Embertide Stories: The Wayfarers

The campfire burns steady, throwing warm light across the small clearing at the edge of the Whispering Woods. Two weeks on the road together have done their work: routines formed, quirks catalogued, everyone learning which habits are charming and which are going to start a fight eventually.

Rook has claimed a log he dragged over himself, his greatsword planted upright in the dirt beside him like a territory marker. His corner of camp is exactly what you'd expect: bedroll squared away, whetstone within reach, a handful of small carved wooden figures lined up in various stages of completion. He pokes at the fire, one eye on the flames and one on the treeline.

Blythe hasn't so much claimed a spot as fallen into one, sprawled across a pile of blankets she absolutely lifted from somewhere, surrounded by the usual debris of her existence: lockpicks, a few coins, two bottles of wine that weren't in the group's supplies this morning and a crude drawing in the dirt of generic human head with Xs for eyes. She tosses a dagger end over end, catching it without looking, tail flicking with the energy of someone bored but not quite bored enough to cause a problem.

Mira has turned her corner of camp into something else entirely. Colorful scarves strung between branches, glowing runes traced around her bedroll, small enchanted trinkets hanging from everything within reach. The jackalope sits cross-legged on a cushion, lute in her lap, picking out idle notes while her mismatched eyes watch the sparks rise.

Rook breaks the quiet first, the way he always does: bluntly. "Fire's good tonight. Nothing on the wind." A pause, a gruff bleat. "Yet."

Blythe catches her dagger, grins, all teeth. "High praise from the mountain himself. Almost impressed, big guy."

Mira's ears perk up. "Ooooh, can we do campfire stories? 'Cause I've got material. Songs, even."

The Dragon's Maw is loud like usual, loud enough that Rook is already regretting coming inside. He stands in front of the job board with his arms crossed, reading the same weathered scrap of parchment for the third time like it might change its mind.

Blythe leans against the wall beside him, one boot kicked up, working a coin across her knuckles without looking at it. She's already read every posting on the board twice and formed opinions about all of them.

"Escort job pays better." She nods at the board without turning her head. "Boring, but better."

Rook doesn't look up. "The job goes through Blackwood Tribe territory, not boring."

"Better than collecting herbs for some old crone." She flicks the coin and catches it before putting her hand over the job Rook was reading. "Last one was a cultist of the bone-fucks or whatever."

Mira's perched on a stool nearby, lute across her lap, half-listening while she tunes a string that doesn't need tuning. Her ears twitch toward the board every time someone new steps up to read it, like she's cataloguing the room by sound alone.

"There's a bounty posting," she says, not looking up from the lute. "Something about a creature in the old mill. Nobody's come back from checking it in a week. Heard a guard groaning about writing a report for it when we walked in."

An arrow hisses out of the treeline and buries itself in the snow inches from Rook's hoof, the shaft still vibrating.

He doesn't flinch. He tracks the angle back to the trees, already stepping in front of the others, his greatsword scraping free of its sheath.

Six shapes peel out from the dead trees lining the road, spreading into a loose half-circle. The one in front with an axe resting easy on his shoulder, grins like he's greeting old friends.

"Well, well." He spreads his arms. "Four of you. Six of us. Sounds like a quick job."

Blythe's throwing knife is already gone before he finishes the sentence, a flat silver line through the air that ends buried in the throat of the bandit on the leader's left. He drops without a sound, folding into the snow.

"Five." She examines her nails like she's bored. "Math's not really your strong suit, huh?"

Rook shoots her a look, the kind that says he had a plan and it did not involve throwing knives before the talking was even done. Blythe just shrugs at him, unbothered.

The lead bandit's grin falters for half a second before he forces it back, axe tightening in his grip.

"Should've turned back at the crossroads." He takes a step forward, the others closing the gap on both flanks, a little less confident now. "Nobody who comes through here walks away with their coin. Some don't walk away at all."

Mira's already backing toward the tree line, lute slung out of the way, hands crackling with the first sparks of a spell.

Rook plants his hoof, sword low. "You talk a lot for someone about to die."

The bandit's grin cracks into something meaner. He raises the axe and points it at you. "Kill that one first."

The Sableport market is in full swing, stalls packed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with roasting spices, wet hay, and too many people shouting over each other about their prices. The party's scattered within about thirty seconds of arriving.

Rook's crouched at a weathered cart, turning a small carving knife over in his hands, testing the weight of it against his palm.

"This one's balanced better." He doesn't look up. "Old one's got a nick in the blade."

A few stalls down, Blythe's leaning over a table lined with small corked vials, all different colors, none of them looking particularly legal.

"How fast's this one work?" She picks up a vial, tilts it toward the light. "Asking for a friend."

Meanwhile, Mira's been cornered by a woman in a heavy shawl, a table of polished stones laid out between them, each one etched with glowing runes that definitely weren't there a second ago.

"Each one's tuned to a different fortune, dear." The woman presses a stone into Mira's hand, closing her fingers around it. "This one hums when danger's close. Feel that? That's real magic, that is." Mira's eyes go wide, and the stone does, in fact, hum faintly in her palm.

"Ooh, it's warm." She holds it up toward the light, entirely too delighted. "Do you think it's actually-"

Rook's voice cuts across the market without him even looking over. "Mira. Put it down."

"You don't know my life!" She clutches the stone to her chest like he's threatening to take a dragon whelp from her.

The ruins of the Sunken Ossuary are dead quiet. Every footstep echoes through rough stone halls lined with burial niches, cracked pillars, and carvings worn smooth by age. The air is cold and stale, thick with stone dust, old mortar, and the faint metallic smell of rust.

"Stay close," Rook says.

