to live is to bleed creation

Date: May 21 Time: Late evening Location: Sideway street in Khaggon

@efraincrayhorn​

It appeared to be a common occurence to have more shadow than light in a city like Khaggon. Especially in the less affluent parts of town, where the workers resided and the streets were less likely to be overrun with guards and other martial representatives of the law. Ash had seen more of the king’s soldiers lately on her journeys back and forth between Myrefall and Khaggon. It was the sort of travel that allowed her plenty of time to experience the goings-on that the cities and settlements might not be the most privy to.

Clad in simple street wear and a dark cloak, Ash had been meeting with a new acquaintance over a few drinks, and she may have overdone it on the drinking part of it. She wasn’t too bad off, just a little off-balance and… Oh, who was she kidding, she was obviously past the point of tipsy by now.

“You know…” Ash froze at the sound of an unfamiliar voice nearby. She turned around to see a pair of humans walk towards her, a man and a woman. “I was expecting the Liberator to be a bit tougher-lookin’ than this.”

The woman let out a dark chuckle. “It’s always the ones you least expect, isn’t it? Just ‘cause you look sweet and innocent like this doesn’t we don’t know what you’re really all about.”

Ash stopped herself from swaying too much and adopted as much of a confused face as possible. “I’m sorry… Do I know you?” She looked from the woman back to the man, playing the part of confused passer-by like she’d done plenty of times before. The Liberator… That was a new one.

The man seemed to buy it as he looked towards his partner. “Did… Do we have the right one?”

“You know those shapechangers.” She brandished the longsword at her side and threw Ash a stone cold stare. “Whether or not she’s the one, there’s no need to go back now.” The sword came out of its scabbard, pointed towards her. “You’re coming with us, or you die at our hands.”

“I… Please, I’m not who you think I am…” Her voice was shaky, partly from fear and partly to keep up the innocent act, but it seemed like they had made up their mind. “Help! Someone, please help!”

She really didn’t want to fight them and blow her cover like this, but that seemed to be what was happening here.

———

Efrain had had enough of people for the day. It had been dull and stressful and long and absolutely full of entitled, obnoxious, damnably demanding people. He marched through the winding streets of Khaggon and allowed his own muscle memory to lead him. He hadn’t gotten lost in Khaggon since he was a scared child attempting to hide from Eobald and his tutors. The nooks and crannies, winding side streets, empty buildings, and perpetual construction zones had served as perfect hiding spots. Before he’d learned to fight and to store his fear in little locked boxes in the back of his mind Efrain had hidden a lot across the city. 

He’d learned to tune out much of the city’s noises: the criss-cross of voices, the stamping of feet, the never-ending hum of life around him. What he’d never learned to ignore, or quiet, were calls of distress. Before the plea for aid even registered Efrain dropped his hand to the pommel of his sheathed rapier. He tracked the call to a nearby side-street and stepped into its mouth. The guards posted in this neighborhood were sparse this time of night. More often than not they were needed in the more populated areas. He hadn’t intended to play guard for the night, but even if his morals allowed him to ignore it, his knighthood’s allegiance did not. 

As he stepped forward, Efrain dropped his shoulders back and straightened his spine. He wanted to be ready to act, but not appear overtly threatening yet. “Trouble brewing?” he asked, tone dry and only mildly curious. 

He didn’t recognize anyone present, but that meant little. Their were two aggressors and one potential victim. His eyes glanced to each one in turn. 

Sometime in the early hours of the day, Thalra felt a trembling that shook her bed and made the paintings affixed to her bedroom walls on the third-floor rattle. But as Thalra was still half-drunk and sleepy from the evening before she’d enjoyed with Efrain and her brother, and because the shaking stopped rather quickly and seemed to have no other consequence except for a strange prickling feeling on her skin, she merely turned over in her sheets and receded her mind back into her trance. Except, as she went to do so, her mind fell into a slumber that was unlike what most elves experienced. She began to sleep, and as she did, her skin changed color from obsidian to a dark earthy green. Her hair thickened and pulsed and came alive, until slumbering white snakes curled in and around her pillow. Thalra’s eyes, which had once been pupil-less and pastel lilac in color, turned white, with yellow pupils forming behind her closed lids.

When she finally awoke, and stretched out in her bed, for a moment, she noticed nothing. Then her skin caught on the sheets, and Thalra noticed that she felt as if her bed had grown just slightly smaller, or- no, that she had grown a few precious inches in the night. Thalra’s eyes snapped open and the light filtering in from her window looked different, as if the way her eyes processed light had changed. She raised her arm up and saw green, and patches of scales.

And Thalra screamed.

