The Bardic Tale of A Half-Elf

A down-on-his-luck bard searching for his next job is presented with an interesting opportunity. A quest to assist a mute stranger in taking back her home from the clutches of an evil count.

Chapter One: The Personal Ad

I walk down the dark, cobbled street of the town of Poulder, looking for a cheap place to stay. Passing by a local quest board, an advertisement catches my eye. Normally, these boards are purely for adventurers, seeking fame, fortune, power, what have you. But on this specific night, for whatever reason, I decide to take a gander at the Board of Fools, as I like to call it. This is what I read:

BARD WANTED:

Bard with some level of magical abilities wanted

Please inquire at Iron Fist Tavern

147 Portobello Street

Cash reward available

“Huh…” I think to myself as I read. Seems like an easy way to earn some dough. Considering that most taverns already have staple performers, work has been pretty slow for a roamer such as myself. Plus, I might be able to negotiate free room and board with my natural charisma. So, I grab my bags up off the ground and make for Portobello Street.

Walking alone in the dead of night would be dangerous for a normal person, being just as likely to be ripped apart by some manner of beast as you are to be mugged and killed by some thug, if not worse. I’m an exception, though, having studied more than just the art of music and performance. I have also studied the ways of combat, magic, and the blade. I may be a scrawny half-elf, but I have years more experience in all manners of butt-kicking than some punk with a dagger.

As I approach the address listed on the ad, I can hear shouting and laughter coming from a large townhouse down the road. Sure enough, a rusted metal sign in the shape of a metal gauntlet tells me I’m at the right spot. I walk in, head to the bar, and flag down the bartender.

“What can I do ya for, stranger?” The grizzled man welcomes me, polishing a glass with absentminded practice. He seems like a kind fellow. He’s a strapping, middle-aged man - definitely not the kind of guy you want to piss off, but he looks friendly enough. His rugged appearance is complemented by an orange, scruffy beard and a scar over his left eye, likely a leftover from the recent skirmishes against orcs I’ve heard happened near here. Overall, he doesn’t seem like a terrible boss.

“I heard there was an opening for a bard here, and I figured my services could be of use!” I say, as upbeat as possible. First impressions are everything in this business, even if you’re currently running on two hours of sleep. “I can play several instruments, including the fiddle, drums, and ocarina, and I have a good amount of magical power. I can show you what I’ve got if you like.”

He looks at me, perplexed, for a moment. Then, as if someone shot a pebble at the back of his head, he realizes what I’m apparently here for.

“OH! That ad wasn’t placed by me, sorry. Yer lookin’ fer a lass named Atraxa.”

“Atraxa?”

“Yeah! Ye’ll find her over at that there table.” He points at a table in the corner with a single hooded figure sitting without a drink. “She ain't the talkative type, but she’s a kind soul.”

“Alright. Thanks, sir.”

He shakes his head disapprovingly.

“Call me Darekson. No need for formalities here, lad.”

I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed. Stable employment has always been difficult for me, by no fault of my own, mind you. If being a bard were an easy and reliable source of income, then nobody would do the important jobs. Granted, being an adventurer isn’t reliable either, but tons of people march on to their deaths, whether by the hands of a monster or more likely from starvation on the streets due to a lack of proper money management skills. That's why I call it the Board of Fools.

Well, cash is cash, and I’m running low on dough. I really have no choice but to do whatever this Atraxa girl wants. I start walking over to her table, and my brain automatically starts trying to figure out her deal. It’s not a matter of me being rude or weird; it's a matter of me ensuring my safety. I’ve had to take my fair share of quests, and trust me, the last thing you want is to accidentally sign up for a heist on a charity house (speaking from experience).

It’s hard to tell her appearance from under her cloak, which could be a red flag. Hiding your defining features is an important part of being a thief. Harder for authorities to identify you, y’know? I glance at her satchel. A basic traveler's bag, not really the norm for a criminal, even a rookie one. She’s probably keeping a low profile to avoid being harassed by other bargoers. Fair enough, most of your usual tavern drunkards can get a little handsy, even with guys like me. I decide that it’s worth the gold. If they’re planning on tricking me, they have no idea who they’re dealing with.

“This seat taken?” I ask politely, trying not to sound like a tool. She looks up, revealing her face. She squints at me, carefully considering my vibe, as it were. See? I told you it’s not weird. Probably should mention the ad. “I heard that someone here needed a bard, and the tavernkeep pointed me in your direction. You’re Atraxa, right?”

She eyes me again, then gestures for me to sit across from her at the small, candle-lit table in the corner. Darekson wasn’t kidding when he said she wasn’t one for conversation. We sit for a moment in silence, waiting for the other to start. Realizing I hadn’t given a name to my (hopefully) new employer, I introduced myself.

“My name is Esper Pyrefoot. I studied both the magical and performing arts at the Westmanshire College of Bardship. I’m good with a sword and even better with cantrips. What can I do for you?”

Seemingly unimpressed with my showmanship, she hands me a pre-written card. On it were more details on the request I saw whilst wandering the solemn, dimly lit streets of the quiet village:

I require a bard with some level of magical abilities to assist in

the rescue of my family from a despicable count who has

taken control of my homeland. You will be rewarded with

a portion of any gold taken from his hoard of stolen wealth.

Interesting. I’ve heard similar stories before from bad actors, so I press this ‘Atraxa’ for more details. Those are where the devil lives, after all.

“Where is your homeland, exactly?” I ask, trying to sound innocently curious. “Who’s this ‘evil count’ who stole away your family?”

Obviously prepared for these kinds of questions, she pulls out another two cards from her tunic pocket:

The count’s name is Count Harolditch. He purchased

our village from our mayor with the threat that

refusal would lead to “a bloody mess for all involved”.

My family, consisting of my brother and father, were taken

prisoner for holding secret meetings on how to legally

fight back. The count is holding them in a private prison

under his mansion.

Okay, that explains a bit more. I did hear from a fellow bard a couple of years ago that one of the taverns he frequently performed in got shut down by some bigwig count who recently purchased the village, so I know things like that definitely happen, but I’m uncertain on the whole ‘human imprisonment’ thing. Of course, there are evil people in power out there, and private prisons are nothing new to dictators, but you can forgive me for my suspicion when the person relaying this information isn’t actually talking. In my experience dealing with bad actors trying to trick me into a heist, the best way to tell if they’re lying to you is to listen to their speech patterns. Everybody has a tell, even me. Some can hide it better than others with training, but it’ll still be there for sleuths to pick up on. I decide to press her on it.

“Why don’t you tell me this stuff instead of handing me a card? It would make our conversation a lot more fluid. Besides, it’s gonna be hard to work with you if you have to write out everything you want to tell me.” She scowls at me, like I just personally insulted her. Why? I may have been a little forward with my preference to have her speak to me, but surely she understands that she can’t pass me a note to read mid-combat. I can understand being shy and introverted. I was, too, when I was a kid, but not to the point of being non-verbal. She obviously sees my perplexed face, because she reaches into her tunic pocket and hands me another card.

As I read it, I feel a pit immediately develop in my stomach. Now it makes sense why she scowled at me, because it was a personal attack, albeit unintentional. The realization that I am, in fact, the very fool I ridicule for taking quests and making assumptions about people hits me like a cartload of bricks. She’s not mute by choice:

Count Harolditch cut out my tongue.

Chapter Two: The Foolish Fool

Man, am I an idiot or what? Of course there was a reason she wasn’t talking. In my defense, though, that Darekson guy could’ve been more specific when he said ‘she’s not that talkative’. Why not say, “Oh yeah, she can’t talk, so don’t ask or else you’ll seem like a total jerk.” Alright, time to do some damage control. Maybe I can save myself from being thought of as an insensitive tool.

“Oh man, I’m so sorry!” I say earnestly. “I had no idea. I thought you were just shy like I used to be.” She’s still scowling at me. Shoot. Well, now I kinda have to help. I sigh. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made assumptions about you. I’ve worked for people in the past who took advantage of my being trusting, so I learned to be suspicious of people who offer me jobs like this, especially when it involves taking money. I can see now that you clearly aren’t trying to trick me. I understand if you don’t want to work with me after that, but I do want to help.”

I stand up, turning to leave, when suddenly Atraxa stands up. I turn back and look at her. She’s staring at me with teal eyes, eyes practically begging me to stay. It may be hard for me to trust new people, but I can tell she wants my help. It’s in her eyes. She might not be able to talk, but she can definitely communicate.

As we both sit back down, she lets out a sigh of relief. We sit silently for another moment before I pipe up again.

“How long has it been since he cut it out?” I ask, trying to know more about her situation. She holds up one finger with one hand, making a so-so gesture with the other. “About a year?” She nods. “Have you found anyone else to help you?” She shakes her head. Alright then, it’s settled. “We’ll leave tomorrow at dawn, be ready and well rested.” Atraxa looks up at me as I stand, those piercing teal eyes now filled with a mixture of confusion and hope. She nods affirmatively, signaling that she’s okay with the moronic bard helping free her village from tyranny.

I walk over to the bar, back to Darekson. I can’t be mad at him. Even if he could have been more specific, he was being gentle about a serious issue Atraxa had. He had her best interest in mind, and that’s what matters. He notices that I’m back and strides toward me.

“How’d it go, lad? Is she interested in yer help?” I nod, making an ‘mhm’ noise. “Well, in that case, I’m guessin’ ye’ll be wantin’ a room fer the night?”

“Yeah, how much for a room?” As I said earlier, I’m a bit strapped for cash at the moment, and even a cheap room would likely set me back a couple dozen silver.