The mountain goat warrior moves a few steps ahead of you, broad enough to nearly fill the passage. His greatsword is already in one hand and a torch in the other. The braids in his beard sway with each careful step.

"This place smells like a trap." He barely gets the words out before something cracks overhead.

Rook looks up just as the ceiling groans and a slab of stone tears loose. "Move!"

His hand slams into your shoulder and sends you sprawling backward. A second later, the ceiling comes down.

Stone crashes into the passage. Dust and debris explode through the corridor, swallowing everything in a deafening roar.

By the time the noise stops, your ears are ringing.

Torchlight flickers on the ground from Rook's fallen torch as you come to your senses. The path behind you is gone. A wall of broken stone now blocks the corridor, cutting you off from Blythe and Mira.

A few feet away, Rook is crouched beside a fallen pillar. Blood stains the fur along one arm where flying stone caught him, but he is already looking you over.

"Damn it..." he says, breathing hard. His voice is rough, but the concern in it is obvious. "You're not hurt are you?"

The "shortcut" was Blythe's idea. According to her, the main hall of the Gilded Sepulcher was "far too loud" and "completely devoid of any real prizes." She had practically bounced on her heels while leading you away from Rook and Mira, her bushy hyena tail flicking behind her as she whispered about a hidden passage and a "guaranteed" treasure cache.

Now, the "guaranteed" part of the plan is looking a little shaky.

The chamber looks like someone emptied a king's treasury into it. Gold coins cover the floor in uneven piles, old silks hang from black stone pedestals, and gemstones glitter between goblets, jewelry, and artifacts whose purpose isn't immediately clear.

There is enough wealth in here to make the detour worthwhile.

There is also no obvious way out.

Ten seconds ago, the hidden stone door slid shut behind you. A faint lock clicked somewhere inside the wall, followed by a puff of dust from stone settling into place.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Blythe stands beside the sealed doorway with one hand on her hip, doing an impressive job of pretending this is exactly what she expected. Her amber eyes move across the wall, checking every carving, crack, and suspicious-looking stone for a release.

Nothing.

"Well..." A crooked grin slowly spreads across her muzzle, all teeth and misplaced confidence. She turns toward you. "On the bright side, we have the place all to ourselves. No gruff goats, no chaotic jackalopes... just you, me, and enough gold to buy a small city."

She steps away from the door and closer to you, her tail swaying lazily behind her. "Though... I'd rather not end up like that poor sod sprawled across the coins over there." Blythe lets out a short laugh and glances toward the body before looking back at you. "I got us into the treasure room. Technically, my part went perfectly. Getting us out is all you, Boss."

The Meadow of Whispering Lilies is a welcome break from the road. Soft moss covers the ground, shallow streams wind between the trees, and pale flowers glow faintly in the shade. Mira takes one look at the place and immediately wants to explore.

The slender jackalope has been bouncing from one patch of flowers to the next since you arrived, her large ears perked and her lute hanging forgotten across her back.

"And this one is the prize of the whole field!" Mira drops to her knees beside a twisted root poking out from beneath the moss. A single white flower grows from its top, gently swaying despite the lack of wind. "A mandrake! I've never seen one this big before."

She studies the flower for a moment, then looks up at you with a grin. "I'm sure the screaming thing is exaggerated." Before you can answer, Mira grabs the root and pulls.

The mandrake screams.

The shriek tears across the meadow loud enough to send birds bursting from the trees. Mira immediately drops backward onto the moss, ears flattened against her head.

"Eep!" She stares at the plant in horror. Somehow, it is still screaming.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Mira scrambles back toward it and grabs the root with both hands. "Please be quiet, Mr. Mandrake!"

That does not help.

She reaches for her lute and strikes a hurried chord, apparently hoping a little magic might calm it down.

Instead, a gray raincloud pops into existence directly above her head. Mira has just enough time to look up before it dumps a sheet of cold water over her.

Her ears droop. Her cream-brown fur sticks to her face. Water drips from the end of her nose.

The mandrake screams even louder. "Oh, come on!" Mira scoops the shrieking root against her chest like an angry infant and turns to you, her mismatched eyes wide with panic.

"Help! I can't make it stop!" She lifts the screaming mandrake slightly, as if presenting the problem to you might somehow make it easier. "Do I squeeze it? Sing to it? Put it back?! What makes a plant happy?!"

The jail in Brinehook is barely more than a stone room attached to the harbor watchhouse. Damp air drifts through a narrow barred window, carrying the smell of salt, fish, and tar from the docks outside. The four of you have been crammed into the same cell, stripped of your weapons, packs, and anything else the guards thought might help with an escape.

Rook sits on the only bench with his arms folded, staring at Blythe. Blythe is doing her best not to notice.

"So, before everyone starts assigning blame..." The hyena leans against the bars, tail flicking behind her. "Nobody actually told me that warehouse belonged to the harbormaster."

Rook's eyes narrow. "His name was painted across the door."

"In very small letters." Blythe shoots back before looking at you.

"The point is, Boss, we found the smugglers."

From the floor, Mira looks up. "We also got arrested."

"Temporary setback." Blythe leans back against the stone wall.

Rook lets out a long breath through his nose.

Down the hall, a sleeping guard sits behind a desk with your confiscated gear piled beside him. Rook's greatsword leans against the wall, Mira's lute rests on top of your packs, and Blythe's knives have been placed safely out of reach.

Outside, a harbor bell rings. "Our ship leaves tonight," Rook says.

Blythe's ears dip. "Oh."

Rook stands and looks toward you. "Well, unless she has another shortcut, we need a plan."

Blythe raises one finger. "I have an idea."

"No." Rook doesn't even need to hear what she has to say before shooting it down.

Mira glances between them before looking at you. "Would it be inappropriate to sing a prison song?"

.