NPC Says

//

The three enter the ballroom without much issue, thanks to Diana’s presence and winning smile. The doormen don’t seem to mind that she’s not on the invitation list, and they accept her explanation of a relation to some obscure noble from The Forbes who sends his apologies for sending his sister in his place because he is ill. The doormen’s eyes are fixated on Diana as they agree, yes, there has been an awful illness going around, hasn’t there? The stern nod that Lex gives the doormen when they are permitted entrance is thankfully not very far from her actual mood. Meanwhile, George’s look of joy and quick reach for a flute of champagne from a floating tray are entirely his actual mood. 

Screw hiding, we should do this all the time! George thinks to Diana and Lex via their modified Zechman stones. Based on Lex’s eyeroll and Diana’s smirk, they both heard George loud and clear. At least I know these things work, George thinks. Wait, did you guys hear that too? Can you hear ALL my thoughts? Butts butts butts. No?

The room is massive, and unfortunately, George was right; on the main level, nothing but wide gulfs of open floor (save banquet tables and scores of people, but no walls or permanent structures to hide behind) separate the marble support columns throughout the room. The room is brightly lit by a chandelier that hangs from the glass domed ceiling, and every possible shadow is expelled by illumination. Lex scans the tall, domed ceiling and the second floor balcony that wraps around the entire room. Past metal banisters, servers hurriedly push carts and carry trays of food and dirty dishes past each other in what seems to be a familiar, coordinated chaos. Why couldn’t we be up there instead? Lex wonders.

So we can mingle among the nobles freely, Diana thinks pointedly. Besides, this is how we get free drinks.

Diana takes a flute of champagne herself and sniffs it cautiously before taking a sip. “Well, while we are here, I think some words of congratulations are in order,” she says aloud to her companions. She flags down an Unseen Servant with a tray and says, without missing a beat, “Yes, a glass of water for my guard here, hm?” The glass of water in question appears within seconds and is shoved into Lex’s hands.

With her eyebrows (and her glass) raised at the other two, Diana’s voice sounds loudly and clearly in their heads. To Georgie! Who’s going to make the most adorable husband. And who is also going to make me godmother of his children if he and Nalla decide to have children. She winks playfully at George for emphasis.

Lex has nothing to add but laughter and they drink. Even as they walk through the lair of the enemy, sharing a moment like this is nice, however briefly it will last.

Let’s try to keep interaction to a minimum, yeah? Lex thinks to the others. Speak when spoken to but let’s not go out of our way to call attention to ourselves. The less they get out of us to remember us by, the better.

Seven….eight...no, that one doesn’t count. Only seven.

George!

What? Oh, sorry, you can hear that? I’m counting how many men have their hands on women’s butts. Five out of the seven are unwelcome, you can tell by the body language. Gods, it’s only been like 5 minutes.

GEORGE.

Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Good luck trying to stop people from talking to Diana.

As if on cue, a light-skinned brunette human man in a fine, embroidered silk jacket approaches Diana with (what he probably thinks is) a polite (but actually smug) grin. Whether instinctively or playing her part, Lex steps between them before the man can get any closer. 

“Steve, please, let him pass,” Diana says to Lex. Trying not to be thrown for a loop by the name assigned to her, Lex steps back with a nod. 

Steve? Alright. Lex thinks.

It’s the first male name she could think of, can you blame her? George shoots back. “George” would’ve been a good second choice though.

“Donavan Shrub,” the man says, extending his hand to Diana. She shakes it with a demure grin and attentive expression. “Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you at any of these other get-togethers.” 

“My brother usually attends these events on my family’s behalf,” Diana says, still smiling. “I am here in his place, as he’s fallen ill.” It was a pre-planned excuse, but one that has seemed to be unexpectedly successful as a talking point tonight.

“Ah yes, yes, dreadful bug that’s going around, yes,” Donavan Shrub says. “They say it does not discriminate among the rich and poor but affects us all. Don’t worry, I’ve washed up thoroughly before shaking your hand, and yours was the first hand I have touched since I arrived here.” He follows this statement up with a smarmy grin.

Ugh, Lex thinks.

But he didn’t rule out touching HIMSELF, George thinks. 

Diana does not have to feign curiosity, which she voices on behalf of herself and the others as well. “A dreadful bug?” she asks.

“Oh yes, seems to be something seasonal but a pinch worse,” Shrub says. “You...haven’t heard about it?” Lex hates the wry, almost-pitying smile that drifts onto the man’s face when he asks the question. The man puffs himself up, ready and excited to explain. Lex wishes she was still drinking so she could tolerate this more easily.

“Word has it that it started on the South Coast,” Shrub says knowingly. “We weren’t too worried at first because it started among the commoners. But then servants got it, then our people started getting it. Nothing a quick Lesser Restoration won’t chase away briefly, but it keeps coming back! Imagine that!”

“Yes, imagine that,” Diana repeats, still grinning and matching the man’s smile. 

Please let me punch him, Lex thinks, almost in a groan.

Shhh, she’s on a roll! You wanted intel? This is how you get it.

“And is that why Lord Cliffside has called for us?” Diana asks innocently, seemingly ignoring the thoughts of her companions. “Will he be here himself tonight to address the issue?”

Donovan Shrub laughs again and shines the same amused, almost-pitying smile. “Oh honey,” he says, reaching a hand to touch Diana’s chin. Lex slaps his hand away and could’ve sworn she saw Diana’s jaw go momentarily rigid as his hand neared her face.

“No touching,” Lex grunts, in what she supposes is a High Coastal accent.

Lex, that was the WORST fake accent I’ve ever heard in my life, George thinks. Now it’s his turn to almost groan.

Undeterred, the man continues but thankfully keeps his hands to himself. “It’s okay, it’s okay, your brother is usually the one who does the diplomatic meetings,” he reasons. “No, Chancellor Cliffside called us here because he says he has something to show us.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.” Donovan Shrub stretches with the same smug, knowing grin. “My dad and uncles haven’t been too happy with the way things are going. How do you let anarchists capture an ENTIRE city, right?” He snatches another flute of champagne off of a passing tray. “My grandfather never would have let that happen when he was Chancellor.” He pauses and looks at Diana pointedly over the rim of his glass, as if waiting for her to catch the reference. “My grandfather --” he starts to repeat.

Before Diana can answer, the three can see a blue spark crackling around the flute in George’s hands.

“George,” Lex hisses aloud at him. She knows better to keep her tone to that of alert and not accusation; this is undoubtedly his Wild Magic Surge going awry, and he’s very sensitive about it.

