterisa shielded Relc from the rains, it was static barriers.

Yet the place that the half-Giant had taken them to hardly seemed impressive. The object by the gates was mundane, even. Nonmagical.

It was an altar on the side of the street, on the sidewalk in a gap between buildings. A simple structure, the kind that you found in the wilds, by a crossroads, or in places like this.

They were spontaneous; someone had nailed together a simple frame, and Lord Moore was surprised by how much they resembled the altars he knew.

But he supposed it was a kind of universal thing. Beneath the rain pattering off the sides of the slate roof shingles, he saw fresh flowers, some old. A colorful stone, a letter stamped and sealed. No coins; someone would just take them out when no one was watching.

Beneath the altar had been more flowers. When he’d first appeared here, he’d seen a profusion, battered by the rain, scattering petals onto the ground and being swept into the sewers. That there were still fresh tokens…

He stood there for a while until an older man, shivering despite the umbrella spell, spoke in a querulous voice.

“Ah, I, ah, I don’t understand why we’re here, Lord Raithland.”

Moore turned his head, the trance broken. He swung around and saw the familiar outline of Watch Captain Beilmark among the watchers. People staring up at him.

Now, the half-Giant stopped whispering. He spoke at his normal volume, and a street away, heads turned. His voice was no great shout, no roar for attention. He spoke, and they listened, like the very earth had once heeded the voice of Giants.

“This is where my nephew, Moore of the Halfseekers of Izril, died. Spellslinger Ulinde—this is the last place the Gold-rank team fought. They died to stop a Hag Queen from breaching the gates, and countless Draugr.”

His words provoked a silence from Esthelm’s people, who might not have known what this place meant. A few of them made arcane gestures; Ediya touched her lips, then drew a four-pointed symbol on her heart. The half-Giant looked around, then back at the gates.

I do not know what he faced. But he stopped whatever it was. He felt his skin chilling, though water didn’t touch it. His grip tightened on his staff.

“Do you feel it?”

Then he swung around to Malack and Ediya, and the crafters regarded each other. A few cast spells or muttered Skills. Then they shook their heads.

“What are we supposed to feel, Lord Mireden…?”

The half-Giant ignored Malack’s query. He spun, and then, faster now, he strode down the street. Faster—they parted before him, and his staff struck the ground.

Thum.

Below him, Antinium in their Hive glanced up, curious about the strange sound coming from above. Their antennae waved as they heard it again.

Thum.

Could she hear it in her prison? The Mother? It was like the sound of a heart beating through Liscor.

When the half-Giant halted again, he seemed even taller. A group of schoolchildren peeked through the windows of their classrooms. [Builders] repairing an apartment in the northern section of the city turned, hammers in hand, nails clenched between their teeth.

Another altar, two hundred paces down the street. This one—different. It was larger, and he didn’t begrudge her that. There were flowers, yes, but not as many.

Instead, there were…objects laid against the altar in the rain. Placed beneath it, like offerings to some strange god of battles. And Mireden knew the divine.

Tekshia Shivertail’s altar had spears laid before it. Practice spears, those hand-carved out of wood. Weapons used to kill monsters—a [Soldier]’s weapon of war. Senior Guardsman Relc had left the first one for Liscor’s [Spearmistress], and they were still here.

Beside this altar was a second one—and it had no weapons in the smaller shrine. Just…hats.

Worn hats, placed here before they were discarded. Some had holes in them or were frayed to the point where the cloth was almost transparent. That was how you know they’d been loved and served their purpose. Hats for gentlemen; spears for the Guildmistress of Liscor.

Moore spoke.

“Look. Here is where Tekshia Shivertail died. She and five Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings halted the Draugr who broke through the gates. Right here.”

If not exactly this street, then this place was where it had happened, and that was what mattered. This marker. This moment.

The half-Giant took a step into the center of the street, where the cobblestones were newly patched, but he could still see cracks around the place they had been repaired. He had noticed people walking around this spot.

Lord Mireden bent to one knee and touched the spot.

“This is where a Gold-rank adventurer died.”

His eyes stung. And he had not known her that well. But he remembered the grumpy old Drake who knew their job. When his eyes rose, they glowed. He planted the staff down, hard, and the streets shivered.