“Fer a friend of Atraxa? Long as it’s just one night, I’ll give ya a room fer free.” I can’t believe my luck! I thank him as he hands me my room key, which is engraved with a 107. Darekson points me up the stairs and wishes me a hearty “G’night, lad!” Walking up the stairs, down the hall, and into my room, I hear a myriad of noises. The loud talking and clattering from downstairs, while quieted by the floorboards, was still quite loud. As I flop onto the creaky, hard bed, I hear more creaking sounds in the next room over. I roll my eyes, reach over to the bedside table, and snuff out my candle. Covering my ears with my pillow, I close my eyes and try to fall asleep. Besides, I likely have a long day tomorrow.

I sleep for what feels like only five minutes before being woken up by a knock. I groggily open my eyes, looking out the window. It’s still dark out, and it's definitely nowhere close to dawn. I rub my eyes, get out of bed, and walk over to my door. Despite the darkness, I can clearly see the note that’s been slid under my door. That’s thanks to being part elf. Even with that, though, I still need light to read. So, I sit back down on my bed and light my candle with a snap.

It might seem like I’m showing off for no one, but that’s genuinely how I learned to spark my fire magic. The friction from the snap allows me to create enough heat to start fueling the flame using magic. I’ve done it so much, it’s like second nature. I’m sure there are more elegant ways of using magic, but unless I need to change for whatever reason, I won’t.

With the light, I can read the notecard. On it, it says:

Thank you for agreeing to help me. You’re the

first one who’s offered to help in the 5 months

that sign has been up.

Oh yeah, that reminds me. I never asked Atraxa why she wanted a bard specifically. It seems like an odd request, considering most bards aren’t too useful in combat. The only reason I am is that I’ve always had an interest in swordsmanship. If it were for the purpose of having a magic user, there are many better options for magic users out there. Wizards specialize in damage, clerics in healing and defensive support, and druids in transfiguration and info gathering. Bards are jacks-of-all-trades. We are knowers of much, masters of none. We all have some form of offensive, defensive, and support magic, but they’re all comparatively weaker than magic from someone with a specialty in one. That’s another reason work has been hard to come by. You would always take one of the other magic users for their more potent magic, rather than some idiot with a lute who can do everything, but not as well.

I make a mental note to ask her about it tomorrow while we travel. Now that I think about it, I wonder if she knows any forms of sign language. My mother taught me a fair bit of ESL (Elven Sign Language) so I could understand and help out my deaf elderly elven neighbor. That was before I got kicked out of the village. That’s besides the point, though. If I could teach her, it might make communication easier. I’ll try to remember that too.

With that taken care of, I tuck the card into my tunic, snuff out my candle, and try to fall asleep yet again. At least the people in the room next to me have finally stopped whatever it was they were doing. It’s still quite loud downstairs, though.

Chapter Three: First Job In Months

I’m woken up with yet another knock at my door. Luckily, this time, it’s dawn. I slip on my boots and open the door. Darekson is there to greet me good morning.

“Mornin’, lad! How’d ya sleep?”

“Good, thanks.”

“I’ve got a hearty breakfast cookin’ up downstairs for you and Atraxa. Y’know, before ye start yer trek?” I’m still a little tired, so I probably look confused. I’m not sure how much he knows about Atraxa’s whole deal, but he seems to know where we’re off to.

“Thanks, Darekson.” I start out the door and follow him down to the bar. Sure enough, Atraxa is sitting there, chowing down on enough eggs and bacon to give your average dwarf a heart attack. Never would have pegged her for a foodie, but then again, I did think she was mute by choice, so it’s probably best if I stop trying to figure her out without actually talking to her.

Darekson sets down an equally large plate next to where Atraxa is sitting, obviously meant for me. I sit and begin stuffing my face myself. This is the first hot meal I’ve had for a while, so it’s nice to actually sit and enjoy it. Atraxa’s already finished eating by the time I finish my bacon.

“I didn’t know how ye liked yer eggs, lad, so I just scrambled ‘em,” Darekson says with a nervous chuckle.

“They taste great!” I tell him, reassuringly. They really are. Better than any of my attempts to make an elven loaf. I measure out all the ingredients correctly, with no substitutions, but it always comes out burnt and tasting like charcoal. My mom always said there was a secret to it, but she never managed to tell me before she-

I feel a nudge on my shoulder. Atraxa’s glancing from me to my eggs. “No, I’m gonna finish them,” I tell her. She shrugs and stands to grab her things. I quickly wolf down the rest of my food and follow suit. I do some quick stretches to limber up for all the walking I expect to do that day and grab my satchel and scabbard. I thank Darekson for his generosity and follow Atraxa out the door of the Iron Fist.

It’s only now in the morning sun that I get a good look at my employer. She has dark, almost black hair done in a low braid, with tan skin and piercing aquamarine eyes. Her build was average, yet still obviously muscular.

I follow her down the road as she strides towards the stables. The hanging sign dangling from a pair of chains above the door has a stylized image of a horse engraved into it. The paint is a little worn, but it adds to the charm. As we enter, the clerk working the counter perks her head up.

“Oh, Atraxa! Good to see you!” the clerk smiles and waves to her. Atraxa waves back, smiling gently. “Who’s that behind you?” she says, glancing at me.

“I’m Esper, pleasure to meet you,” I say, unable to match her level of enthusiasm at the moment. It’s not that I’m not able to be enthusiastic; it’s just that I’m preparing for the likely boring trip ahead. Given that Atraxa went straight to the stable, though, I suspect she’s got a way to speed up our travel.

“Well then, I’m guessing you’re calling in that favor, ay, Atraxa?” She nods in agreement. “Alrighty then, let me get you a couple of horses.” The clerk went back behind the counter and retrieved two tags. She then led us out to the side, where the actual horses were kept. She unleashed two of them and handed us the reins. “As I told you before, I can only cover you taking these for a week tops. If you don’t get them back by then, I’ll be in it deep, so get where you need to go and head back as fast as possible, okay?” Atraxa nods again, straps her satchel to the horse she was handed, and saddles up. I do the same, and we wave goodbye as we ride east, into the rising twin suns.

As we ride, the paved, cobblestone road changes to dirt, then eventually to no path at all. By late morning, we’re galloping through a prairie full of wildflowers of every color imaginable. Atraxa seems to know where she’s going, though, so I follow behind without question. Then, I remember the questions I still had for her.

“Hey, Atraxa!” I call out, instructing my horse to increase its gait as I do. “I had a question for you.” She turns to look at me, keeping her horse galloping straight ahead at a consistent speed. “Do you know ESL?”

She shakes her head no.

“Well, if you wanted, I could gladly teach you. I happen to keep a book on it that I’d be willing to lend you to help you learn.” She looks at me quizzically, as if to ask, ‘You would do that for me?’ I smile kindly, hoping to signal I’m being sincere. She smiles back and nods to me.

“In that case, when we stop to eat, I’ll teach you some basic phrases to get you started.” She flashes a grin and gives me a thumbs-up. Sounds like our first lesson is a go.

We ride for about an hour and a half before stopping for a break. I spot a nearby hill that seems like a good place to rest. It’s no more than a couple of yards tall, with a single tree on top. I point it out to Atraxa, and she nods in agreement. A minute later, and we’re tying up our horses and grabbing our rations from our bags.

Chapter Four: A Lunchtime Lesson

We both sit under the tree, scarfing down whatever we nabbed from our satchels. Atraxa begins devouring a strip of cured meat, whilst I begin to chew through one of my many charred attempts at an elven loaf. If I knew the secret to perfectly baking one, I’d be set on travel food forever. A single loaf of good elven bread can feed ten full-grown men and satisfy their stomachs for half a day. My burnt failure of an attempt is slightly filling, but tastes awful and has the texture of a furnace log. Food is food, though, and if it stops me from starving, I’ll take it.

I glance back over at Atraxa as I’m crunching my way through a slice of my homemade charcoal. She’s already finished her jerky and is happily chewing on a bag of nuts. I power through and finish my slice, then reach for the lone apple I have left in my bag. As I grab it, though, I realize it’s long gone bad. I pull it out, and sure enough, it’s squishier than a baby slime’s cheek. I toss the sorry excuse for fruit behind me. No need to suffer through more terrible food if I don’t have to.

My stomach rumbles slightly. My ‘bread’ may technically be filling, but only in terms of nutrients. It has the caloric capacity of a single mint leaf, which is why I had the apple. I look around, trying to see if there’s anything I could forage. With about ten years of experience being a road-traveling, ocarina-playing, no-money-having bard (as well as growing up with elves), I know which plants are safest to consume. My eyes wander and eventually land upon a wildberry bush. Bingo! I stand up and make my way over, leaving Atraxa to her nuts.

The bush is at the bottom of the hill, due north (hard to tell, with it being high noon, but…). I waltz down towards it, taking care not to trip over a stray rock. You only make that mistake once, especially when the people you were traveling with at the time wouldn’t let it go for all the money in the world (one of them gave me the nickname ‘Stumblefoot’, and I’ve never been that embarrassed since).

Reaching the bush, I take careful note of the color. Wildberries come in two species: red and blue. Here’s a helpful saying when it comes to wildberries: “If they’re red, you’re dead. If they’re blue, you feel brand new!” Helpful to know if you don’t feel like dying a slow, uncomfortable death. Luckily, these ones are blue, so I grab a bushel and tug.

Suddenly, I hear a shriek. It’s at that moment I remember the most important part about wildberries, a fact my mother drilled into my head for years: “The color is important, yes, but don’t forget to count the leaves! If they have five points, you’re fine, but eight points, and you’re gonna wish you weren’t hungry.” Maybe if she came up with a catchy rhyme for it, I wouldn’t have ended up pissing off a very hungry Octobushel.