Before they can check Donovan Shrub’s face to see if he’s noticed the sparks, the room is abruptly plunged into pitch black darkness. Lex expects her darkvision to adjust as it usually does, but it doesn’t; she can’t see anything.

Shit shit shit sorry guys, Diana and Lex can hear from George in their heads. All around them, they can hear the gasps and yells of affronted, threatened nobility. 

“Is this a JOKE, Cliffside?” one voice bellows, followed by angry murmuring.

Did Shrubby here see George’s sparks? Lex thinks to the other two hurriedly.

No, Diana thinks back quickly, but move anyway. Protocol 5. I got George.

With that flash of understanding, the three move with lightning speed in the still-dark room. 

“Protocol 5” is shorthand for a quick position change; Lex supposes if that she cannot see with her darkvision, neither can Diana, so it’s anyone’s guess how she plans to move George from their current position. 

Lex, for her part, flings some ball bearings on the floor as far across the room as possible to divert any possible attention away from George’s prior sparking. It seems to work; a yelp and crashes of glass and ceramic suggest that a humanoid server has just taken a tumble over the ball bearings. 

She darts from her original spot as far as she can get, feeling her way around the pitch blackness and avoiding any warm bodies around her. It works, mostly; she still bumps into a few people but mumbles apologies and calls out for her “employer” in her High Coastal accent.

More shrieks follow, but before chaos can entirely envelop the room, the bright illumination returns as quickly as it departed. What seemed to last several agonizing, confusing minutes to Lex, Diana, and George was likely only a few seconds in real-time. 

With the lights back on, Lex can take stock of whatever happened with the lights off. There is, of course, a fallen tabaxi, on the floor with shattered plates and food and glasses next to him several feet away. Most people are just frozen on the spot, presumably afraid to move when they could not see. Anyone in the middle of movement now continues whatever they were doing, looking confused and speaking to their companions in hushed, suspicious whispers. A few very serious, older noblemen are now muttering among each other, looking around and seemingly very disturbed by this development. 

Thankfully, George and Diana are now on the other side of the room, leaving Donovan Shrub wheeling around and looking completely confused.

Trust me, Lex can hear Diana say in her mind, I hated everything about that conversation. You’re welcome for getting all of that information, Lex. You owe me.

// 

Lex wishes she could say the rest of the night was uneventful. The ideal situation would have been gathering the needed information and leaving as soon as feasible.

Tonight is not set up to be one of those nights. 

Over and over, Donovan Shrub once again finds his way back to the group and continues to fawn over Diana while also explaining things to her as if she were a child. The most they could do to shake him was to get involved in larger conversations and try to remain inconspicuous as others commanded the attention of the group. Donovan Shrub tried to pull Diana’s attention away for a private conversation several times, but she politely rebuffed him at every instance to “listen” to whoever was speaking to the group at large. 

Thankfully, this enabled them to gather the information that they needed beyond Donovan Shrub’s bravado. Surprisingly, the accounts of other nobles corroborated his story; there was indeed an illness sweeping through the southern part of the country that first started among the commoners but eventually worked its way into the noble estates. Those who had gotten sick experienced fevers, lethargy, and respiratory distress. A few of the elderly, both rich and poor, succumbed to the illness. Restoration spells from even the most esteemed clerics would chase the symptoms away for a time, but the illness would nonetheless return. It was a mystery as to how to eradicate the illness, other than staying away from those were known to be infected. And yet the spread continued, despite those precautions. It was curious.

The other tidbit of information that they find just as useful is about tonight’s event itself. Apparently, Cliffside had called for a congregation of the nobles on the Mineral Coast in Southport in response to some of their collective dissatisfaction with the revolution. Cliffside, in response, intends to unveil some new pieces regarding the war effort, to assure the nobles that the rebellion would eventually be crushed in due time. 

Even standing around now, the nobles do not seem certain that Cliffside will follow through on that promise. It takes all of Lex’s restraint to not grin that she and the others had been causing so much frustration as intended. There would be more chaos coming their way, if she could just talk to Sera and propose some new ideas to her. 

Still, their collection of information is punctuated with interruptions. Throughout the night, George’s Wild Magic Surge continues to falter and plunge the room into complete darkness several times. At the first sight of a faint blue sparking light, the three exchange a look and are already walking in different directions before the lights go out. As Diana and George attempt to move away in the darkness, Lex creates a distraction around and near anyone who may glimpsed the blue light. The distractions are benign, of course: a beverage falling into someone’s lap, someone’s chair pulled out a few inches too far as they attempted to sit right before everything went dark, an instrument from the live band falling over.

Good thing we didn’t do Invisibility, George thinks glumly as they’ve repositioned again for the fifth time. I should probably leave, I’m a liability here.

If you don’t feel safe here, George, we can leave, Diana thinks. I think we got the information we needed.

We don’t know what Cliffside is going to unveil, Lex shoots back at the two. Her mind then races with all of the calculations, the possible outcomes, the pros and cons in an instant as she considers her friends’ words. It’s a reflex that she cannot resist and she hopes, if George can hear these thoughts, that he does not take any of these thoughts as a reflection of her opinion of him. At least one of those mental pathways and scenarios did entertain the possibility that the more these Surges continued, the harder it would be to keep the attention off of them.

Good grief, is that what happens in your head, Lex? George thinks to the two. That’s too many things to be thinking all at once, were those even separate thoughts? So he didn’t seem to notice after all. 

We’re almost done here, George, Lex tries to assure him. There have been enough appetizers and drinks, Cliffside won’t let these guys get too drunk and rowdy if he wants to calm them.

Diana shoots Lex a stern look. But before Diana can speak or think, a group appears at the top of the grand staircase. There are over a dozen guards - private it seems, not Orange Battalion  - surrounding a humanoid individual and something large and covered in an even larger tarp cloth. 

The rest of the room sees it too, it seems; all of the murmurs fall to a hush as everyone’s heads turn at the sight. 

An older human man steps from behind his group of guards. He is, as expected, adorned in the finest black silk. A ruby amulet hangs from a gold chain around his neck as he surveys the enormous room, pleased that his presence has commanded everyone’s silence and attention. 

“Good evening to all,” Petyr Cliffside says, his voice effortlessly projecting. Even the nobles who had openly grumbled about him earlier keep their silence while he speaks. “I thank you for your utmost confidence in this administration's efforts. I assure you that your faith is not unfounded.”

At this, the guards behind Cliffside push another man forward from their cluster. He falls to the ground at the landing at the top of the staircase in front of Cliffside and his guards, with coughing racking what is clearly a fatigued frame. Although he’s lost weight, Diana, George, and Lex would recognize his scraggly hair and small stature anywhere.