This, of course, woke the snakes up, who began to hiss sleepily in annoyance. Thalra felt them slither by her neck and shrieked again, leaping from her bed and clutching her own head only to find her hands filled with thick scaled bodies, twisting around her wrists and arms. She rolled out of bed and onto her feet, clawing at her own head as hissing filled her ears almost louder than her own screams. Her back hit her dresser as she continued screaming, her mind racing. But as she looked around, her eyes fell on her bureau and she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The scream choked off in her throat as she stared for a long moment, taking herself in. Her skin had changed hue, still dark, but now with a substantial green tint. Snakes sprouted from her scalp, and wound their way around her fingers as they explored her arms. And as she looked, her mouth gaping open in horror, she saw that her tongue was split down the middle, forked, and thinner than it had been.

Lurching to the side and away from her reflection, Thalra threw her bedroom door open and raced down the two flights of stairs to the first floor where Nil’s room was and where Efrain had been staying in the guest bedroom the night before. “Nil!” she shouted, throwing open his door and finding the bedroom empty. Her heart, which had been pounding in her chest, skipped a beat as a sense of dread filled her. But she couldn’t stand there frozen, so she turned and went down the hall.

She threw open the door to the room that she’s put Efrain in for the night, hoping that he would have some idea of what to do, or any explanation of what was going on.

Efrain could rarely sleep in. His eyes would open at the very moment that the sun crept over the horizon if he wasn’t awake already from night terrors. As such, it wasn’t entirely strange for him to be blearily looking around the still foreign room Thalra had given him for the night while it was still stained with the blue light of early morning. What was strange, however, was how much larger the bed had become during the night. 

His gut grew cold and he jerked upright, but something held him down. Panic seized him and he kicked out, frantic now, and managed to shimmy out from beneath the blankets and out of the tangle of his own sleep-pants. He stood unsteadily on the soft bed, his shirt, now a dozen sizes too large, slid down his shoulders. It would have fallen off entirely if he had didn’t grip it to his chest like a woman interrupted by a scoundrel in her dressing room.

He was alive, probably, but half his regular size. The bed looked like a sea of downy blankets around him and the bureau and windows towered above him. “Fuck, fuck,” he panted as he clumsily rolled his sleeves up enough so his hands were at least usable. At least the skin of his hands remained the same deep tan and his hair remained the dark brown of oak bark, but he wasn’t much bigger than a child or a halfling. He could just barely see his face in the mirror across the room, and he appeared largely the same, though smaller. “What the hell,” he murmured. He couldn’t keep his shirt, now an over-sized dress on his smaller frame, from slipping down and revealing the curls and spikes of his tattoo peaking over his shoulders. His arms, swimming in the sleeves he usually wore to hide, showed the deep cross-hatching of decades worth of scars and chemical burns along his arms. His legs, peeking out from beneath the hem, hadn’t fared better. 

Before he could do much else beyond silently panic, Thalra screamed. If his gut had been cold before, it was utterly frozen now. He didn’t know what was happening, or what was wrong, but worry gnawed at him. He heard Nil’s bedroom door fly open and startled to attention, nearly tripping over his shirt and the blankets in an effort to get to the side of the bed closest to his own door. Part of him wished for his blade to grip, but the rapier was nearly as long as his current height and would do him no good. As his own door was flung open, he stifled his own shout as a strange yuan-ti looked back at him. He stumbled back a step, turned his ankle in the blankets, and fell back on his behind. 

“Thalra?” He asked warily as he traced the shape of her eyes and the angle of her jaw—it was her still, he’d surely recognize his friend in any form, but it was like trying to look through a grimy window: nothing fit just right. “You’ve done something different with your hair.” 

Nil found his eyes drifting back over to the portrait of Enwynn, but he stopped and looked away again. It was unfortunate, but unavoidable as Nil would never dream of asking Efrain to take something like that down or to move it. She had deserved far better than the end he’d been forced to give her. If he could survive the guilt of all of his victims over the past century, including her, he could survive being in the same room as her portrait. Though he wasn’t in any pain from his injury, at least not currently, he was grateful for the offered seat. He sat down quietly and nodded. “Yes, I’m all right,” he answered. “I’m pretty much fully healed.”

Nil hesitated ever so slightly before continuing, nerves beginning to creep their way in. “Actually, I came to ask you the same thing,” Nil told him. “She didn’t go into detail, but… Thalra told me what happened. I… wanted to check on you.” Rinnil carefully watched the face of the man in front of him as he waited for Efrain to respond. He remembered years ago, finding him almost unreadable. At first, Nil thought him to be just another arrogant noble, but he knew now there was more to him than that. But even with the knowledge he had now, Nil still felt like he barely knew him. He hoped Efrain would be able to see the genuine concern Nil had, and know that it was more than just concern because of the friendship he had with Thalra.