For those unaware, Octobushels are predatory cephalopod creatures that dwell on land in fields and meadows. They lure in prey like jackalopes, small birds, and the like with their foliage-like crests. Masters of camouflage, they can change color to match almost any shade of grass. I’ve never seen one in person before, only illustrations in beastiaries, and let me tell you. No drawing ever printed could prepare you for the terror you feel when a tentacle wraps around your ankle and yanks you to the ground. After the shock of landing back-first on the ground wore off, I opened my eyes to see the most disgusting thing I had ever witnessed up to that point in my life.

Now, when I say something like that, you might think, ‘Wow, this dude’s a massive p***y. There’s no way the mouth of an Octobushel is that gross, right?’ Well, as someone who had to play live music for an Arachnoid party (those things get wild, man. I’m talkin’ spiders crawling all the way in, if you know what I mean), I can say with confidence that this was the most harrowing image I’ve ever seen. Since their mouths are on the bottom of their bodies, they often have clumps of dirt stuck in their razor-sharp teeth and gums. What’s worse is that this one clearly had a successful catch earlier today, considering there was a mutilated head of a small rat on one of its fangs. Then, there was the smell. Imagine a bucket of rotten fish and manure, put it in an outhouse, and leave it there for three months in the summer. That’s about a tenth of how bad it smells. If I weren’t already fighting for my life, I would be gagging more than a pure elf trying dwarven cuisine.

Luckily, Atraxa heard the Octobushel’s screech and ran to save me. I watched as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small stick. Upon exiting her pocket, it suddenly expanded out, snapping to the shape of a longbow. She grabbed an arrow, presumably from a hidden quiver, and knocked it. Mind you, she did all of this in less than a second, as if it were instinct. A millisecond later, I hear the whistle of the arrow fly, then the pained cry of the monster currently trying to eat me. It writhed in pain, releasing my ankle in the process. I scamper backwards, getting to my feet as fast as possible.

Now that I’m standing, I see that Atraxa is a great shot. From about 30 yards away, she sniped the thing clear in the eye. I catch my breath as the Octobushel wraps two tentacles around the shaft currently penetrating its injured socket. Now’s my chance! I give a snap of my fingers, launching a fireball toward the wiggling plant-like cephalopod. In an instant, it’s engulfed in flames, screeching and crying out in terrible pain until it goes limp. Its skin, blackened by my magic, slowly dissolves before the creature, as a whole, disappears in a puff of black smoke.

I turn around and walk back up the hill, flopping down next to the oak we had tied our horses to. Atraxa follows, sitting on her knees to look at me. I’m not hurt, only mentally scarred from the whole ‘nearly being eaten alive by a berry-shaped squid’ thing that just happened.

“I’m fine,” I tell her, reassuringly. She nods, seeing no obvious injuries. Having made sure I was okay, she shifts to sit with her legs to the side. I sit up, reaching into my bag. I pull out my ESL book and hand it to her. She opens it up excitedly, but her enthusiasm fades quickly. That’s when I remember that the book on Elven Sign Language was, rather obviously, written in Elvish. I apologize for my blatant stupidity and explain that most people I know can read Elvish, on account of them either being elves or being historians who read Elvish a lot due to their profession.

She shrugs, tossing me the book back. At least she seems to understand that I was trying to be helpful, even if I assumed she understood a language she had no need of knowing. At least she doesn’t hate me for yet again trying and failing to do something to make communication easier.

Even without teaching her ESL, there were still important lessons learned from that fiasco:

1. Never completely trust a wildberry bush.

2. Always travel with people who are capable in chaotic situations.

3. Be satisfied with what you have, even if it isn’t great.

Chapter Five: Campfire Stories

After several more hours of riding, with me playing some songs on my ocarina and Atraxa snacking on nuts as we rode, the suns began to fall below the horizon. By then, we had reached the edge of a forest. If I had to guess, based on how long we had ridden east, I would say it was the Elegon Woods. We set up camp just outside the border of the forest, and we set out to gather supplies. Due to my earlier incident with the Octobushel, we decide Atraxa should forage for food, while I gather firewood from the forest’s edge.

Things go rather smoothly on my end, finding enough kindling to start a decent flame, as well as some larger fallen branches to form the base of the actual blaze. I make sure to stay close to the forest’s edge, so as not to get lost (or worse, found). Atraxa gets even luckier than me, though, managing to shoot not one, but two jackalopes. I cook them both up, and despite the gruesome image of the Octobushel’s mouth still ripe in my mind, I manage to eat most of mine. Even without seasoning, it tastes pretty good. Two warm meals in one day is a treat for sure.

After we both finish eating, I ask Atraxa the other question I had been meaning to ask her.

“So why did you ask for a bard specifically?” She seems to ponder for a moment, either questioning how to respond or if she even knew the answer herself. She then reaches into her satchel and retrieves a quill and a journal. Before I can offer some ink, I watch as she begins to scribble down her reasoning:

I needed a magic user, but couldn’t let anyone

know what I was really up to until I knew they

were in. I couldn’t let just any greedy wizard

help me. Besides, I heard bards were good

with a bunch of different magics.

Well, that sorta makes sense. Most adventurers that I’ve worked with have been rather quick to nab any extra gold they can. She also mentioned the magical versatility, so she’s probably trying to keep this plan as quiet as possible. I wouldn’t blame her, considering we’ll likely need to do a bit of revenge-getting on this ‘Count Harolditch’ character. Luckily, I’m decent at keeping a low profile.

Her quill is quite interesting, with it not requiring ink. It’s not unheard of for people to have enchanted quills with limitless ink, but normally, only prolific writers have them. My guess is that she probably got it from someone after they found out that she couldn’t talk. I know I would, especially considering the fool I made of myself when we first met.

I’m snapped back to reality from my thoughts as Atraxa hands me her journal again. There’s a question for me on it now, underneath her previous response:

Why were you willing to help me?

I hesitate, not wanting to admit I felt bad for her. When most people ask for help, they aren’t looking for pity, just assistance. I try to think of another reason, but fail, so instead, I just say what I really think.

“You obviously needed help, and I’m not really good at saying no to people in need.”

The response doesn’t seem to offend her, thankfully. If anything, she looks relieved that there are people in the world who do good things not for a reward, but because it’s simply the right thing to do. We smile softly at each other, now feeling more comfortable in our mission to stop an evil man.

Chapter Six: A New Face

I’m a light sleeper, a trait I picked up from being on the road for so long. It can be annoying sometimes, like last night’s squeaking neighbors, but it definitely has its uses. Like, for example, if there were a halfling sneaking up from behind me while I was asleep to steal our money and supplies. Why such a specific example? Well, that would be because it happened that night after both Atraxa and I had fallen asleep.

I heard the crinkling of fallen leaves beneath a pair of boots coming from behind. In an instant, my eyes shot open, and I reached for my raipier, which I always kept at my side while I slept. I lept from my bedroll and turned to face the thief, but my eyes only met the forest. My eyes searched my surroundings before eventually landing on a halfling, about three feet tall. He stood there, frozen, likely thinking I wouldn’t see him in the darkness.

“You know I can see you, right?” I say, looking directly at my attempted assailant. “You look pretty dumb just standing there, just so you know.” The halfling looks left and right, without moving his head, evaluating his options. Then, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out… a yo-yo?

Suddenly, and without warning, he flings the child's toy at me. I unsheath my sword and move to a defensive stance, but the yo-yo knocks my weapon out of my hand, as if the toy were made of lead. It falls to the ground, into the embers of the now extinguished campfire. The commotion wakes up Atraxa, who quickly gets up and retrieves her folding longbow. 

She fires three shots at my attacker, who spins his weapon in a circular fashion, knocking away all the arrows shot towards him. Reeling in his yo-yo, he then launches it towards Atraxa, hitting her squarely in the nose. Blood starts slowly dripping onto her lip as she stumbles over. The halfling rushes her, reaching into her pocket and nabbing her coin pouch. He turns around to face where I was, but I am no longer there. Instead, I’m standing behind him, with my fiddle raised to bash his face in. The assailant falls to the ground, unconscious.

I relight our campfire with a snap, allowing Atraxa a better view of the man who so kindly gave her a bloody nose. His orange hair matched the color of the flames I just lit, and his short stature was more muscular than one might assume from a halfling. We drag his limp body over to a nearby tree and tie him to it with his odd weapon, which was in fact made of metal.

We wait for the man to wake up, so we can question him. Normally, whenever I almost get robbed, I bet with my traveling buddies on the story the assailant will come up with. I’ve only lost once, when a human thief tried to convince us after we beat him up that he was secretly a god, and that if we gave him our gold, he would bless our journey ahead. My party at the time would have a good chuckle at that encounter after turning him in to the authorities.

“How much you wanna bet he tells us a sob story about how he was forced into a life of crime?” I ask, sparking the guessing game. Atraxa ponders, then holds up two fingers with one hand and draws an ‘s’ with the other. “Deal!” I say, shaking her hand. The bet is on.

Now that we have some level of entertainment for when the halfling thief wakes up, I go to check on my poor fiddle. I banged his head pretty hard, so I’m worried I might have broken part of it. I look it over, seeing no obvious damage to the strings or body. I let out a relieved sigh. It might seem weird for a dude to be so attached to an instrument, but when that instrument is all you have left of home, you treat it like gold.

I hear groaning coming from behind me, meaning our sleeping beauty has finally woken up to tell us what in the world he was thinking. I rise and waltz over next to Atraxa, preparing to drill this pipsqueak pilferer for answers.