“A hundred thousand Draugr crashed down on Liscor, and they were halted. Outside these gates, Face-Eater Moths died. If I walked from here to the Bloodfields, I could show you that place where dozens of Silver-rank adventurers fell fighting the blight from Rhir. Then they downed an Adult Creler. Hell’s Wardens were made in blood there. And there—”

He pointed eastwards.

“Those gates are where Skinner once broke through. Where he was stopped by the Black Tide. He died on the Floodplains of Liscor, where the Goblin Lord Reiss met his end. All of this, and more, I know. You know. Do you sense it?”

Lord Moore turned to the man who had asked, and the [Enchanter] shook his head.

“I can’t detect anything. Lord Mireden—”

The half-Giant’s voice rose to a shout now.

“How can you not feel it?”

The old [Enchanter] flinched. Lord Moore swept his gaze around, seeking understanding in anyone’s faces. He felt it. It was the chill on his skin, the stinging in his eyes. The pain of his heart. The tingling of fate as it touched his shoulder and pointed.

Miss Ediya spoke.

“I feel it. But that isn’t magic, Lord Mireden.”

There were goosebumps on her arms. She gazed at the altars like she had the [Florist]’s statue. She understood part of it. The half-Giant spread his arms.

“Did I say I was taking you to find mere magic? You feel it. All of you do. You just think that is all there is to it. This spot means something.”

He pointed down at the ground. Who would dare deny it? The half-Giant whispered.

“If I dared to tear down this altar, I would be fought. It would be rebuilt. If I spat on this ground, of all the many streets in Liscor, someone would speak out. Why? If it is nothing but bare earth and stone, why is that true?”

No one replied. So, the half-Giant walked over and gently lifted a spear from the altar. It was almost a profane act, but he held it so gently and turned to them.

“Is this an ordinary spear? No. If I were to place a spear here and ask for courage before a battle I knew I might never win—is it the same spear I could buy in any shop? No. Is that statue in Esthelm’s heart made of mere stone and history?”

“No.”

The [Runecrafter] wasn’t the only person to say it. Malack was gazing down at the flagstones.

“I’d rather set fire to my shop than pry up a cobblestone or steal these spears to carve up and sell as trinkets, Lord Mireden.”

“I would too.”

The half-Giant gently put the spear back where it belonged. Then he produced something from his pockets. He hung it in the air as they all looked at it.

It was made by his own hands, but he was no great crafter. He had just enough talent with magic and his fingers to take a piece of wood he had carved from a tree in the [Garden of Sanctuary] and a piece of metal he’d shaped into a point.

“This sliver of wood I took from the oldest tree I could find in the [Garden of Sanctuary] where her statue rests. I burnt the wood with the flame of glory in the Order of Solstice’s keep. The metal I took from a spear that had been used until it broke. I would never dare to steal anything or profane her will. But I knew Tekshia Shivertail. And I hope that if she were here, she would grant anyone worthy the thing she had too much of.”

He clapped his hands together in an act none of them, save for a watching Antinium Worker, knew.

Prayer.

Lord Mireden closed his eyes and thought of Tekshia. The wind blew faintly on his skin as it chilled, and he saw the Drake raising her spear.

“A bit of courage.”

When he opened his eyes, he could see it. Faintly, ever-so-faintly, for he was no [Priest], nor had he been a true believer of the Prophet Pawn. But sometimes, in this world, you could see it with your own eyes.

Malack gasped as he pointed, and they saw the faintest glow touching the edge of the little spear-charm. Like light glancing off the edge of it, but the skies were rainy and dark. The half-Giant reached up, but he didn’t take the charm.

“It should hang here long. And there are more ways to respectfully harness the meaning here.”

“What is…what is this called?”

Ediya spoke, dry-mouthed, and the half-Giant turned to her.

“It is like faith, but the [Witches] know it too. I simply call it meaning. Sites of power. Liscor has so many. But [Witches] cannot harness this; it is not their city.”

“Nor is it ours.”

The [Runecrafter] pointed out, and the [Lord] smiled.

“Yours and Liscor are connected. But more importantly—you are not [Witches]. Their craft does have rules, Miss Ediya. And if all that failed, you have at least one place in your city.”