In his quieter moments since the fall of Arx, Efrain had wondered about the recovery of his friend. He’d asked Thalra in passing and knew that if anything were truly wrong he’d know, but still he’d worried. While the distance they maintained between them wasn’t strange, it was relieving to properly see him up and healthy. Clearly he hadn’t had further run-ins with any malicious windows. “I’m glad you’re well,” he said. 

He tried to stifle his surprise at Rinnil’s reciprocal question, but despite his efforts he knew it was written in the furrows of his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, but his stomach churned and his voice failed him. Efrain hadn’t stopped feverishly working to think about how Rinnil would react to the news of what he’d done to Thalra, but of the options he’d considered, concern wasn’t one of them. Part of him had expected anger, or disgust, but in the quiet manner that Rinnil seemed to do everything in. A larger part had expected cold silence. He wouldn’t have blamed him for any of it—he’d hurt Thalra. “Fine,” he said, belatedly and much too sharply. “I’m fine.” 

In one stilted movement he straightened and turned away. He made the mistake of looking down at the desk in front of him and his shoulders stiffened. Faces looked back up at him, faces he could have easily been and should have saved. He’d hurt Thalra, he’d been lied to and used, and used, and used, and he’d been so utterly foolish and stupid. He slammed the folders and open journals shut, accidentally bending the pages in his haste. The back of his skull ached and guilt pooled cold and heavy in his gut. “Fine,” he said again, very softly, and he forced his hands to still and rest against the top of the desk. His spine felt as tight as a bowstring and he trembled with the effort to contain his anger and his fear and his guilt. “I just, I need to sort this out.”

Avi was relieved to hear that there was an explanation for his flashes of panic, that Efrain experienced them too. If his brother could face the flashbacks and the fear and still be the man he was today, then Avi had no excuse - and if his brother was promising that it would get better eventually, then he believed that. It was the first time he actually believed that he could be okay given more time. He didn’t say as much, though. He just looked down at Weasel, who was tossing his paws around and making things difficult. 

The next few moments were difficult to parse. Efrain’s words didn’t make much sense to Avi. He couldn’t imagine what Eobald could have possibly been up to, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to come up with the right questions to help him understand. Sure, he’d known that Efrain had little in the way of a childhood, and when Thalra suggested that the geas had been set in motion by Eobald, it hadn’t been difficult for him to accept. He could understand that Efrain’s late father was an awful person - but what kind of awful? And how could the blame possibly fall on his brother, who was good and honorable and kind?

Silence hung in the air for longer than Avi should have allowed, but there were so many thoughts racing by that he didn’t know which he should speak aloud. He wanted to hear everything, of course, but there was a high possibility he would understand very little of it. He didn’t really know what Efrain did - all of his work, his chemistry, his mutagens - and he was sure that a lot of Eobald’s doings would go over his head as well. Regardless, he wanted to know. He wanted to help, and he wanted his brother to be able to tell him anything. But maybe not right now. Chances were his brother was exhausted, and if he let him explain everything at this very moment, he probably wouldn’t take a break from it the entire night. He’d lock himself away in a study and get to work immediately. Avi’s gut churned at the thought of that. He just wanted to spend some time with his brother, really.

“I want to hear everything,” he said finally, “but maybe tomorrow?” He set Weasel on the ground again before taking a step forward and shutting his bedroom door behind him. Mickey was still at his feet. “I’ll be here for you no matter what, Efrain - no matter what you find. If you’re on the hook, then I’m on the hook, too. We’ll find the best course of action together. But…we don’t have to do that tonight, right? You’ve been traveling. Are you hungry? You know, there are a lot of things I haven’t cooked for you yet.”

Efrain allowed himself to breath once more when Avriel finally began to speak. With each passing moment of silence his ribcage had seemed to constrict a little more. What he’d done was unforgivable, but he still wanted to be forgiven. He longed for it, desperately, and when Avriel told him that they were in it together, even if they weren’t truly, his eyes stung and his breath caught in his throat. 

He hadn’t really wanted to bury himself in the study again so soon. Its contents loomed in his mind and the back of his held pulsed with pain when he thought of it. He didn’t want to learn how cruel his father truly was, or how foolish and naive he’d been. Efrain didn’t want to see the delicately drawn portraits of all the children he could have been and didn’t help. At least not yet. He refused to keep himself in comfortable, stupid denial any longer. Soon he’d enter the study and refuse to come out until he’d learned all that he could to dismantle all the vestiges of Eobald’s group and their cruelties. He’d rectify whatever he could to the greatest extent that he was capable of. But for now he’d rest with his brother. 