“Morning, princess! How’d you like your little nap?” I ask, letting the sarcasm ooze devilishly. “I bonked you pretty hard, but hopefully you’re conscious enough to answer some questions for us. Let’s start with an easy one: who the hell are you?”

The halfling looks up at me, glaring into my eyes. “My name is Hildon, ye bollock, and I be the most infamous thief in these here wilds! Release me now, or I’ll have yer guts fer garters, ye lanky arsehole!”

“Well, Hildon, you’ve made the terrible mistake of trying to rob a seasoned traveler. So-”

“Yeah, yeah, I noticed…” he cuts me off, “...but me threat still stands! If ye value yer insides, I’d turn back now!” Man, what a piece of work. By this point, he’s kicking and trying to wiggle himself free, to no avail.

“Look, I don’t really care how ‘infamous’ you are. What I want to know is why you thought we were an easy mark.”

“Aint it obvious? There’s only two of ye! Any thief with at least half a brain cell could see that the two of ye are more vulnerable than the jackalopes in this here forest!” I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see Atraxa showing me a page in her journal:

He’s right. The two of us alone aren’t

nearly enough to fight off a

serious threat. He would have gotten

away had you not bashed his head in.

We need more help.

Oh no. Oh no no no no no. I already see where this is going. “Absolutely not! Are you crazy? The man almost broke your nose, and you want him to join us?!”

She nods.

“I can’t believe you. Why would he help us anyway? We just tied him up with his own weapon! Not to mention he’s probably not the sympathetic type.” She ponders, scribbles something down, and hands me her journal again:

We could offer him a cut of the

money?

I can’t believe this. A thief? Is this lady crazy? Then again, it’s not like we really have a choice. We do need more manpower, and this dude definitely knows what he’s doing.

“Alright, fine…” I turn to look at our freshly caught convict, who is now sporting a winning smirk. He knows exactly what’s going on. “...I don’t like it, but I don’t really have a choice. We need help, and you’re the only person we can really ask, so I’ll offer you an ultimatum. We’re on our way to perform a heist on a tyrannical count. If you agree to help us, you’ll get a cut of his gold. Refuse, and we can leave you here to rot, tied to this tree. Betray us, and we’ll turn you in faster than you can say ‘backstab’. Got it?”

Hildon visibly starts weighing his options. His eyes glance from me to Atraxa and back again. Finally, he lets out a defeated groan. “Fine… ye got me. I’ll help ya, but I want 50% of the haul, y’hear?”

“You aren’t exactly in a position to be making demands, bud,” I say, condescendingly. I don’t have a problem with halflings, just a problem with thieves.

“Fair enough,” Hildon shrugs. “Now, undo me binds and let’s go get me supplies!”

Chapter Seven: Breaking Points

Atraxa and I gather our things, extinguish our fire, and follow our new partner into the forest. I still have my apprehensions about him, but between myself and Atraxa, we should be able to kick his butt again if he makes the mistake of turning on us. Anyways, Hildon leads us to a large, twisting willow tree, its dangling branches swaying slightly in the midnight breeze. There’s a small hole between the roots, likely leading to an underground hollow that serves as the thief’s base of operations.

“Wait here…” Hildon tells us, before squeezing into the small burrow. With how tight a fit it is, it makes me wonder if it’s his home or just his stash. I know I certainly wouldn’t want to live in a house with a door that’s too skinny and short for me to fit in. I try to peek inside, but before I can, Hildon reappears.

“OYE! Stop tryin’ to peek at me stash!” he yells at me. “If ye enjoy havin’ that pretty-lookin’ face of yours, ye’ll do best to not go snoopin’ ‘round people’s places!” I shrug, brushing off his threat. He probably doesn’t want us to see any proof that he’s more than just a tree-dwelling halfling, for legal reasons. I really don’t care if he’s a thief, as long as it’s not us he’s robbing. Times are tough, with the recent clan wars happening almost everywhere on the continent, so it makes sense for some people to turn to crime to make ends meet.

That face comment, whilst confusing, reminds me of Atraxa’s injury. It’d suck riding the rest of our journey with a broken nose.

“Hey, Atraxa?” She turns to me, some blood dried around her upper lip. “Want me to fix up your nose?” She smiles and nods, giving me the chance to show off my magic in more ways than just setting stuff on fire.

I reach behind me, retrieving my fiddle. Unlike my fire magic, which I’ve done enough to use without a second thought, my healing magic requires my focus. For those of you who are unaware, a focus (in terms of magic) is the item that a magic wielder uses to ‘focus’ their magic, thus producing more powerful spells. I quickly rosin my bow and, with a flourish, begin to play. An interesting fact about bardic magic is that, depending on the song, the magic will function differently. With a healing spell, a slow, calm legato tune will tend to be a more thorough spell than a quick, exciting song, which is better suited for combat spells.

I decide to play my rendition of ‘Daisy Bell’, and it works a charm (pun intended). Hildon watches on in amazement as the dried blood flakes away and disappears from Atraxa’s face, and her crooked nose straightens back to its original shape. As I finish, I notice that a scratch on the back of her hand I hadn’t noticed before refuses to fade. How odd… I could have sworn I performed my magic perfectly. I’ll ask about it later. As she reaches to feel her restored nose, I turn to Hildon.

“So, got your stuff?”

“Aye,” he replies. “Got me dagger, rations, bedroll, spare clothes, and me lucky fling-string!”

“Fling-string? Is that what you call the yo-yo you used to break Atraxa’s nose?”

“This be more than a yo-yo, elf! It be a weapon of mass destru-”

“Half-elf.”

“What?”

“I’m a half-elf, not a pure elf.”

“So? Same difference. Yer tall, got pointy ears, and got a stick so far up yer bum it hits yer prostate. Far as I can tell, yer just an elf.”

I wouldn’t normally care about people thinking I’m a pure elf, because it happens all the time. Nobody cares whether or not your very existence is seen as blasphemous by some groups of your own kind, but this time it irked me. I have no idea why. Maybe it was his tone, or maybe his blatant rudeness towards elven culture. Maybe it was the fact that he was a thief, or that he had the gall to say that with his ‘shortcomings’. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because I had held my disdain for myself in for so long, my hatred for not who, but what I was. My hatred for being the sole reason why my mother was gone.

“The difference, you ginger-haired half-pint, is that I could be killed if any pure elf sees me and decides I’m such an abomination in the eyes of the Goddess Purita that I must be personally sent to the farthest reaches of the underworld! That’s not even to mention that most humans deem me a freak of nature as well. The only reason I’m still alive is that my village didn’t have the heart to murder the sole child of their town hero! Even then, I was warned that if I ever returned after their show of ‘mercy’, I would be killed on sight! Oh, yeah, and there are some slight anatomical differences, like less pointy ears and a shorter life span, y’know, when not slaughtered over something they have no control over.”

Silence. Dead silence. Not even the crickets dared to chirp after my outburst. Hildon and Atraxa both stared at me, eyes wide, having no idea of the weight I carry. I sigh, having nothing left to say. Not yet, anyway. “Let’s go. It’s almost daybreak. The more daylight, the better.” I mount my horse, look to the sky, determine my direction, and begin the trek once more, not caring if the rest of my party follows.

Chapter Eight: A Stormy Sign

I ride for about an hour before the day breaks. I hear the cloping of hooves behind me, meaning that, at the very least, Atraxa decided to stay with me. We go on in silence as dawn turns to day. At around eight a.m., we stop in an open clearing for a meal. By then, I realise Hildon has been riding with Atraxa, meaning we at least have a bit more muscle than we would have otherwise. I pull out a small piece of my attempted elven loaf, choking it down like usual, as the others eat whatever they have. I finish quickly, sitting away from my group, not knowing what they think of me after my explosion the previous night. My wonder is quickly stopped as Hildon approaches me.

“Hey, er…” he starts, not knowing my name.

“Esper.”

“Yeah! Esper, mate. I’m sorry fer bein’ a jerk. Me mum told me not to judge a book by its cover, but me skull’s obviously a bit thicker than me brain. I mean it.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “Really. I shouldn’t have blown up over something so simple. You probably didn’t deserve that.”

He extends a hand to me. “We good?” he asks, a timid smile, half-wincing, plastered on his face.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

We remount our steeds and, with our partnership a bit steadier, continue, with Atraxa leading the way.

Several hours pass, with me humming a song stuck in my head, and Hildon carving something out of a piece of willow wood. As we approach yet another forest, the sky begins to darken. It seems odd to me, with the Almanac of this area saying that there should be no rain or storms for at least a week. Suddenly, Atraxa holds up her fist, instructing us to stop. My confusion continues to grow as she dismounts her horse and draws her bow from her pocket. Something’s definitely up, so I follow suit, drawing my saber and preparing for combat. I move to Atraxa and ask what’s going on. She tucks her bow under her arm and quickly scribbles a response:

Something is following us.

The storm clouds start making sense. Clearly, something, or someone, dark is approaching, and is probably aware of our presence. Hildon, by this point, has dismounted as well, knowing something has to be up with how nervous we look. The three of us quickly form a defensive circle, protecting each other’s backs, unaware that it would do jack squat against our new foe.

“Any idea what’s goin’ on?” Hildon asks, less aware of our perilous position than Atraxa and I.

“Vaguely,” I answer. “It’s either some form of water elemental, or worse…”

“What do ya mean, worse?!”

“What he means, halfling, is me.”

The new voice, belonging to none of us, comes from behind. We all whirl around and jump back, startled by someone wearing a dark grey robe, accented with marine outlines of ancient runes. Though the identity of our stalker is hidden by the robes, their voice is undoubtedly male.

“Who the hell are you, ya lanky creep?!” Hildon bellows, beating me to the question. “Are you the one causin’ this weird weather, ya bolluck?”