“Garrick,” Diana breathes aloud.

Cliffside’s men part as Cliffside steps among them and pulls down the tarp with great gusto to reveal a massive bipedal metallic construct twice the size of the tall men surrounding it. It is mostly faceless, save for one eyeball that darts around unnaturally, fixing on one thing and then the next. Its heavy-armor is spiked and bears the unmistakable appearance of near-impenetrability. Even with a single step, this construct shakes the room.

Among the murmuring that has started, one of the dissenting noblemen in the crowd finally finds his voice.

“Great display,” the voice calls out. “But does it do anything?”

Two more heavy footsteps shake the ballroom as the construct steps closer and looms over Garrick’s huddled form.

Even from their distance, Lex, George, and Diana can see the sneer on Cliffside’s face. 

Diana snorts as she hovers over a warm peppermint beverage and wraps herself in a blanket. The chill whips mercilessly through the hills and it’s a miracle it’s not putting their fire out. George had insisted that they were already in Southport and might as well get proper rooms at the inn. Lex insisted that the best vantage point to keep an eye on The Falcon’s Nest was on this hill, so here they are.

“You think those will work?” Diana asks, nodding at the bracelets. 

“No better time than the present to find out!” George replies brightly. “A stone is attached to each of these so if the Zechman’s prototypes do what he said they could do, we can communicate by thought while we all wear these. Besides, I was already making friendship bracelets for us, so, y’know, two birds, one stone, amirite?”

“Speaking of birds,” Diana says, watching one swoop down next to George. “Incoming, Georgie.”

George sets down the bracelets and gingerly retrieves the letter attached to the bird. “No magic tricks that will explode us both, Buttercup?” he asks the bird. “Your name is Buttercup, by the way, please let me know if you’d prefer a different name.” But there are no exploding magic tricks, and the newly-dubbed Buttercup nips affectionately at George’s thumb before taking flight once again.

“I think they liked the name,” George says to Diana with a grin. “Ooo it’s a letter from Nalla.”

At this, Lex turns her attention from The Falcon’s Nest in the distance. She glances back and forth between her friend and the target location, hoping to gather some information from George’s facial expressions alone as he reads Nalla’s letter; although Sera had departed from this team, they were still one of the teams on the field and they had to be kept track of, especially after what seemed to be a disastrous run-in the other day. 

(And even if Sera had left them, they were still her friends. Lex knew that. He had made a silent promise to keep looking after them, as Sera had asked).

Lex watches as George nods along at the beginning of the letter, then raises his brow in a furrow of concern that Lex knows is much like her own. As he reads on, though, his eyes get larger and a wide grin spreads upon his face until he gets to the end. Upon finishing the letter, he tosses it into the air with a loud “WAHOOOO!!” that echoes throughout the hills and he falls backward off of the log he was sitting on.

“George, shhh!” Lex and Diana warn.

“Hey, life is short,” he shoots back at them, still grinning and picks himself up from the ground. “You should take note of that, Lex.”

“What?” Lex asks, genuinely baffled.

Without answering, George picks up his Group Stone (the quickest way to communicate his response to Nalla; this was important): “Nalla! YES, OF COURSE! I would’ve asked you already but was worried it was too soon and didn’t want to freak you out, Lex also needs to get her butt moving on this too, just sayin’.”

George looks up from the Stone, still beaming. Diana, now starting to smile herself, seems to have caught on. Lex, with the same serious expression as always, maybe hasn’t caught on.

“You went over the word limit again, George,” Lex says. “It’s nightfall and I haven’t used my Stone so you can borrow mine to finish your message. Are they alright? What am I supposed to be taking note and getting moving on?”

Diana shoots a look at Lex and rolls her eyes. “Gods, you’re hopeless when you’re not doing revolution things.”

“What?’ Lex asks, still genuinely baffled.

“I’m gettin’ married! To the amazing-est woman!” George announces, voice booming and echoing again. Diana has already hopped to her feet to wrap George in a tight congratulatory hug before it can register for Lex.

“Oh….ohhhhhh!” Lex hops to her feet as well once she belatedly pieces everything together. “Wow! That’s amazing!” Once Diana is done with her hug, Lex awkwardly pokes in to offer her hand to George to shake.

“Oh sheesh, c’mere, you dope.” George yanks Lex’s hand and arm toward him to envelop her in his signature bear hug.  

“I’m happy for you, George,” Lex says, the breath being squeezed from her. “When will it happen? We’re invited, I hope?”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess you are,” George says, giving her a playful shove out of the hug. “Next time I see her! Whenever that is! And wherever, I suppose. I’m not sure what our schedule looks like beyond --” He gestures broadly at Southport below them.

“Aw no, we don’t have celebratory drinks!” Diana says, looking through her bag. “Why’d you have to stop drinking, Lex?”

“Uhm, my liver was probably permanently damaged when I was impaled, died, and was resurrected?”

“Oh, don’t be such a party pooper, Lex, we’re focusing on George now.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, we can grab drinks when we’re down in the city,” George says. “We’re crashing a ritzy event for intel, might as well drink their booze, eh?”

“We are?” Lex asks. “I thought we’d be hiding for the most part. We teleport into a storage room, sweep for traps, and stick to the shadows around whatever gathering they have?”

“I don’t know that our usual will be feasible, buddy,” George says, laying out a roll of parchment and dragging a thick, hairy index finger across the schematic. “I’ve been to this place and even you couldn’t sneak around. See the atrium and ballroom? All massively open floor. You know how that kind of architect crap is a point of pride for the rich guys.”

“Invisibility?” Lex offers.

“But then only two of us could go,” Diana points out. “I’m not comfortable with that. And if Invisibility drops in a crowded, open hall of nobles and their personal guards — “

“—we’d be sitting ducks,” Lex finishes for her, glumly. “We gotta get in, though.”

“Lex—“ Diana starts. 

“No, there’s no way we’re gonna let this big of a gathering go—“

“Exactly.”

The two women turn to look at George who is now glowing even more with an idea that has overtaken him. Judging by the absolute glee on his face, Lex is already grimacing. 

“Oh no,” she groans. 

The very-attractive cleric definitely knows how to party; Garvin somewhat recognizes her, supposes he’s seen her around by way of Lex. The goliath woman seems to be no stranger to these kinds of celebrations, but carries a hint of her mind being...elsewhere? And the red-headed paladin, though clearly not a seasoned partier, has taken to diving headfirst into the drunken merriment.

For his part, Garvin observes the festivities quietly in a corner once he’s fended off all the questions from his comrades. What the hell happened at that warehouse? Where’s Lark’ai? Why the hell are you BALD? Fair questions, not all of which he had answers to. 