“I don’t deserve you, Av,” said Efrain, his voice choked and weary in his relief. “You’re too good of a brother.” He wrapped his good arm around Avriel’s shoulders and drew him tight to his side before turning them towards the staircase and the promise of food. He hadn’t eaten yet that day. He couldn’t remember if he’d eaten the day prior, either, but it didn’t matter. “What’s on the menu, then?”

Hanna paused, trying to figure out how she should proceed. Was there really a need for absolute transparency? Did Hanna think that Sir Crayhorn would even understand their research or what it meant to them? Could she trust him not to misinterpret and therefore ban Hanna from the knowledge she needed? There was an instinctual reluctance to have to justify her want for knowledge, which Hanna thought should be free to anyone willing to go looking for it. Truthfully, the fact that this specific book could only be found in the private property of a well-known noble estate, stung. But Sir Efrain was already turning away, walking down the hall. While not dismissing Hanna outright, he was probably willing to continue on without her if need be.

So, Hanna caught up quickly, running the last few yards to close the distance until she was walking alongside him. “I’m Hanna. Um. Inathanna Roselake, but most people just call me Hanna.” That was a good place to start, right? Probably too much information. He likely hadn’t read any of the works she’d been noted as contributing to. He was a knight, which probably meant had more important things to focus on.  

They made their way down the stairs together. Hanna found herself looking down at the ground as they passed some of the other members of the academy. Things had been more awkward than ever since Nigh’s death. Some had offered their condolences, but Hanna was sure they had only been for politesse’s sake. Likely, they were wondering why Hanna was still here now that they had no one to follow around like a lost puppy.

“It’s interesting actually,” she began, still speaking to her shoes instead of Sir Efrain. “Duvak was largely unremarkable for most of his career. Or as unremarkable as any wizards aspiring to lichdom can be.” Hanna pushed the frame of her glasses back up the bridge of her nose before it could start to slip. “But he had the most detailed and extensive catalog of descriptions of dirt in and around the graves of fellow necromancers compared to any of his contemporaries. He’s the only reason we know why and how Corpse Flowers are brought into existence.”

Had that answered his question? Was he still worried that Hanna were trying to use this book as a way to unlocking the secret to becoming a lich? She should clarify. “I’m interested in the subject of the grave dirt. Not the necromancy. Does that answer your question?”

Efrain filed the young researcher’s name away to ask Torlamarian about later. It seemed that they had an eversion to eye contact, given their propensity to speak to their feet rather than him. Again the resemblance to the servants’ children seeped in. More often than not they preferred to speak to the floor, the vase behind him, or a point above his head. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Hanna similarly shied away from the other researchers who passed them, though many of their fellows didn’t spare them much of a glance, too absorbed in their own tasks to notice their anxiety. 

“It does. And it is interesting, thank you,” replied Efrain, his tone warmer than it had been. “I’m going home now, you may accompany me and make use of the library.” He held the door open before him for them to exit the temple. He hadn’t explored the use of grave dirt, but had read plenty of tomes on necromancy. “I’m not well versed in grave dirt, but you may find it useful to read Halorn’s book on the undead’s application in potions? She wasn’t particularly sane, and was not a lich, but she did use the grave dirt of zombies she reanimated in several experiments.” Efrain paused and twisted his mouth in distaste. “And the bone meal of skeletons as fertilizer, but that was in her vegetable garden.”

He led them steadily, and unhurriedly, through the streets of Khaggon until the quaint stone-carved buildings were replaced by sprawling estates. Again he held open the metal gate and then the front door for Inathanna. The estate was eerily quiet in the mornings. The servants hadn’t arrived yet and his family had already left for the day. He continued deeper into his home, glancing to his companion to ensure they followed, and entered the cavernous library. He didn’t stop to consult the library card catalogue and instead first went to his own desk, still characteristically piled high with military orders, financial paperwork, mutagen research, and several of his own and his father’s journals. Weasel the cat also lay splayed out across his papers, basking in the sunlight from the large windows, uncaring that several letters had been crunched beneath his weight. Efrain set the books Torlamarian had given him down with a thunk, startling his cat awake, before finally leading Hanna to the section they desired. 

“Here,” he said and pulled down their desired Duvak tome. Weasel had followed them through the hulking stacks and was presently making it a point to try and trip them both by winding around their ankles. “In this shelf there may be more books of interest to you. What spurred your interest in dirt? You needn’t answer if you don’t want to, I’m merely curious. It isn’t a common focus.” The cat meowed as if echoing his inquiry. 