“So you’re oblivious AND rude, what a charming combination.” The man retorts. “Of course, I’m causing the weather. As for who I am, all you need to know is that I’ve been offered a substantial amount of gold to bring THAT one-” he points at Atraxa- “to the noble Lord Harolditch.” Great, a mercenary, and one with magic at that.

“I think what my friend here meant,” I say, gesturing to Hildon, “was ‘What’s your name, so we know what to engrave on your tombstone?’”

“Ah, so you’re ALL uncivilized. Very well, I suppose. I am Mattathias Bloo, but you can call me The Rainman.”

Suddenly, the darkened clouds begin to release their moisture, and the name ‘Rainman’ starts to make more sense by the minute. No matter, though. I’ve played concerts in worse weather than this, and I didn’t get a minor in swordsmanship by fighting in ideal conditions 24/7.

“Hate to break it to you, Rain-bland, but a little drizzle won’t make us give up.” I ready my blade. “So I suggest you go back to your boss and tell him we say ‘screw off’, alright?”

“You’ve got quite the mouth, half-elf.” At least he knows the difference. “I might just bring you in to The Count as well to make sure you regret those words.” The robed man claps his hands together, causing a thunder clap to rumble the very terra beneath us. The rain, once just a sprinkle, has started to become a heavy downpour. Atraxa readies her bow, Hildon, his flail, and I, my free hand, ready to cast. For a few moments, there is nothing but the sound of rain and rumbling thunder, anticipation growing as we wait for someone to make the first move.

And then the silence breaks.

The subtle ‘twang’ of an arrow being loosed signals the standoff has ended, and the time for battle is now. Hildon flings his yo-yo towards our assailant, and I lunge forward for a jab. For a normal person, this form of three-pronged attack would be a death sentence, but this is obviously no normal man.

With a flash, a bolt of lightning strikes where he stands, blinding us for just a second. Plenty of time for him to teleport behind me, dodging the arrow, fling, and stab, and exposing me to a sweep of the legs with a quarterstaff he’s summoned. I land face-first in the mud, hearing a smug chuckle from my rear. I roll away, jumping up to face the Rainman.

I’m in over my head with this one. With the rain, my fire magic is practically useless, but that's not to say I’m out of tricks. Clearly, he’s expecting a head-on approach, and taking advantage of that is the only way to defeat this lightning-wielding ego-balloon. I sheath my sword, sparking confusion in everyone, my allies included. That’s my opening. I use a summoning spell, causing my fiddle and bow to fly from my satchel into my hands. No time to rosin up; the Rainman’s figured me out.

“A bard?!” His confusion transforms into laughter. “OH NO! What are you going to do, lull me to sleep with a lullaby?” Somebody was obviously not taught the first rule of fighting a bard: Never, under any circumstances, make a joke about lullabies to a bard in combat.

I draw my bow across the strings slowly, intentionally creating an awful hissing noise. I’ll apologize to my partners later, but I’ve just created my opening for attack. His focus on his magic is breaking, causing the rain to lighten enough for an easy counterstrike. My options for a counter are simple: draw my sword and go for the kill, or perform the most insulting beatdown a bard can bestow. I decide on the latter. It’s time to teach this smug jerk a lesson in respect!

A deep breath, a whispered countoff, and I begin my concerto. Offensive bard magic tends to be quite simple. Play a specific song, and summon an attack. My personal favorite? ‘Flight of the Bumblebees’.

As I furiously play, a swarm of angry bees emerges from the holes in my instrument. With every note, a new bee joins the cacophony, causing a sonorous hum to form the background bassline of my masterful display. Once the orb of unreasonably agitated insects reaches its critical mass, I command my new army of mighty stingers to attack, and that they do. The ball of bees flies towards the Rainman, swarming him in a painful barrage of tiny, hate-filled stings.

With my performance’s end, the bees slowly disappear, fading out of existence as I tuck my fiddle and bow behind my back. I draw my blade yet again, pointing the tip at the cloaked figure curled into a ball. My teammates, still shocked by my ruthless magical assault, stand idly by as I confront our latest nemesis.

“How’s that for a lullaby, punk?”

Chapter Nine: Striking Revelations

The Rainman, slowly and shakily, rises to his feet, his robes torn ever so slightly around the sleeves and hood. It’s possible to make out his face now: a pale complexion, highlighted by his ghost-white hair, and aqua-marine eyes that remind me of-

CRASH! A clap of thunder causes the ground under my feet to tremble. The rain picks up again, quickly crescendoing into a near monsoon. Mattathias’ face, now covered in welts from my indulgent display of magic, seeps with pure, unbridled rage, and I begin to think my last comment may have been a bit much.

“You- YOU PESTILENCE!” Yup, I’ve definitely pissed him off now. “YOU THINK YOU CAN BEAT ME WITH A SWARM OF BEES? HOW DARE YOU! I WILL FILL YOUR BODY WITH ELECTRICITY UNTIL ALL THAT REMAINS IS ASH! I WILL SMITE YOU AND EVERYONE YOU HOLD DEAR! I WI-”

A sudden bonk to the head stops his angered ranting. I turn to Hildon, who flashes me a smug ‘you’re welcome’ smirk. Looking back to our anger-issue-ridden attacker, I notice that he’s still conscious, even if barely. A few more strong blows, and we should be safe to continue on our way. Atraxa readies her bow for a final shot, Hildon unsheathes his dagger, and I ready my sword, all of us feeling prepared now for anything this pompous, damp tissue could throw at us.

But we were wrong.

Mattathias’s hands begin to glow, surrounded by white-hot plasma. The last thing I saw before the flash was his eyes, with his left one having had a blood vessel burst from a combination of exertion and Hildon’s earlier strike. Then, a searing bolt of pure lightning came flying towards me.

Had my allies not attacked his hands moments before his spell could leave his fingertips, I likely would have died. A bolt of pure mana lightning is more than capable of evaporating anything it hits, with the cost to the user being almost equally steep. Luckily, my friends reacted fast enough to save my life. Unluckily, however, they couldn’t stop the cast entirely, only alter its trajectory. The new target of the bolt, you may ask? My sword.

The crackling electricity shot down the blade, entering my arm indirectly. From the moment I saw it connect with my saber, I felt a pain so unbearable that I wished it had just hit me directly and ended my suffering on the spot. I could feel every muscle fiber, every artery and capillary, every atom of my left arm flaying from the inside out, my bones charing, tendons snapping like the strings of a fiddle in a fire. Time seemed to grind to a halt as the excruciating agony of my injury forced me to the ground. A cry of pain disturbing enough to give a gorgon nightmares for a month straight escapes my mouth, my vocal cords scratching at my throat. A moment later, and I’m out.

I wake up with a jolt, head searing with pain. I’m lying in a bed inside what seems to be an inn. Taking note of my surroundings, I notice my satchel, boots, shattered sword, and fiddle lying on the floor at the foot of my bed. As I try to lift myself out of bed, a sharp pain shoots through my arm. I flop back down, deciding not to push my luck with walking. Turning my head to examine the damage, there’s a heavily bandaged cast where my arm should be. The good news is that I can still feel it, even if just a little. Looking to my right, I see a small bell sitting on the nightstand. I pick it up and ring it,  planning to alert whoever put me here that I was now awake.

An instant later, Atraxa bolts into the room, followed by a clearly concerned nurse, who looks to be a fifty-ish-year-old human.

“Ma'am, you can’t just barge into a patient’s room!” the nurse cries out. “You need to have a member of the staff present in the room!”

“It’s fine, I know her,” I tell the nurse.

“Someone still needs to watch, for safety reasons.”

I roll my eyes at the nurse, as Atraxa pulls a chair I hadn’t seen yet from the corner to my bedside, taking a seat by me. Pulling out her journal and quill, she scribbles down what had happened after I was knocked unconscious.

After you fell, Hildon knocked out the Rainman,

but his finger got zapped in the process. It was minimal

enough that he was able to ride on his own while I

carried you here. He’s in the other room and is

expected to make a full recovery. The nurses say your

arm, on the other hand, is pretty messed up.

I allow a chuckle to escape my lips, finding humor in the irony of her words. My mother always said I found the funny in everything. It’s part of the reason she encouraged my decision to become a bard. She thought that I could bring joy to the world with my songs and jokes and become one of the great performers of history. Now I’m lying in a hospital, with my arm in a cast from an adventure with a person I’ve only known for two days.

Lifting my arm, I flex my digits to ensure they still worked. Thankfully, they did, and I twisted them into a snapping position. I closed my eyes, sucked in a quiet breath, and snapped. Nothing. Not a spark or a flicker from the fingertips of my charred left arm. I can feel myself beginning to panic as my most useful quality to the team seemed to dissipate, with only a shot of pain to replace it. Quickly, I bring up my right hand and snap as hard as I can, and the candle at my bedside bursts into flames. A sigh of relief escapes my lungs. My cantrips aren’t gone, only limited to my non-dominant hand.

Atraxa snuffs the candle with a gloved hand, then begins to scribble something else down. When she finishes, she shows me her list of questions.

1. How are you not dead?

2. Will your arm be okay?

3. Are you going to be able to 

continue after you recover?

“Good questions,” I say, feeling like a celebrity being interviewed (a feeling I thought I’d never have). “For one, you and Hildon knocked the Rainman’s cast away from my heart, stopping me from experiencing the full force of the spell. Had it hit me instead of my sword, I would not be talking to you right now. Secondly, my arm will probably never be the same.” I start to peel away the bandages, but the nurse, apparently still on edge, rushes to stop me.

“WAIT! We have no idea what’s wrong with your arm, sir! Removing your cast could ruin your recovery!”