That warehouse was a known holding location for some of the prisoners scheduled to be sent to Azkatraz; that much, Garvin knew. Word had it that, with that information in mind, rebels in the neighborhood were immediately on the scene after the explosion. To hold off the Orange Guard, Qasar Vindoth threw down a Wall of Fire as dozens of injured and near-dead detainees were pulled from the wreckage. Garvin arrived on the scene just in time to start shuttling the injured to safe places in Hunter’s Point. Anything farther was too risky. 

Lark’ai’s fate was unknown until a few hours ago. Lex’s contacts had gathered the news from the newest member of their group, an (allegedly ex) Orange Guard, no less. Garvin made sure to keep an eye on her after allowing her to enter The Raven Sorceress, which was a large reason why he chose to drink less and maintain a low profile for the night. If there was any need to keep her out of The Raven Sorceress after their group departed, Garvin presumed he watched her enough to take in her likeness for a drawing for an exclusion ritual. The whole trouble would be getting a mage or another powerful magician to do the ritual. He knew who he should ask about that. Which reminded him, he had a lot of other things to report to and ask Lex.

Garvin flags down old Halcyon Fortwith under the pretense of starting a conversation. They oblige with their usual broad, friendly grin, but Garvin then murmurs beneath the noise to keep an eye on the human woman who looks very out of place in a room full of the rabble she would ordinarily be enforcing the “law” against. In any case, the goliath woman that the human woman accompanied strikes up a conversation, so that’s another set of eyes on her. 

Excellent, excellent. 

Satisfied that he could leave her there without issue, Garvin retreats upstairs through the narrow, winding hallways and stairways of The Raven Sorceress. The floorboards groan with every step, and sneaking around in this dank, dirty place was nearly impossible. Luckily, the rebels had no need to sneak around one another; if this hideout were ever infiltrated, the wards would be triggered, stealth went out the window, and full-on chaos in battle was expected. That was, perhaps, one reason he was less paranoid about letting in this soldier; any number of the wards and enchantments were bound at some point to pick up on some level of treachery, if there were any.

Such a strange thing to always to keep a watch for. Garvin wonders if he’ll ever rest again after all of this is done, if he’ll ever stop being on alert like this.

It was weird, being on the frontlines of this sort of thing. Or, rather, sneaking and weaving in and out of all the lines at all levels to get information and people where they needed to be. Garden-variety thievery was one thing, and above all else, how he met the man who was now his husband, but the highly-coordinated latticework of rebellion spying was a whole other level. 

But he did it. He believed in the cause. He believed in Lex. He honored Steve’s memory by doing so. 

On the second-to-highest floor of The Raven Sorceress, Garvin nudges the halfling guard asleep on the stool in front of the closed door. 

“Hey, I need the Communication Circle Room,” Garvin grunts. 

“We’re out of the components needed for the ritual,” the halfling says sleepily. 

“Don’t worry about it, I have them. Got everything I need.”

“Fine, fine. But I’m going back to sleep in case this is one of those sex calls or somethin’.”

//

“Lex, it’s Garvin. I’m at the Communication Circle in The Raven Sorceress.”

There is silence for a few moments. Perhaps she is sleeping, but she is a light sleeper; messages such as these wake her in an instant and she usually replies promptly. 

“Garvin,” her voice finally comes through, “glad to hear from you. Anyone listening in?”

“Nope. Did my sweep and we should be good. Justice or death. ‘Sorceress’ is a misnomer because Shaela is a warlock. Blah blah blah, it’s definitely me.” 

Lex chuckles. “One day we’ll run out of facts nobody else knows.”

“Please, we all know you do it for the nostalgia. Those were some good old days, yeah?”

“I did enjoy them, yes,” Lex says. “But now is just as well. You have your boys, and I —“ She pauses. Garvin briefly wonders if she misses Shaela. “Well, you know, this entire operation is my pride and joy,” she says finally. 

“Don’t I know it,” Garvin huffs sarcastically. “I lost my beard and my hair for your pride and joy, I’d like to not lose anything else.” 

Or anyone, for that matter. But that always went without saying. Thank the gods the boys were safe and hidden before things got worse. Garvin knew the time to send them away came when he received Lex’s Manifesto and was asked to distribute it widely throughout the Iron Coast. The boys narrowly missed the Orange Guard’s seizure of the print shop they had grown up in, and were gone well before the city had entered lockdown. They didn’t need to be here to see any of that. That was the whole point of him and Lex and countless others doing all of this work, right?

Right?

“Your beard?” Lex asks. “Gods help whoever took that from you, I trust you didn’t relinquish it without a fight?” 

“Nope, I took it off myself,” Garvin says. “After the explosion at the warehouse, there was Orange all over me, no matter where I hid. I had to make some...drastic changes. Only so much you can do to conceal a beard.”

“Fair enough,” Lex sighs. “And Lark’ai?”

“Dead,” Garvin reports, trying to sound less sad than he feels. He knows of the rift between Lark’ai and Lex — at least from Lark’ai’s end, the rift was irreparable. It was harder to tell how it was from Lex’s end, but safer to not prod and stay neutral. 

“That’s unfortunate; she was an invaluable asset on the field,” Lex says. Her tone is too even for Garvin to gather what emotion, if any, lies in there. If he were not aware of their prior fallout, he would have been offended by Lex’s indifference on behalf of his fallen tiefling comrade. But Lex adds:  “I know you two were close, so, my condolences.” At least she had the tact to be respectful. 

“Thank you. I didn’t witness it myself, I was tipped off by...ah yes, that’ll be a fun update for you.”

“Do tell.”

“It was originally a goliath, a fire genasi, and two human-looking women, that you sent to me and Lark’ai? We met them.”

“Yes.”

“Well, now it's just the goliath and the two human-looking women. For the most part, they’re all getting rip-roaring drunk downstairs.”

“Hmm, yes, I imagine they are long overdue to unwind.” 

Garvin pauses. “You’re not concerned about the fire genasi being gone?” The three remaining companions explained to Garvin that she left, but Lex wasn’t informed of this yet as far as he knew; the fire genasi could just have easily died. Did Lex not care? Had everyone merely become transactional pawns that Lex thought was expendable, as Lark’ai had always said? 

“Oh.” The question seems to have caught Lex off-guard. But the pause is a curious one to Garvin’s ears, not laden with the indifference that Lark’ai had always claimed of Lex, but...something else. “No, she had reached out to me and informed me of her departure.” 

“Okay, good.” There is a measure of relief there, knowing that his continued faith in Lex, despite Lark’ai’s persistent assertions to the contrary, was not for nothing. “So then here’s the next part: your goliath and two human ladies have found themselves a new friend.”