Grim narrowed his eyes at the correction, because what the fuck did it matter? Supposed to help people either way. “Nah, no complaint, but I left ‘em back there. Knocked out. Someone might wanna carry ‘em somewhere or whatever you people do.” Grim didn’t know how knights or guards or whatever worked, and he didn’t really care to learn, because they were all annoying anyway. Or be much help, if he was out here protecting old men he didn’t know.

"Well it sounds like you’ve already dealt with whoever he is and that he’s received punishment. The patrol will no doubt find him wherever you left him.” Efrain didn’t interfere with the local guard’s actions unless ordered to by Rolland or if they were clearly incompetent. No matter how competent they were, though, some crime was bound to occur. “Thank you for stepping up and doing so,” he continued seriously, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. “What is your name?”

The laugh was exactly what Koda had been hoping for, and he smiled at getting the best possible reaction. “See, I knew it must have been a knight school thing or else I would have mastered it, but I was too busy looking at books.” He faked a bit of a pout, but it was clear that he wasn’t bothered about being what he was. “At least I’ve got some ways to do what I need to without having to tire myself out with all that swinging around a sword. And that’s alright, you don’t need to apologize if it wasn’t you. I try not to hold it against anyone.”

“That’s admirable of you,” said Efrain, who had an alphabetized list of his grudges. “Well, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Malakoda, but I must be on my way. If you’re ever in Khaggon perhaps we can meet again.” Efrain offered him a subdued smile, one that was a shadow of the one the man had startled out of him moments ago, and began to pass him by. “Perhaps we can discuss books in favor of insults.”

Jakoby smiled. “Well, I hope I can live up to her expectations,” he said. He continued preparing Efrain’s order as he spoke, sparing a glance over at the half elf. His hands slowed slightly as he noticed the slight change in Efrain’s demeanor. He could only imagine, as a knight, the war would take its toll on Efrain. Whether or not there was something else weighing Efrain down, he didn’t know, but Jakoby had no intention of pushing the subject or try to make Efrain talk about it when it was clear he didn’t want to. He just gave Efrain another smile as he finished wrapping everything up and presented it to the half elf. “Well, if you ever need anything, whether it’s more good meats or just a helping hand with something, you know where to find me now. And I promise, the helping hand would come free of charge.”

Jakoby’s seemingly genuine offer of help startled a light laugh out of Efrain. He rather doubted the validity of the genasi’s offer, as well as the man’s unprompted generosity, but he also knew it took a particular kind of person to wade into a war zone to offer soup and tea without promise of reward or recognition. “If this,” Efrain began as he took the offered goods and likewise passed over the payment, “Is up to my ma’s standards perhaps I’ll send her your way. She may like to know the hunting territories for this area or desire help choosing a path.” He offered Jakoby one last smile before bidding him goodbye and leaving the shop. He wondered what made the man so generous, but his musings quickly veered off towards darker business matters. 

His brother’s apology sent a painful shiver of guilt down his spine. He remembered the second the ashes started to settle, when Efrain was still terribly injured and Avi was still terribly afraid. He insisted that they start cleaning. How stupid, he thought now. It wouldn’t do either of them any favors to pretend as though it didn’t happen. Something in his stomach churned and ached, and he couldn’t just ignore that either. He’d made his brother feel as though he had to apologize for going through something traumatic. Oh, gods. He’d made it about himself.

After a moment of thinking about how he could possibly respond, Avi clapped a hand onto Efrain’s shoulder, mirroring the show of affection he’d made before giving in entirely and pulling his brother into a hug. He didn’t cling to him or cry like in Arx - thank Melora - but he hugged him as firmly as he could while minding his arm, hand flat between his shoulder blades. When he pulled away, there was still a storm in his gut. Silence wouldn’t do.

The only reason he made it out of Arx was because of Efrain and everyone else who knew his grief. He’d felt alone since then, but a realization settled upon him just as his guilt did: so many people had gone through what he was going through. Maybe not in the same way. Maybe their pain wore a different face and went by a different name, but grief was grief. He knew Efrain had faced it before; he’d lost friends to war. He’d faced this and come out the other side, so Avi knew it could be done. But he had no clue what Efrain was going through. He couldn’t even guess. Even if he knew all the details, he wouldn’t know the feelings, and he wouldn’t be able to assure him that things would look up someday. How incredibly lonely his brother must feel - and he certainly wasn’t making it any better. His grief and his fear - gods, especially his fear - were getting in the way. 