I sigh, disappointed in her lack of knowledge of magical injuries. It’s not surprising, though. Magic wounds, especially this severe, are incredibly rare due to the limited number of monsters with magical attacks. That’s not even mentioning how difficult it is to learn powerful enough offensive magic to kill someone. Not even I have that level of strength.

“Ma’am,” I say, trying to calm her down. “I have studied magic for quite some time. I’ll probably know a bit more about my injury than someone who’s never touched a tome before.” The nurse scowls, clearly peeved that some random, lanky bard claims to have more experience than her. She doesn’t stop me, however, as I slowly peel the rest of my bandages off. After the first few layers, I identify my problem. My arm has been overcharged.

Mana overcharge is an extremely rare phenomenon, mostly because you need to survive a magical attack that would otherwise kill you, or at the very least put you into a vegetative state (different from a vegetable state, where you’re transfigured into a carrot or something). Basically, non-elemental magic attacks hurt things by disrupting your cells’ natural healing processes, then breaking them. The stronger the spell and the magic user, the longer it takes for your body to regain its healing abilities. This is normally circumvented with healing potions, but the main ingredient, life root, has been kept hidden by the Elven Federation for decades. 

If a pure magic attack is strong enough, it will permanently stop the affected area from healing, no matter what. The reason most magic users refrain from these devastating spells is that these spells also have a severe cost on the caster. My magic defence professor told us once in a lecture that “A spell like that basically amounts to a suicide pact. If you feel the need to use it, you'd better know for a fact that you’re gonna die anyway.”

A side effect of mana overcharge syndrome (MOS) is that the afflicted area is incapable of using magic. The theorised reason for this is that the same overcharge that blocks your body’s healing factor is responsible for preventing the flow of your own mana. Using a magical focus seems to bypass this restriction, however, so the only issue I’ll have is remembering to use my non-dominant hand for cantrips.

I explained all of this to the still miffed nurse, as well as the doctor who appeared during my lecture. When I finish, the doctor, named Dr. Epsilin, informs me that I will be free to go the next day. Atraxa and I both thank him, and we spend what remains of the daylight hours conversing about our strategy for defeating Lord Harolditch.

Chapter Ten: What Now?

Around fifteen minutes after I woke up, Hildon came into my room and pulled another chair up next to Atraxa and had a seat. The nurse, still apparently peeved that she was lectured by a traveler with a doctorate in bardship, insisted that Hildon return to bed. However, Dr. Epsilin, having obviously dealt with this behavior before, instructed her to give the three of us privacy. I pushed myself up into a sitting position in my cot as the two medics left, and we began to discuss our next move.

“Alright,” I say, beginning our strategy meeting. “We need to figure out how we’re going to get past all of the guards that I’m sure the count has. Atraxa, do you have any intel about the interior of his mansion?”

Atraxa began to scribble down her thoughts, then paused. She pondered for a moment, then got up and nabbed her satchel. Out of it, she pulled a large scroll of paper and unfurled it. It was a map of Count Harolditch’s mansion! In her notebook, she wrote:

We used this map back home for

strategy meetings. It has all of the mansion’s

least guarded entry points circled.

I look over the marked floor plan of our target, formulating a plan. The mansion was shown as a three-story building, with a basement, housing the vault and private cells, a first floor, containing the living room, study, and kitchen, and a second floor, holding the master bedroom. At the rear end of the mansion, there’s a trellis leading up to a small bathroom window on the second floor, marked by a helpful note in beautiful handwriting, similar to Atraxa’s. A small window also lies on the eastern side of the mansion, leading to the basement. The gears begin to turn in my head, and I have a marvelous idea. A two-pronged attack that will leave the count defenceless.

“I’ve got it!” I exclaim, much to the shock of my colleagues, still trapped in thought. “I have a plan. It’s gonna sound like it’s too dumb to work, but I feel good about it.” Atraxa gives me an expectant nod, as does Hildon, so I continue. “Here’s my idea: We all three split up, with Atraxa climbing the trellis to get the jump on Harolditch, while I free the captives and Hildon breaks into the vault. He and his minions will be overwhelmed, and we can bust out the front door with the prisoners like the ending of an epic tale. Any thoughts?”

Hildon jumps up from his seat and slams his palms on the table. “IT’S BRILLIANT!” he shouts, clearly excited by the promise of riches. “Grand idea, Esper!” Turning to Atraxa, I see she’s a good deal less enthused about my plan. She scrawls some more in her journal, then turns it so both Hildon and I can read it.

It’s a nice plan, certainly, but I’m worried

that we’re ill-equipped to handle a heist of

this magnitude. I would feel quite a bit more

at ease if we had more supplies, namely rope,

armor, and higher-quality weapons.

“HIGHER QUALITY WEAPONS?!” Hildon shouts, infuriated. “I’ll have ye know that me fling-string is made of the finest materials this side of the Yggdrasimal Mountains, forged by the steady hands of a great forge smith!” Atraxa and I both roll our eyes.

“I think what she means,” I say, “Is that our overall weaponry could be improved. My rapier is destroyed, and both you and Atraxa could use better knives. As for armor, we’ll want something lightweight, flexible, and durable. Hildon, I suggest you wear chainmail, while Atraxa and I wear leather armor. If we pool our money together, we should be able to afford it.”

We all take out our coin pouches, opening them to decide what we can afford. With only five silver and fifty-seven copper, I’m the poorest contributor to the group. Atraxa reveals her two gold, four silver, and 3 copper, covering the cost for the rope and one set of hide armor. The real surprise comes from Hildon, who reluctantly pours the contents of his pouch on the table. We look in shock as the halfling organizes his coins into stacks equalling twenty-eight gold, nine silver, and a single piece of jade.

“Where did you get that!?” I ask, shocked that someone who lives in a burrow would have the most valuable piece of currency in the land.

“Got it in a trade,” Hildon calmly replies, as if he hadn’t just placed the equivalent of 10,000 silver pieces on the table. “One jade for information on a secret treasure. Before ye ask, no, I’m not tellin’ ya what it was or where it is.”

I’m stunned. I could have never guessed that the tree hermit thief was not only rich, but earned at least part of those riches honestly. It stings, knowing that despite my hard work and perseverance, the years of effort I’ve put into my dream, I’m nowhere near as successful as someone who just got lucky.

Atraxa writes in her notebook again, and as she does so, I consider learning common sign language and teaching it to her. The thought of learning a second form of sign language, on top of already speaking three (though my archaic is a bit rough), seems much too ambitious for a humble bard. By the time I decide that idea would be terrible, Atraxa has already set Hildon off again.

“WHAT DO YA MEAN I SHOULD PAY FOR IT ALL?!” I hear the halfling shout. “I worked hard to get this loot, and I’m sure as hell not gonna spend it on two people I barely know!” I decide to speak up.

“In all fairness, not only did we both help save your life, but you also tried to rob us. Also, remember that once the count is defeated, we get to raid his vault, so that should pay back more than what we spend on supplies.”

“Yeah, but I helped save yer life too, y’know, so that point doesn’t really stand. As for me almost robbing ya, I wouldn’t have done it had I known who ye were or why ye were there.”

“Exactly, you didn’t know about our situation! You don’t know the situation of most people you rob! That’s part of why you don’t steal, besides the obvious reason that it’s morally wrong!”

“GAH! You elv- half-elves and yer higher-than-thou moral code! Have ye ever considered that the world ain’t black and white? Not every thief is a bad person, and not every hero does things for the right reason! People are constantly shifting between being good and bad, and that’s normal! Not everyone can be a saint like you, Esper.”

I can feel the venom in his words; he clearly means them. This is clearly not the first time he’s been lectured on the morality of his ‘profession’, so I decide to leave well enough alone at that. Atraxa gently taps his shoulder with her pen, with her other hand holding up her pad and pointing to a message:

He has a point, Hildon.

You have an entire jade, which would

pay for all our supplies with plenty left over.

Besides, he’s obviously not the most

affluent bard out there, and I’m not doing

so well in the money department, either,

so the least you could do is lend a helping hand.

Being called out for my less-than-stellar finances hurts, especially from someone who’s on my side, but she is still on my side, so my bruised ego will have to wait. Hildon seems to be more accepting as well, apparently now understanding just how much one jade piece is worth. He reluctantly agrees, on the condition that he gets any change back. We accept his terms, trying to avoid further conflict, when we hear a commotion coming from the lobby.

Chapter Eleven: The Steam-Punk

“SIR! This is not an inn!” I hear the shrill voice of the nurse cry. “It is a hospital! A place of medicine! Not some dump for you to sleep in, and absolutely not somewhere where some rude intruder and his godless machines can wreak havoc!”

“Godless?” A smooth, even tone coos. “My technology is anything but! Crafted with blessed metals, forged by the natural flames of the world, and powered by the very magic that courses through all living things! Besides, Carol, we both know you don’t have that authority.” The nurse, apparently named Carol, storms off down the hall and up the stairs, likely to complain to the doctor about the ‘rude intruder’. The man calmly waltzes behind her, but stops as he passes our room and sees us through the slightly ajar door. The man catches Hildon’s gaze and widens the gap in the door to see if his eyes betray him or not. “Hildon?” he asks, tentatively.

“Jacobin? Is that you?” Hildon calls back. Atraxa and I shoot each other a worried look, both wondering if this character is friend or foe. Our questions, despite not being asked aloud, are answered loud and clear as Hildon leaps out of his seat and nearly tackles the man with a bear hug. “JACOBIN! IT’S GOOD TO SEE YA LAD!” he shouts in his booming voice, granting a chuckle from his apparent friend.

“What are you doing here, Hildon? Did you get caught nabbing from the Sky Riders again?”