“Oh?”

“Also human. And also defected Orange Guard.”

Another pause from Lex as she takes all of this in. “Hm, I don’t like that.” She does not have to articulate the reasons why. 

“Me either,” Garvin admits. “We‘ve been keeping an eye on her. The red-haired paladin seemed keen on killing her if there’s any treachery.”

“Huh.” Lex sounds somewhat impressed. 

“Anyway, we got the intel from their new Orange friend that that’s what happened to Lark’ai. So, let’s take that tidbit with a grain of salt, yeah?”

“Anything you don’t see with your own eyes should be taken with a grain of salt,” Lex says grimly. “And even some things that you do see.” She sighs at these latest developments. “I’ll reach out to this team and vet their new…companion. Any other updates?”

“Not much else, other than the fact that we rescued dozens of people from the warehouse explosion. Without Lark’ai, I’ll admittedly be a little slower to get our people out of Azkatraz, especially with all of the Orange on me around the Bayside East port.”

“Dammit.” Lex sighs. “Okay, with the numbers that we do have, do you think we could take back the city?”

“Honestly, I don’t think so,” Garvin admits. “It’s the dragons on the bridges and the Western Wall that have me the most worried. I have a theory that getting into Asshole Tower and shutting off the spire will do something but —“

“But it’s just a theory,” Lex finishes his thought for him. 

“You got it,” Garvin admits. 

“Not something either of us would ask to risk Rebel lives for, I imagine,” Lex sighs. “Not unless we’re in even more of a bind and desperate.”

“Correct.”

“Any eyes on what’s in there?”

“Not a one,” Garvin grumps. “It’s anyone’s guess what freaky shit Suliazhi has in there with the Magistrate.”

“Ugh, we can't abandon her.” 

“I know, I know. She’s one of our only remaining allies in this government.”

“She’s also one of the fiercest, brightest legal minds of our age,” Lex points out. The scholar part of her is showing again, which makes Garvin chuckle to himself. Some things never change. 

“If not taking the city back, you think you could at least keep it status quo?” Lex asks. “Minimal to zero civilian deaths while we try to figure something else out?”

“Now there’s a thought,” Garvin mused, absentmindedly reaching up to stroke the beard that’s no longer there. Dammit, gotta get used to that, hopefully not for too long. “Let me get back to you on that. I’m gonna need somebody else to be my eyes and ears around Bayside Southeast since I can’t travel there freely anymore. But if I operate out of the Sorceress, I think we could hold down the fort for a little while.”

Lex breathes a sigh of relief and makes no attempt to hide it. “I...thank you. Truly. It’s not lost on me that Lossan would not be in this predicament if I had rerouted some allies—“

“Oh please,” Garvin scoffs. “You’ve always done this and now it’s even worse with your whole master plan. We’ve got neighboring towns well-aware of our situation and no friends to the Orange who could have come to our aid, but they didn’t. You can only be responsible for so much.”

“Yes, well, I’m responsible for what I have control over,” Lex insists grimly. “I have no power over the towns around you and have yet to make allies of them. I would neither expect nor count on them to come running when needed.”

“These are interesting times, I dunno. Sometimes you just gotta hope that people will see you’re hurting and lend a hand because they know it’s the right thing.”

“When did you get so optimistic?” Lex laughs. “You are not the same man who authored verses and verses about the gloomy tribulations of the human soul.”

“I blame it on the husband and the kids,” Garvin laughs. “Gotta hope and try to make a better world for them, blah blah blah. It becomes more real when you gotta stare them in their little faces and tell them that things are gonna be okay.”

“I’ll take your word for it, not having any little ones myself.”

“Nonsense,” Garvin huffs with a wave of his hand. “Just think like you’re talking to Enid.”

Another pause from Lex. Caught off guard again. “She was never my daughter,” Lex says, almost sternly. 

Garvin shrugs. Better to let that one slide than pick at old wounds. “If you say so.” The skepticism in his voice is present enough for him to make his point if Lex chooses to pursue it, but muted enough that Lex can elect to ignore it.

Unsurprisingly, she opts for the latter, so Garvin moves on. “It wouldn’t hurt to send a liaison to towns you haven’t formally already recruited to bolster our numbers. I know we’re short on available allies, but one persuasive enough ally could bring folks on board by the hundreds.”

//

“Well done, well done,” Cliffside says with stone in hand. “What did she look like? And what was her purpose for entering a city under lockdown?”

“Curly red hair was the most striking feature,” Stannis’s voice says over the paired stones. “She said she intended to see you, sir. As a surprise, of sorts. Something about an engagement.”

“That sounds like her, yes.” Cliffside surveys the Falschegal war map on his desk. The hair does, anyway, Cliffside thinks. He was admittedly not familiar enough with her personal affairs to know anything about an engagement. However, given their family’s stature and his position as Acting Chancellor, that should have been something she sought his permission for first. In any case, she was supposed to have been on the other side of the country, or at least that is where he had left her last. Was it true then? Had Kunt indeed seen her on the road as he claimed? “And you are certain it wasn’t an impostor?” Cliffside asked. “A clever disguise?”

“No sir,” Stannis says. “She appeared as she was. Her papers were impeccable and we had no grounds to stop her from entering the city, especially given her relation to you. Still, something felt off, especially because you had not indicated that you intended to visit Lossan. That’s why I wanted to bring it to your attention, Chancellor.”

Smart man, Cliffside thinks. But he cannot provide the man with the satisfaction of any praise until the rest of his information proves useful as well. “Word would have gotten to me more quickly if you communicated through Mr. Huliazhi,” Cliffside notes pointedly. He finds himself less aggravated when he says this aloud than he had been when he was first notified. Perhaps it was the curiosity. 

“If you’ll allow me to speak candidly, Chancellor,” Stannis says, “I do not trust him. I thought it best that I deliver this information directly to you. He is aware that she is in the city, has he not already informed you?”

Cliffside frowns. He had just ended his conference with Suliazhi minutes prior and this was not mentioned. It was too notable of something to have slipped his mind. 

And if it was indeed her, what business did she have in Lossan? Had he not already dispensed of her to an honorable, isolated life so that he would not have to keep an eye on her like this? Had he not acted preemptively to make sure she wasn’t a liability?

Still, best not to appear not in control and in the know. He ignores the second question. “You may speak candidly,” Cliffside says, letting the wry amusement creep into his voice. This officer, like Cliffside himself, clearly has reservations about working alongside the likes of Kunt and his cronies. That was an invaluable viewpoint, considering again the mess that Flintstone and Suliazhi continue to make in Kunt’s name. “Consider yourself promoted,” Cliffside says with a sneer. “I’ll inform your commanding officer of the news. I have some affairs to settle here but I will be in Lossan tomorrow to confirm your findings and to...investigate further.”