“I’ll be alright,” he said finally, ducking down to pick up Weasel who verbally protested but made no effort to move. “I want you to know that I don’t blame you for…anything. I was scared, but not of you. I get these, uh…flashes of the battlefield. Makes me feel like I’m back there. But that’s not your fault. What happened wasn’t your fault, and I understand why you needed to be away for a few days. You know, you’re allowed to… You don’t always have to be looking out for everyone else.”

Avi cleared his throat. “Just had to say that.”

Something tight and frightened in Efrain’s heart unclenched as Avi hugged him. He hadn’t lost Avi yet, he hadn’t driven him away with his ornery nature or reticence towards affection. He hadn’t scared him off when his mind had become a cage and he a puppet. He squeezed back as tightly as he dared with his uninjured arm even as the broken one protested the stress. 

Efrain had no reply, no retort, in response to Avi’s careful words. He’d been raised to do one thing: protect and serve. Even if he now knew that the duties Eobald had touted were farces, he couldn’t just stop serving and protecting. The very marrow of his bones compelled him to look out for others, especially those he cared for. Efrain swallowed and stared down at his boots.

“It’s a reaction to trauma.” Efrain’s voice was still thick and weighed down by guilt. “I get them too,” he explained. A mirthless, empty laugh escaped him. “All the time, actually. I’m sorry I triggered one.” Efrain patted Weasel who burbled and swiped at his sleeve. The cat was content enough to wriggle and pout in his brother’s arms. “They’ll ease, eventually, Avi. I promise you that.” He finally met his brother’s gaze again. 

“I’m so sorry. You might not blame me, and I can’t say how thankful I am for that, but I’m not as forgiving as you.” Efrain glanced down the hall towards the study for the briefest of moments before turning away as if stung. “I want to be honest with you, Avriel. I’ve been so stupid. I don’t even know the depths of that stupidity yet, but Eobald wasn’t who he said he was. I was a tool for him. And his work was cruelty and I didn’t realize it. It will take a great deal of time to explain what I found, and what I believe he was doing, and I’ll explain it all to you if you wish, but just know that I didn’t know of any of it even though I’m complicit.” He opened and closed his mouth as words alluded him. “I ran because I was scared of that realization. And I’m still scared of what more I’ll find out. And most of all I was scared that I’d lost you because of it, or that I might still. I’ll never be finished apologizing for hurting you.” Efrain knew that he was rambling and that everything he’d said had been disjointed and rushed, but he didn’t know how else to explain and apologize at the same time. 

The warforged’s thoughts filtered into Thalra’s mind through the bright band of connection like broken up bits of a puzzle that she had to fit back together before she could understand the whole of what he was saying. He lifted his chin up and she saw the damage that looked like it had been inflicted by a cruel hand and Thalra felt a sudden surge of fury. The warforged’s thoughts reminded Thalra of the children she used to care for back in those years at the brothel, their voices curious and fragile and wondering in a world that was so big and wide that it could shatter everything. Even if the warforged looked big, Thalra couldn’t help but think he was very young. We are absolutely going to help you, she sent back, trying to make her thoughts sound gentle, and managing to barely hold back her outrage and anger from also surging through the line. And your maker is never going to touch you ever again. He sounds like a very nasty man.

Thalra didn’t break the connection, but turned her head to look at Efrain. She tried to keep it off her face how upset she was, but felt as if she failed miserably with how drunk she still was. “He says his maker hurt him and he doesn’t have a name.” Her head still felt so jumbled, which was frustrating seeing as Efrain had sobered almost immediately. “Oh, Efrain I shouldn’t have had so much wine, he’s just a baby, how do we help him? We can’t leave him here.”

Thalra wrung her hands nervously, looking from Efrain to the warforged again. “I’m leaving the connection open for you, detka.” Undercommon was a harsh language, but it still had a word for child, and Thalra felt it slip out of her mouth instinctively. “If you want to say anything just send it to me and I’ll tell Efrain.”

Rage bloomed in Efrain’s chest as he watched the warforged bare his throat and as Thalra explained the situation. He tried to hide his fury, but failed miserably and could only assume that Thalra was masking hers. He wondered what had inflicted the damage. Had it been a spell or had the bastard simply taken a hammer to him. Hearing Thalra refer to him as a child snuffed out his anger in one fell swoop. She was probably right, in all likelihood he was only a few years old. He deserved better than rage. 

“Leaving him here wasn’t an option,” he said gently and squeezed her shoulder. “Why don’t we go back to our inn for the night.” He had been addressing Thalra, but stopped and turned back to the warforged. “Is that alright? We can protect you in the inn, and then we can go someplace even safer, but we can’t stay here.” They would need to speak more strategically about what to do with him, but Thalra was still drunk and the vineyard workers could discover them at any time. 