“Nah, mate. You know I’d beat ‘em any day of the week! My friends and I here got attacked by some mercenary, and we’re cookin’ up a plan to get back at the man who hired ‘em.”

“Sounds about right for you, old friend. You have a habit of attracting danger like a magnet. Your pals are new, though. Who are they?”

I take the opportunity to introduce myself. “The name’s Esper Pyrefoot, travelling bard, and this is Atraxa. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“The pleasure’s all mine. Say, what happened to your arm, Esper?”

“The mercenary hit me with a nasty spell, so I’m recovering from that. Anyway, I don’t think you’ve given us the honor of an introduction.”

“Ah, yes! My apologies, friend! My name is Jacobin Smith, inventor and artificer extraordinaire! Hildon and I go way back, when I worked in the Yggdrasimal Mountains. I’m actually the one who made his ‘fling-string’, as he calls it.”

“Aye!” Hildon chimes in, pulling in a chair from another room, apparently for Jacobin. “He’s an incredible forgemaster, using only the finest materials! I’d trust him to make anything! Even…”

He trails off, losing himself in thought. We all look at him quizzically, wondering what he’s wondering about, when he suddenly slams his palms on the table and proclaims to have a wonderful idea.

“Say, Jacobin, do ya still have yer workshop in town?”

Jacobin gives him a suspicious look. “Yes? Why do you ask? What exactly are you plotting now, Hildon?”

“How’d you like to make some commission?” he says, a grin crawling across his face.

Chapter Twelve: Getting an Upgrade

After the lights go out in the hospital (and Hildon checks to make sure Nurse Carol is asleep), the four of us sneak out of the hospital, right through the front door. We go down the dimly lit street, turning onto a side road and entering a reinforced shack with two chimneys pointing out of the roof. As I enter, I feel the heat of the giant furnace in the corner. It’s large enough to fit one of the many extravagant molds hung up on the wall.

“Welcome!” Jacobin says, clearly proud to show off his forge. “Welcome to the place where the magic happens! So, who needs what?” I step forward and explain our weapon situation.

“I need a new sword,” I begin. “My old rapier shattered in my last fight against a powerful wizard, so I need something that can absorb magic attacks better, in case we meet again. All three of us could use knives, and Hildon needs some chainmail.”

“The weapons I can do, but the armor will need to be bought from the armorer down the street.” Jacobin pulls out a map of the town, revealing that my hospital stay was taken in Locamore. He points to a building south of his workshop, which has been labeled with an elaborate drawing of his pride and joy. I take note of the area, then nod. “Speaking of the weapons,” he continues, “do you need a more unique one?”

I’m bewildered by the question I’ve been presented. “What do you mean by ‘more unique’?”

“Well, what I mean is, would you like more than just a sword? I could forge you a special blade that could give you an upper hand in combat! Maybe a whip sword? I’ve been dying to try out this new idea for a broadsword that-”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think a whip sword would work for me. I’m a decent swordsman, yes, but my real talents lie with my magic. A bard like me doesn’t really need a special blade. Besides, I prefer rapiers, not broadswords.”

The forgesmith ponders, then snaps his fingers with an idea. “I’ve got it!” he shouts, quickly turning to grab a large sheet of paper. Spreading out his sheet on the table in front of us, he nabs a pencil and begins to sketch. The shape of a rapier quickly appears on the paper as Jacobin furiously draws his idea into reality.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, “a work of art.” I mean it too. With all of the fighting that’s gone on in recent history, the arts have struggled to stay afloat. When a village is attacked by roaming thief clans, they won’t be stopped by a pretty painting. At least, that’s what most people would say. I believe that anything, if done with passion and heart, can be art. Swordsmanship, alchemy, and strategizing all require creativity beyond basic standards. Jacobin seems to understand this and thanks me for my appreciation with a small bow.

The blade itself is quite simple: a classic rapier with a dome guard. The true beauty of it comes from the simple addition of a hole near the tip of the sword, as well as one at the guard. As Jacobin explained, “I added these holes for you to thread bow strings through. That way, you don’t need to switch from your sword to your bow just to cast!” As he poured molten metal into the newly made cast, he proudly went on about how the holes were placed in such a way that they wouldn’t affect the strength of the blade, and how the strings would help dissipate any magic attacks that struck it. He also motioned for us to view the knives on the rack by the door.

“Take your pick!” he said, as he hammered the glowing steel. I move first, taking a small, two-sided knife. Atraxa takes a carefully wrapped kunai, as Hildon takes a machete. By daybreak, my blade is finished, and Jacobin hands it to me gingerly to test it.

I give the blade a spin in my hand. The balance is excellent, with my new sword effortlessly gliding between my fingers. A test slash shows me that the lightweight nature of the blade is perfect for my style of rapid strikes. For the final test, I pull out my spare bow strings and thread them through the holes in the sword. I take out my fiddle and drag my new bow across the strings, producing the gorgeous sound of home that drew me to my chosen instrument in the first place. As I’m handed my custom sheath, I give my compliments to the master craftsman responsible for this work of art.

“Thank you again for everything,” I say.

“Don’t mention it! Any friends of Hildon’s are friends of mine! Now, I’m willing to give the knives for free, but custom commissions are pricy, even for close allies.” Atraxa and I both turn to Hildon, who sighs and asks, “How much?”

We leave for the armor shop ten gold lighter, with me admiring my new prized possession and Hildon muttering about how Jacobin wouldn’t take the jade instead. Apparently, to him, gold was much more valuable than ‘some shiny green rock’. We enter the shop after walking two blocks and find our preferred chestpieces. After again forcing Hildon to pay, we waltz back to the hospital to collect our horses. The nurse, scowling at me for leaving in the middle of the night, reluctantly sends us on our way. With our plan of attack set and our gear prepared, the three of us ride eastward to the mansion of Count Harolditch.

Chapter Thirteen: Traveling on

We continue riding east from Locamore until noon, when we stop for a food break. I polish off the last of my terrible bread, and Atraxa offers me some jerky, which I gladly accept. Some water from a nearby stream washes it down, and Atraxa takes the rest of our downtime to inform us of the path we have left to go.

We have about one and a half days left

of traveling to do if we keep this pace.

When we arrive, we’ll want to enter town

from the south to avoid being seen.

Hildon and I both nod in understanding, packing our belongings back onto our steeds. We mount back up, with Atraxa riding alone this time. As I help Hildon up to the saddle, I notice how light he is, even for a halfling. I guess living under a tree will make you skinnier than most.

The hours spent on horseback begin to weigh on me, boredom consuming my mind. I’ve gone through my song list twice now, and playing any more would probably result in being shoved off my horse by Hildon, who is clearly not a fan of my song choice. As a traveler with no place to call home, you’d think I’d be used to the road, but no. I’ve always needed a place to settle, but the constant changing of the world around me has always kept me from that. 

Hildon must have sensed that my mind was wandering, probably because we were starting to fall behind Atraxa’s determined pace, because he broke my train of thought with a question.

“So, Esper, why are ye tagging along with Atraxa?”

I was caught off guard by the question because it felt like it came out of nowhere. It had been several days since my outburst in the forest, so asking about my motivations now seemed odd. Maybe it was because he still felt a little bad? I mean, I would feel bad too if I got yelled at like that by someone. To be completely honest, I hadn’t given much thought to why I was helping her.

“Tell you what,” I reply, trying desperately to stall for enough time to figure out my motivation without letting him realise I have no idea what I’m doing. “When we stop for the night, we can all sit around, talk about our past, and play some cards.”

“Alright, fine.” He said, obviously annoyed that I wouldn’t tell him now. “Forgive me for trying to make this dull trip a bit more interesting now that you’ve stopped playing those lovely songs.”

Sarcasm aside, he’s right. My music list mostly consists of old elven hymns my mother taught me, along with some common bar songs. You’d think they’d teach more unique songs in a bard track at university, but no. Most of it is just theory, history, and learning how to play instruments. Sure, you’ll learn new music, but most of it is classical and technical pieces enjoyed mostly by expert musicians, not common drunkards and traveling companions.

Around an hour later, spent counting trees, naming birds passing overhead, and playing a very short game of eye-spy with Hildon (“I’M TELLIN’ YA, THAT BRANCH WAS CLEARLY MORE GRAY THAN BROWN”), the sun begins to set, and we find a clearing to set up camp. After setting our sleeping bags up and sharing in some jerky and berries, we set up an impromptu table and fished out my deck of cards. Atraxa insists on shuffling and dealing, so I hand my cards off to her and begin to tell the table my story.

“I was born around 127 years ago to-”

“YER 127?!” Hildon interrupts. I get this a lot when I tell people how old I am. To be completely fair, I look like a man in his late-20’s to early-30’s, but due to my elven heritage, I age more slowly than most. In all honesty, I’m a little over a quarter of the way through my expected lifetime. I quickly explain this to my party, noticing that Atraxa was also caught off guard by my age.

“As I was saying,” I continue, pushing gently past the slightly rude remark, “I was born around 127 years ago to an elvish mother and a human father. Even though my mother grew up in a village more tolerant of humans than most, they still believed that people had no place in the elven world. Because of that, my mother was forced to choose between her home and her love. She ended up choosing the elves, forcing my father to leave the forest we called home and never return. I was spared from the same fate as him, due to my age and the fact that my mother was still a much beloved member of the community, even with her apparent promiscuity. I lived in the village until the age of 100, when I was told by the village elder that the grace they lent me as a child had ‘expired’. Thus, I was sent from my home, with nothing but the clothes on my back and a dream to entertain the masses.”