The statue was overflowing with the very same meaning. The [Runecrafter]’s eyes widened, and she nodded. Lord Moore reached out and then spoke.

“…In time it might become too easy to make them. Yet I would love a city filled with such charms as the world has never seen. The belief in them will make them stronger. But the greatest ones will always be made by those who know the reason why they matter. They will only shine in the hands of those who take the time to listen. If I teach you, that is what I desire. One for every ten you make.”

They had such small value at first, until you added them up and they became an avalanche that could sweep aside mountains. Like the smallfolk.

The half-Giant swept his cloak around him as he began to walk back. To Esthelm, to show them how it was done in their city where it would be easiest.

He knew they were listening. Cityfolk and the Watch, murmuring. Disbelieving or, perhaps, believing and wanting to learn what he knew.

Let them try. There were rules they didn’t understand. Faith was one of them. The Lord of Liscor advanced. And the first thing he brought to Liscor, how they knew him? He came as a [Shopkeeper] with something new to sell. Lord Raithland was well aware of how Liscor stole everything new.

Try to steal this.

He sat at a silly little stall later that day, as Miss Ediya and the other crafters of Esthelm rushed to work, and sold exactly three charms.

The first one was to a little Gnoll girl who spent all her allowance on a tiny spear. Her mother paid for it as Tirra listened on how she should use it and care for it.

The next was a Human man, Nule, who bought a blooming flower that a certain half-Giant had always loved with orange flowers and a yellow heart, carved and painted and hanging from a chain of soft ashwood.

The last was a Drake, Miss Ambiese, who stared for a long time at the little frying pan made of cast iron. She took it in trembling claws.

“Does it bring good luck or bad? Sorry. I know most charms don’t work like that. But this?”

She peered at him, and the half-Giant smiled as a line a hundred people long stared at him and he closed his shop. He stood like the mountains.

“Yes,” he told her. Then his eyes twinkled, and the city whispered his name. He began walking again, towards a vision of the future only he knew, taking them on a path away from the worst.

Once more on a strange and wonderful journey.

Author’s Note:

I swear this was under 10,000 words when I wrote it on stream. Edits added a tiny bit more. And this Author’s Note!

This is an example of a short chapter I’d like to be able to write at will. Simple premise, delivers a few other elements of foreshadowing but gets the job done.

It’s hard.

Mostly it’s hard because there’s so much going on I always interweave things and I just like talking about stuff. My brain can get side-tracked and then we’re discussing the Nomads of the Sky or I think I need a perspective about, I dunno, how Goblins are treated in Esthelm and suddenly it’s 20,000 words and I’m adding up levels for Asgra.

But this worked. And it is Lord Moore’s first chapter, and he’s not the same, is he? In the [Palace of Fates] outlines, I didn’t know who was coming back. Kevin, I knew. But in the course of the story, characters change. Much like how Numbtongue was supposed to be Pyrite…it would have changed the story.

Mireden Raithland fits. I think he does, and the original story of The Wandering Inn with the Mother of Graves is his world, in a way. Strange how things turn out. Just like how Ryoka Griffin was a story idea I had before The Wandering Inn.

Have I mentioned that? Ryoka Griffin predates Erin Solstice. She was in a never-written story. A Courier in a strange crossroads-world where she met a sleepy Dragon, two odd [Guards], and a surly Drake Prince (Ilvriss, sort of; it’s not one-to-one in every case) and a reclusive [Necromancer].

I never wrote a word of it. Just thought it up. And when the story was written, it turned out the inn was what mattered most. And there needed to be an [Innkeeper]…

You take stories and retell them or tell them in ways where they fit. I’ll write it all up sometime, but for now, Lord Moore has arrived. And we are still going—I’m on Pt. 9 so far, and I think I’ll be writing until I collapse for my weekly break. I’ve been writing hard and higher-quality after Iceland and sickness, and I hope you agree. But I always need more rest. Also time to play Silksong. Hope you’re enjoying it so far! Imagine how much I’d write if that game wasn’t there and I really wanted to play it.

(The same amount probably, I’m pushing it, but enjoy it.)

See you next chapter!

—pirateaba

Rabbiteater by Batcastle, commissioned by Owlchemist!