———

He jumped as he was addressed once again. ‘Please, yes,’ he said and nodded. He wanted to get out of the cold damp of the dead place. Without thinking he surged to his feet with a cacophonous shriek of metal on metal. He towered over the both of them and for a moment he felt a little braver, but then the man stood as well with a wary look and he deflated. ‘Sorry, sorry,” he said and ducked his head. ‘The graves are frightening,’ he mumbled, as much as he could mumble in his thoughts, to explain his eagerness.

He didn’t know why they wanted to help. Maybe they wanted to trick him and have him for themselves, but hopefully they wouldn’t try to take him apart. They wouldn’t, would they? ‘Why are you helping?’ he asked, looking only to Thalra. She seemed nicer and less angry. 

———

It was difficult to get a solid read on the being, but he trusted Thalra’s judgement. Even her drunk judgement. He held his hand out to her to help her get to her feet too, but kept watch on their newest companion. “Let’s go then. It’s only a few hours till dawn.”

Koda let himself grin. “Oh, you know, they usually like to look at me like…” Koda squared his shoulders and over-dramatized a sneer. “And I’ve met plenty of soldiers.” Hazard of coming from a line of them…and from hanging around their battlefields. Oh well. “You don’t act like you’re better than me for being able to swing a sword.”

Malakoda’s impersonation of a snide, pissy soldier startled a laugh out of Efrain. He truly couldn’t see how Malakoda’s father thought he could draw a warrior out of this man. “Ah, yes, I’m familiar with that look. I’ve used it myself before, to be honest. We all learn it in bitchy knight school, you see.” He sobered somewhat and squared his own shoulders, but more out of instinct than an attempt to intimidate or seem self-important. “I’m sorry others have tried to make it seem that way. But I think we both know it isn’t true.”

Grim felt himself huff, and one hand came up to nudge at his nose, a test he was pretty used to. “Not broke,” he grumbled, before standing a bit straighter, just because…he knew he wasn’t supposed to be like this all the time in the city. One day he’d get used to…manners or whatever they were called. “Look, this is from stoppin’ some guys from stealin’ from an old man a few shops down, you’re…guard, right?”

"A knight, but yes,” replied Efrain with a calm shrug. He knew plenty of his fellows would puff out their chest and scold the man for mistaking them for a simple, lowly guard. Efrain didn’t have nearly enough energy to be so up in arms, however, and it was an easy mistake. “I can show you to the guard station if you’d like to make a proper complaint. I’m afraid robberies and attempted robberies have become more common as of late.”

Hanna raced up the stairs leading to the upper floors of the temple, breath coming in short, sharp gasps as the muscles in their legs burned with exertion. If they continued on like this, they would likely begin to feel a painful stitch in their side from lack of oxygen. It was hardly a distraction though; their mind was only focused on one goal, and everything else seemed to fall by the wayside like it always did when Hanna got like this.  They skidded around a corner, boots making a terrible squealing noise on the marble floors, and slowed down as they got closer to Sir Torlamarian’s office. Their eyes darted down the different hallways, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other half-elf that Hanna had only seen in passing before.

Finally, they heard another set of footsteps just down the hall and around the corner, though they were getting more and more distant. Hanna could tell by the pristine rhythm of them though, that whoever it was had been trained in the military, a set of footsteps used to falling in with other soldiers. A very promising lead. Hanna started running again.

And just as they suspected, as Hanna rounded the corner, there was Sir Crayhorn- the junior, his adopted father having died in battle a little over a year ago- looking down at something in his hands as he walked in the opposite direction. “Sir Crayhorn,” Hanna called, hurrying to catch up with him, still very out of breath. When he seemed to notice him, the words just seemed to spill from their mouth. “I need a book on necromancy!”

It was only then at that moment, that they realized this was in no way a proper way to initiate conversation with anyone, but especially not a knight of the crown. Hanna skidded to a halt about ten feet from Sir Efrain, eyes going wide as they realized exactly what they’d done without thinking. “I mean- sorry, I skipped some steps. It’s a specific book. Duvak’s Unofficial History of Recorded Lich Tomes. Um. We have a copy in one of the restricted sections of the archives, and normally I’d have access to that, except one of my…” Hanna struggled to find the words, hands waving through the air as if trying to catch some elusive invisible butterflies. “… one of my colleagues has had it checked out for months now. But one of the archivists told me that you might have one of the other copies in your library.” Then the words ran out, and, feeling lightheaded, all Hanna was able to add was a pitiful extra, “Sorry.”