“My utmost gratitude, Chancellor — ” Stannis’s voice cuts off abruptly, then returns. “My apologies, Chancellor, there’s been an incident here in Lossan...”

“Should I be worried?” Cliffside asks sharply. He did not need another repeat of Sixth Terrace.

“Unclear, sir,” Stannis says. “I’ll make sure it is my men and I who are investigating.”

“Indeed. I expect order when I arrive in Lossan tomorrow.”

The great metal beast waits dutifully for his mistress, staring off into the distance toward Lossan. His eye drawn in the same direction, Morath stares at the great spire atop the hills of Lossan. Even without the orange wisps circling the spire, there was no doubt that this tower was the property of one Dunghill Kunt. 

“Fuckin’ bastard,” Morath mutters to himself, taking another swig of his ale. 

“I’ll drink to that,” a voice says, hovering over Morath before taking the seat across from him. It’s a dwarven man he’s seen before, who was also here the night those four travelers arrived and the two of them had made their pitch to the miners to join the cause.

The dwarven man follows Morath’s eye out the window toward the hills of Lossan, to the spire on Kunt Tower, before he takes a drink from his own mug. 

“Any word from the ladies?” the dwarf asks. The buckles and fasteners on his armor are undone, but he’s geared up nonetheless, as if waiting as much as the metal beast is. “Got a bunch of my boys on call for whenever we’re ready to go.”

Morath snorts. “Sounds like they got you with that big speech, huh.”

“And they haven’t gotten you?” the dwarf asks pointedly. He nods at the metal beast lounging with Morath as they both stare out of the window. He then shrugs before taking another drink. “We’ve been in need of a big change. It’s been a long time coming. If not now, when?”

Morath chuckles. “What makes now so special?”

The dwarf shrugs again. “I don’t know if you’ve looked at what’s been happening around us, but having Kunt’s armies stomp through here made it all even more real. We always tell ourselves that the big bullies come and go and we let them give us less than we deserve, but has it ever been enough to just...let them? They just keep coming back. When do we tell them to stop?”

Morath doesn’t answer. He instead shakes his head and rattles the pail of discarded bolts and metal scraps next to him for the metal beast, who happily responds by attempting (and failing) to shove an oversized head into the pail. Morath chuckles despite himself and turns the pail over, emptying it of its contents.

“I knew her parents,” the dwarf says thoughtfully. 

“Who?” Morath asks.

“That girl who gave the speech. Only saw her once when she was a wee girl,” the dwarf grunts. “Her ma and pa got all the miners riled up and ready to fight back in their day. I didn’t know if it was the drink or what but hearing her talk was like a flashback to them in those days.”

“And that makes you trust her?”

“Well, she certainly has her parents’ spirit...” 

Their conversation is interrupted as an explosion rocks the ground even in Haeldürn, causing a commotion among the miners. Morath and the dwarf run outside with several others from the bar to get a better look. The main change in their surroundings is a plume of smoke rising from what appears to be a southern part of Lossan. 

The great metal beast clunks outside beside everyone, also looking toward the rising smoke with a head sideways cocked in curiosity. 

“Was that the signal?” someone asks. 

Morath looks around and sees, to his surprise, more than just a handful of miners in their armor staring out at Lossan. The crowd of them filled the entire block, beyond what Morath could see. He had told the group he would put out the word to people he knew, and he made good on that promise, but he found himself surrounded by more than five times the people that he had called on, and many that he didn’t know.

The dwarf sees Morath looking around and perhaps sees the surprise on the goliath’s face. The dwarf winks.

If not now, when?

Morath reaches into his pocket and stares at the stone in his hands, the stone having remained silent since the group gave it to him before they left. 

It didn’t feel right. This was not the signal, perhaps only a precursor to what would be the signal. Morath had the distinct feeling that the actual signal would be something bolder, more striking, more straightforward. It would feel like a gaping hole of chaos blown into the iron grip of the Orange Battalion, loosening that grip just enough so for the miners of Haeldürn to make their move. 

“No,” Morath booms in response, still staring at the orange wisps snaking around the spire in the hills. With the great metal beast at his side, he now suddenly feels the eyes of all the miners on him, looking at him expectantly. 

If not now, when?

They find adequate cover in rocky terrain at the bottom of the mountains and cliffs that line Falschegal's northern coast. It's not nearly as deep as the caves George is used to from the Merry Mountains, but there's just enough space for the three of them to spread out with their bedrolls and hide from the rain that has started to fall.  George is almost certain that his snoring is going to echo pretty loudly off the rock faces in here, but it's nothing Diana and Lex aren't used to. Maybe the thunder will drown him out.

"Alright George, tell us what you heard," Lex says. She pulls some ink and sheets of parchment from her pack.

"Something about increased security in a ritzy Southport banquet hall," George says. "The Falcon’s Nest. Rubeus said something about using his 'own guys' for the job though, whatever that means."

"So private security, not Orange Guard," Lex concludes.

"You think that's where the nobles are meeting," Diana guesses.

Lex takes a few moments to write down some notes and consult some of her maps. As usual, her brow furrows in thought.

"It's a feasible central point, based on the last known locations of our non-teleporting friends," Lex says. "It's worth a look since we're within range. And all of the teams are handling something or other." She has that mischievous glint in her eye, the one George knows she gets when she can see things coming together.

"Don't get sidetracked, Lex," Diana warns. Like George, she knows that Lex has been preoccupied with this particular mystery as of late, of whether it was true that some nobles would be congregating.

"I'm not," Lex insists. "But if we get enough of those assholes in one spot at the same time, we're not going to get a chance like that again. Best to take as many out as possible."

Diana sighs. Lex's reasoning checks out as usual, George knows. But sometimes that's not enough. Lex is smart - George knows this well of his best friend. But she also has blind spots. Diana is the only one among them who was trained as a warrior, and has the instincts to go with it. If something in her gut tells her that something is off or timing is bad, he's inclined to believe her.

"Have you heard back from Team Nine?" Diana asks, perhaps to shift Lex's attention. "Did they meet with Lark'ai and Garvin and...do whatever they needed to do?"

Lex's face falls. "Shit, I meant to check in on them earlier." George isn't surprised, with all the things that Lex has a hand on. At the same time, he wonders how Nalla is doing and can't fathom how Lex hasn't been wondering the same about Sera until now.