I figured I’d leave it at that, thinking I was boring them to death, but Hildon seemed rather interested. So, after Atraxa had finished dealing the cards, I continued.

“Well, after I finished school at Westmanshire, I figured I’d go say one final good-bye to my mother before finding a home of my own. When I got close to the nearby woods, though, I saw smoke. As it turned out, a nearby human settlement had seen me leaving the village four years ago when I left for college. After figuring out where I had come from, they rallied some troops together and raided my home. This led to a full-blown turf war between my home village and the settlers, eventually ending with the forest I called home being set ablaze. The survivors of the attack never forgave me, and swore that if I were ever seen by them again, I would be slain on sight.”

As I finish my tale of woe, a deafening silence falls over our camp. I look at my friend's expression, trying to see if I had said too much. Atraxa looked uncomfortable, as if she wanted to say something, but obviously couldn’t. Hildon could, however.

“Lad…” He said, “I’m sorry that happened to ya.”

“I’m alright. I’ve stayed mostly afloat by doing odd jobs while traveling, and I haven’t been killed yet!” I chuckle slightly, trying to shield the tragedy with a spec of comedy. It doesn’t really work, but nobody says anything else as we spend the rest of the night playing cards.

Chapter Fourteen: The Last Stretch

We’re back to riding eastward to Atraxa’s hometown, moving at top speed to have more time to prepare for our heist. I go over the plan in my head as we ride, thinking of any flaws and how to remove them. At some point, Hildon has to take my place steering the horse because I’m so lost in thought.

Another thing that’s still stuck in my mind is last night. After I told my story, neither Hildon nor Atraxa shared any details about their past. Atraxa wrote that she felt her motivations were clear enough, and Hildon claimed his past didn’t matter. To say I was annoyed that I was the only one who spilled their guts would be an understatement, but I did probably overshare anyway, so I push my grievances to the back of my mind and continue thinking about the plan.

We move in such a hurry that we don’t bother stopping for lunch, choosing to eat on horseback instead. To be completely honest, I never want to do it again. I bit my tongue on that one ride more than I did on any other day in my life.

By sundown, we see the subtle glow of a town on the horizon. Judging by Atraxa’s quickened pace, I venture to guess this is our final stop. We hurriedly ride to the southern border wall, over which I see a large manor, built with dull, gray stone bricks. The home of Count Harolditch.

We lay out the map and run through our strategy one last time. Atraxa climbs the trellis to the count's room, while Hildon and I slip into the basement to free the hostages and steal the gold. Its simplicity was beautiful. All that was left was to execute.

“Alright, I’ll give you and Atraxa a boost over the wall, Hildon,” I explain, “then one of you pull me up to join you.” Atraxa nods, as does Hildon. We all clamor over the first of many barriers to entry, and we split up just as planned. As Atraxa climbs up to the window, she glances down at us. She looks slightly different from when we first met. The nervousness I saw when I first sat down with her at that bar had at some point morphed into silent determination. A determination to get revenge.

Hildon and I quickly locate the basement window, and we encounter our next challenge. It’s locked.

“Welp,” Hildon chortles, “seems like there's only one way in!” He pulls out his machete, raising it into the air to smash the window.

“WAIT!” I insist, in as hushed a voice as I can muster, “If you break that window, it’ll alert every guard in the area. We’ll be swarmed and captured in an instant. There’s surely a more elegant solution to this…”

I ready my hand, ensuring it’s the one that can still use magic, and lightly snap my fingers. As I do, we hear a soft click from the other side of the glass. It slides open as smoothly as a hot knife through butter.

“See? Don’t you think that was a bit more stealthy?”

Hildon rolls his eyes at me. “Yeah, yeah. Now let's get to it!”

We shimmy our way into the cellar, making sure to close the window behind us, so as not to draw attention to our presence inside. Though it’s somewhat hard for Hildon to see, I can spot a small safe in the corner of the room. I point it out to him, and he gleefully skips towards his promise of riches. With him now busy, I can focus on the much more pressing issue. There are no cells or prisoners down here at all.

Doubt begins to grow in my mind as I carefully sneak upstairs to the first floor. There are no guards, no traps, nothing. It’s just a regular, if not expensive, house. Suddenly, I hear a crash from upstairs, followed by unintelligible shouting. One voice sounds eerily familiar. Matathias Bloo, the Rainman.

I rush up the stairs, turn left, and meet the sight I was most afraid of seeing. Matathias, with one eye missing, poised to kill Atraxa, with her bow drawn to the count, who was trembling in his silk sheets. I’ve been duped.

Chapter Fifteen: Everything Falls Apart

“Why?!” I ask, knowing well that any answer I receive won’t satisfy me. “Why would you lie to me about what we were going to do?!” Matathias takes notice of my presence, turning slightly away from his target.

“Oh, now this is rich. You never told him, did you, Atraxa? I mean, it’s not like you easily could, what with that little spat we had before you left home.”

My mind is flooded with emotions, swirling between sadness, anger, and betrayal. Somehow, I manage to choke out a single question: “What’s your real story?”

“Allow me to fill you in, bard. You see, around 6 months ago, my dear sister and I lived on our own. We never knew our mother, and our father died in a war long past. By some miracle, however, our talents earned us the ire of Count Harolditch, who saw our promise and hired us as security guards. I worked as hard as I could to earn my keep, while my sister mostly crept around the manor, ‘searching for security weak points’. I never really bothered her about it, because I was too busy focusing on protecting the man who got my family off the street. After a year of faithful service, however, my sister decided to steal from the count. I chased her into the night, eventually catching her in a clearing not far from here. We fought until the sun rose, when I fired a slicing spell that cleaved her tongue from her mouth and the stolen riches from her grasp. She ran off afterwards, leaving me to hunt her down and bring her to true justice.”

Finally, the truth emerges, bringing with it a wave of pain. She pulled the same trick I had so carefully tried to avoid for years, and all because I felt guilty for her. I finally turn to face her, the woman I’d blindly followed, who I thought was in honest need of help. I look into her aquamarine eyes, and I see nothing.

In one swift motion, I draw my blade and slash at her, not caring whether the blow would hurt her or not. I’m beyond restraint or control; all I want is to have her face justice.

She counters, quite easily, unsheathing her dagger and tactically positioning it between my blade and her body. As the metal connects, small sparks of our conflict fly about the room, singeing a single hair on the head of the count. We move backwards, down the hall, inching slowly towards the staircase. Our blades clash over and over again, causing a ruckus so violent that it wakes several of the neighbors, who quickly call for the town guard. Eventually, our blades lock, with us pushing against each other with all our might. I shove with all the force I can muster, causing Atraxa to stagger. My opening.

I raise two fingers, poised to snap a cantrip directly into her face, as I hear thundering footsteps rush up the stairs. It’s Hildon. He’s broken the safe, collected all of the valuables, and now watches in shock as I’m about to kill my employer.

“ESPER, LAD! WHAT ARE YE DOIN?!” the halfling exclaims, not having heard the horrible things Atraxa had done. I turn my head to face him, my pained expression piercing his gaze. He understands instantly, without words. 

Suddenly, his face of betrayal turns to one of fear. 

“ESPER, LOOK OUT!”

I hear the familiar twang of an arrow being loosed behind me, as time slows to a crawl in my mind. This is it. This is how I die. Not as a hero, nor a legend. Not by the hands of my scorned family, nor the hands of death itself. Killed by the arrow of someone I thought was my friend.

NO

Weather by instinct or by magical intuition, I dodge to the side of what should have been my demise.

Instead, it strikes the head of Hildon.

Chapter Sixteen: Epilogue

It’s been six months since that fateful night, when I lost the first two friends I’d known in 22 years. I suppose you’re wondering what became of me, so I’ll tell you now.

After the events of the break-in, I was graciously granted amnesty by the count. His reasoning was “We’ve all been fooled by her, and the second you realised what side you were on, you changed.” I then traveled back to the forest where I met Hildon to lay his body to rest. Within his tree (which was quite difficult for me to see into), I found a note. It read as such:

To whoever finds this note:

You have wandered into the den of the greatest 

leprechaun thief the world has ever known.

The fact that you got in here means that I am more

than likely dead. My final wish is this - bury me within

this hideout, so I may guard my hoard of gold forever.

I do as the note says, gently laying the body of my deceased comrade among the scraggly roots of his hideaway. I then ride back to the place where my adventure began, Poulder Town. I return the horses to the stable, telling the clerk that Atraxa wouldn’t be back for a while. She looks perplexed, but doesn’t question it.

That night, I walked through the doors of the Iron Fist, taking a seat at the bar. Darekson takes notice of my presence almost immediately and comes to serve me.

“So lad, how’d it go?”

“Not great,” I respond, feeling the exhaustion in my voice. I tell him in great detail what transpired over the last few days. The encounter with the octobushel, the fight against Matathias Bloo, the creation of my rapier, and the unwitting heist on an innocent man. By the end, a crowd had gathered around me at the bar. Clearly, my story was more interesting than whatever drunken conversations the other bar patrons were having.

“Oi,” one of them begins. “Great story, mate.”

“Yeah,” another one adds.

“Got any more?”

Now I have a permanent stay at the Iron Fist Tavern, playing music, showcasing magic, and most importantly, telling stories. It’s the job I’ve been looking for my whole life. I don’t know what happened to Atraxa, Matathias, or Count Harolditch, but I hope I never have to meet them again.

Author's Note

I notice that the ending is quite abrupt, which is why I'm not fully publishing this story yet. However, I have faith that when my story is complete, it will bring at least a fraction of the joy I felt creating it to the reader. CONSTRUCTIVE criticism is welcomed with open arms. Thank you for your help in furthering my mission to become a better artist and storyteller.