“Uh,” replied Efrain with utmost eloquence. “Necromancy?” He’d never met this particular half-elf, that much he knew. It wasn’t entirely unusual for the archivists to send researchers to the Crayhorn estate’s library and the frequency at which it occurred had steadily increased since Eobald’s demise (as he was generally reticent or outright hostile about loaning valuable books) and had spiked considerably ever since Efrain had officially joined the temple. He suspected Torlamarian had something to do with it. Still, Efrain had no idea who this person was. He regarded them coolly, letting his gaze drag over their attire and stance before finally landing back at their eyes. He felt rather than allowed one of his eyebrows to arch. 

All in all, they didn’t seem cruel or insane or, Aureon forbid, cruelly insane. Merely they appeared to be winded and excitable. They reminded him a bit of his servant’s children who would periodically sprint to their parents to animatedly tell them about the game of hide-and-seek or tag they’d just played between gulps for air and long stretches where words and proper grammar alluded them. He couldn’t help but like the strange, nervous stranger already. 

“You’ve skipped quite a number of steps,” he finally said. “What is your name? And why do you require anything of Duvak’s?” Slowly Efrain turned to continue on his way down the hall, but he left enough room beside him for the other to join him and walked much slower than he had been. “I have it, yes, among several others. What do you hope to glean from it?”

In the past few days, Avi hadn’t taken much time to reflect on the events that had driven his brother away. In fact, he hadn’t taken time to reflect on much of anything. Arx was still a black hole in his brain, sucking up parts of himself that used to be so distinct. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Maybe he could stand to be a bit different, but maybe the timing was all wrong. Given how preoccupied he’d been with just getting by, he couldn’t actually tell how he felt about the past month. 

Miraculously, Avi had managed to add a few bold strokes to a painting over the past day or two. He’d crammed his easel in the far corner of his room, and had stared at the painting he’d started a month ago for an hour before adding to it. It looked messy now; he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. It was, however, better to mope in front of a canvas than underneath his covers. He’d moped all over the mansion, really, and this was perhaps the least uncomfortable place to mope. Maybe he didn’t have to reflect; maybe he was already making progress.

His brother’s voice broke through a shell that had been there since the study. If he’d been upset at him before - for running off, or even for that which he couldn’t control - it didn’t matter now. He came back. It’d only been a few days; he hadn’t been abandoned. He hastily made his way to the door, Mickey following close behind. When he opened the door, when he saw his brother’s face, he knew he’d missed him. Even if it was just three days, he now recognized a remorse that he’d managed to ignore before. He should have handled things differently, and he should have thought more about everything instead of burying every unpleasant emotion. 

Luckily, none of that seemed to matter much now. He hadn’t driven him away for good, and he had time to apologize once he could sort the words out in his head. “Efrain, did you head out for a bit? I hardly noticed- Did you head to the shops?” He wiped his hands off on his pants and broke character in an instant, huffing out sharply before scanning Efrain for any injuries or ailments. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he replied on instinct before shutting his mouth with an audible click. The lie made his mouth taste sour and his throat to constrict. “Well, terrible actually. I’m a bit better now, though.” His arm was still in a sling, but the bone was slowly knitting itself back together, and the throbbing in his head had lessened. Efrain loitered in the hall, his hand fidgeting at his side. How do you apologize for such a betrayal? He’d already apologized profusely for being too weak to resist the geas, but what felt more unforgivable was his abandonment after the fact. He’d left his brother behind to lick his own wounds and to panic like a coward. He felt his cheeks heat as he let the silence linger for too long. As he gaped like an undignified fish, he examined Avriel. He couldn’t see any physical injuries, but for once he couldn’t tell what was going on in the young man’s head. Perhaps he was disgusted at what Efrain had done, or pitied him, or perhaps he still feared him. Gods, he just hoped Avi could forgive him. For any of it. 

A meow from down the hall saved him from complete embarrassment and he looked up to see Weasel tottering towards them. The cat burbled and wound around his ankles. Immediately the knot in his chest eased. Weasel moved from his legs to Avriel’s, winding round and round his and burbling all the while. Clearly Efrain now had competition to be Weasel’s favorite. 

“I’m sorry,” Efrain blurted out. “I’m sorry I ran out after we looked in study. I should have checked to make sure you would be okay.” Between one moment and the next Efrain dropped all pretenses. He didn’t want to maintain this careful, tentative distance between him and his brother because of Eobald. It still made his stomach churn to think about harming Avriel, but he couldn’t let it destroy their budding brotherhood. He remembered the way his baby brother had shied away from him, though. He remembered the terror in his eyes. He never again wanted to be a source of fear for Avriel. He’d rather die himself. Slowly, to give him time to move away if he desired, Efrain reached forward across the distance between them to clasp his shoulder. He felt real beneath his fingers and breathtakingly alive. “How are you? Are you alright?”