"Diana, can you get Lark'ai?," Lex continues. "I only have one --" She lets her voice trail off as Diana mutters a few words and goes silent.

Diana waits for a moment for a response then shakes her head. "Nothing."

Lex's hands shift in her pockets. She looks mostly serious still, but George can catch the whiff of nervousness in there.

"I could try the Group Stone?" George offers.

"Let's wait a moment," Diana suggests, "If she's not answering, they could be laying low. Or asleep. We don’t know.”

"Right," Lex says with a nod. "I'll be back."

"Where are you going?" Diana asks, gesturing broadly to the rain.

"I've died from worse things than rain, it's fine," Lex says with a shrug. With her leather jacket draped over her head, she steps into the storm and stalks off into the darkness.

Diana lays back into her bedroll and sighs. She keeps her eyes fixed on the darkness, in the direction Lex walked a moment ago. "That woman is going to be the death of me," she groans.

"That's been my mantra for my entire friendship with her," George laughs.

"You're my partner in common sense here, Georgie," she teases. "You're banned from getting reckless like she does."

It's something he's wrestled with for the past few weeks, he knows. The rise of Kunt had been happening for many months, of course, but he never thought their troubles would land in this town of all places. Nedley was here before it was a university town, when it was nothing more than ten families and two wells. He was here when it became a university town and the families screamed that these were the end days for quiet living. Everything came in waves and those waves eventually settled.

But this one didn't. After the Orange Occupation of the town, after all of the soldiers had relocated to hold down Lossan, something was different. The tide rose high and seemed to rise ever higher, and Nedley had a feeling things would be bad when the wave came crashing down. Where his place was in this town when the wave finally landed, though, he wasn't sure.

Predictably, the university kids had pulled him in one direction and the town's families had pulled him in the other. The students called for a stronger rebuke to the Occupation while the families wanted calm and order and were willing to concede to martial law and the Battalion's commands. Unable to appease both sides, Nedley found himself caught in the middle and wholly unable to appease either.

It was the students who stepped up in his absence Nedley couldn't help but admit. Among their ranks particularly was a tiefling in a bandolier whom the other students seemed to respond to. Benji, Nedley knew them as. A Nature Scout of considerable composure and authority for someone so young. They somehow had rallied all of the students together and got them to act as one cohesive force, rather than letting them descend into the anarchy of un-checked rage at what was happening with the world around them. The town's families had expressed fear of property damage and lawlessness, but this Benji had somehow persuaded the students otherwise. They led the crowds in chants for peace, for action, for justice - all while keeping the crowds still and steady, waiting at their command to converge on Lossan when called upon.

It had taken Nedley time to accept that this was the wave of the future and that he would best step back and just let it happen.

Benji sees Nedley standing and watching. They approach, appearing to rub the strain from their eyes.

"You heard it?" they ask Nedley, referring to the loud explosion in Lossan.

"Oh, I heard it alright," Nedley sighs. "Heavens knows what's happening in Lossan, but it can't be good."

"Everyone's itching to act on it," Benji notes with a nod at the buzzing crowd. “Right when I had thought they’d calmed down.”

"They've been itching for a while, if you ask me," Nedley says. "No thanks to me, I admit. But they listen to you." He notes this without bitterness or resentment, but vague respect.

"Why should they listen to me?" Benji asks. They turn to Nedley and the question in their eyes suddenly reveals just how young Benji is. "How will I know when it's time to act?"

Nedley stares off into the distance, at the silhouettes of the dragons on the bridges, at the orange wisps snaking their way around the spire in Lossan's hills.

After all, Rihan had publicly withdrawn from civic life, citing the need to spend more time with his family. But Cliffside knew the truth; Rihan was scared of Kunt’s rise, of the extremism of Kunt’s followers, and of how far it had brought the nobles from their old ways. Rihan was afraid, as were many of the other nobles, of what was becoming of their class.

It was destruction from below either way, Cliffside had reasoned with the nobility repeatedly: from the rebels and their so-called Revolution, or from the human extremists who called for wilder tactics to put down the nonhuman rabble. Dissatisfied by the behavior of the latter but unwilling to incite their ire by explicitly rebuking them, Rihan and others like him simply vanished from the public. 

It was little more than cowardice, in Cliffside’s eyes. For Cliffside, there was only survival, at whatever cost. Flintstone and Suliazhi were the very embodiment of the great change, and it furthered Cliffside’s ire that he was now in a position of treating them as almost-equals when they lacked the decorum to deserve similar stature. But unlike Rihan, Cliffside found himself able to tolerate these meetings and this tenuous and temporary alliance, rather than, say, running into the shadows. 

He hardly approved of the methods of Kunt’s adherents himself, but he knew the power and influence Kunt held. He would not let himself be afraid of using it to save his people. His distaste with extremism could, for the moment, be reconciled with his usual comportment in the public eye. Though his enemies would characterize his actions as concessions to a new order, Cliffside would call it tactical negotiation. This was war, he was prepared to argue, and war called for different methods than peacetime.

“Nobody else,” Suliazhi said. “Our line is secure.”

“Yes...good,” Rihan started. Though he tried to remain steely and calm, his voice tremored slightly in the presence of Suliazhi and Flintstone. Pathetic, Cliffside thought. “Chancellor, the nobles ---”

“Acting Chancellor,”  Suliazhi and Flintstone  corrected in unison. Cliffside rolled his eyes at the constant reminder and perpetual power-play from these two. Just as pathetic. 

Rihan fell silent, which only further annoyed Cliffside, then cleared his throat. “Yes, well, Mister Cliffside, sir, the nobles are getting anxious again. They’ve been monitoring the situation in the cities and the unrest is worsening. They need reassurance that---”

“That we are in control?” Cliffside offered, a hint of danger in his even tone. “We are at war, gentlemen. Surely they know these things take time.”

“If I may, Acting Chancellor,” Suliazhi cut in. “That is precisely why we have requested this meeting with you.”

“Oh?”

“My colleague, as you know, has been very busy,” Flintstone said, picking up where  Suliazhi left off. “We are - how shall we say - sensitive to your concerns, which Mr. Rihan here rightfully raises.”

“Go on.” The grueling part about leadership was publicly assuming the concerns of those you spoke for as your own, as much as the two differed. 

“We are losing considerable manpower trying to hold the cities,” Flintstone continued. “The incident a few hours ago in Lossan, I am sure, speaks for itself. How many of our men did we lose? At least ten of our most elite fighters?”

It was a rhetorical question that Cliffside did not dignify with a response. Suliazhi could be heard audibly snickering from his end. Cliffside chose to ignore it. There was a point to whatever they were saying right now; he just wished they would get to it.

“With your authorization,” Flintstone said, “we have engineered and deployed a champion to fight in your honor. It bears the strength of an army and will target only the treasonous. It craves order in your name.”

“I like to call them our special little City Killers,” Suliazhi snarled. “One is en route to Southport as we speak and will attack on your command. You just have to give the word.”

Whatever “authorization” Cliffside had previously given Flintstone and Suliazhi, he did not anticipate it to be something of this scale and so soon. These two had surely been waiting for any reason to let something loose that they never had before. In truth, Cliffside hadn’t the faintest idea what these two had in mind. There was no way he could trust that these things would actually report to him. It wasn’t even clear that these things had actually been deployed. He would have to get eyes on them first to see how they worked before he would assume responsibility for whatever this was. 

Rihan’s voice broke in finally, but only timidly so. “Sir? Cliffside? Can we...ah...have a private word?”

Cliffside managed to stifle his groan. “Of course, Rihan. Gather our Stone. We’ll be back in one moment,” he instructed the other two before leaving the range of the modified Zechman stone.

“This thing only gives us ten minutes,” Flintstone reminded them. 

“Yes, yes, we’ll be back before then,” Cliffside said, finally stepping out of range. “Rihan, what is it?”

“I don’t like this, sir,” Rihan admitted. “What did you let them do?”

“Something that will save us all, I assure you,” Cliffside snapped. More than you’ve managed to do for us. Instinctively, he thumbed at the ruby amulet at his neck, identical to the jade one that Rihan undoubtedly wore right now as well. “We have all done things that have brought us closer to oblivion.”

Rihan said nothing, but he knew very well what Cliffside was referring to. The handful of them had ventured into that tomb together, had taken their oaths, had sworn their souls to the darkness for their own survival. Sacrifices needed to be made, but the gifts they bought for such a price were more than worth it. 

“What should I tell the nobles?” Rihan asked.

Lex sighs and leans back in her chair, loosening up, well...just about as much as she can, George figures. He argued that the three of them could have used a little more time in Sixth Terrace — not only to help fortify the city further but to catch their breaths — but Lex had urged they keep moving. Well, more like she said she would keep moving and would come back for George if he needed rest. Her contacts had heard whispers that some of the lesser nobles would be convening at an unknown location in the near future, so between parsing that out and trying to mobilize some of the smaller cities to resist Orange occupation, there was little time to lose. 

And so Lex kept moving. And under those circumstances, George, as always, followed her. Diana, of course, followed as well and was a helpful second set of hands to grab Lex before she went off the deep-end with something too ambitious or dangerous (both figuratively and literally).

Speaking of which, George notes, Diana’s hands glow faintly on Lex’s shoulder as the cleric closes her eyes and mutters a few words to her gods. 

“I’m sure they got into Lossan just fine,” George insists, well aware of at least one of the sources of Lex’s concern.  

“Yeah,” Lex agrees. But she doesn’t look any less serious about it. “It’s what they’re going to try to do in the city and how they’re going to get out that worries me.” They were wildcards, those four, George knew; that’s why he liked them so much. It would have been satisfying to him for Lex to finally get a feel for what it’s been like, to worry as much about others as George has always worried about her, but he could never bring himself to hold onto catty or spiteful feelings for very long; wishing suffering upon others, even to prove a point or foster understanding, was too toxic for George’s mostly-saccharine disposition. 

Having finished her healing, Diana takes a seat in the chair next to Lex. “I haven’t heard from Thea,” she says. “It’s been about a day. You could give the Stones a try again.”

“Yeah, good idea,” Lex says, standing up to stretch and pace. She had until now been holding a stone other than her Sending Stone; George sees her shove the former into her pocket to swap out for the latter. She mouths the words and counts them out before speaking them aloud:

“Got into Lossan? If so, what’s the plan now? Look for Ben’s contact if you can. Do you need reinforcements? Let me know. Stay safe.” 

George can hear Lex’s words aloud and in his head. Like two of her. Gosh, how much trouble would that be. 

Lex spends the next minute or so in silence while standing at the window of the room the three share. As she rubs her previously-injured shoulder, George wonders if she is expecting a quick answer on the Stones. He admits to himself that he wouldn’t mind hearing Nalla’s voice again. But the silence in his own head (except for, you know, his own thoughts) tells him that Lex (and he as well) will have to wait a little longer. 

“We’ll be pulled farther east and inland once we’re done here,” Lex says finally. Investigating the rumored congregation of the lesser nobles has occupied her thoughts since they got word it would possibly take place. 

“We will,” Diana says with a nod. “I’m sure it’ll be fine in Lossan, Lex.”

When Lex doesn’t answer, George and Diana exchange a look. 

“Would you feel better Sending a word out to Garvin yourself?” Diana asks. 

Lex shakes her head. “I had something else in mind. I just don’t know if this is the right time to call that favor in.”

“Oh gods, her?” Diana asks incredulously, realizing the implications. “I thought you were saving that for something dire and dangerous.”

“Revolution isn’t dire and dangerous?” Lex’s devious smile replaces the frown of seriousness.

“Fine,” Diana sighs. “Using this favor and your first go with this spell on this girl? She’d gag if she knew.” 

“Yeah, well, if she gets out of this alive, I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t come to strangle me herself,” Lex laughs. “And don’t worry, I already used this spell once yesterday. Saved my first time for someone special.”

George makes sure to make a show of visibly gagging while Diana laughs.

“Thanks for teaching me this spell,” Lex says to Diana with a nod.

“Of course,” Diana coos. “But now that you don’t need me to Send for you, what am I here for, hm?”

“Healing? Kicking ass? You’re a woman of many talents,” Lex laughs. 

“Ordinarily, I’d say you keep me around because I’m nice to look at,” Diana jokes, “but I know that’s not true since your vision has narrowed considerably.”

George snorts and Diana wheels around him as well.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook, mister,” she laughs. “It’s the same for you too. I fall asleep naked every night and you both look at me like I’m part of the bedding.”

“Would you rather we gawk and ogle?” Lex offers with a laugh.

“Come on, Di, we can’t help it, we’re in love,” George says very matter-of-factly. He shoots Lex a stern look, daring her to contradict him. 

It’s nice to joke like this, George thinks. We can’t be so serious all the time.

It’s a nice moment while it lasts before Lex lapses into her usual sternness.  George can barely hear her speak, but he still catches the words.

“Yep. I mean, so I’ve heard. She was the one who brought me back to life. I was a little busy being dead when all of that happened.”

“Huh. Dragons, Kunt, and who knows what else. Glad they arrived just in time to bail us out.”

“Fortuitous indeed.” Lex briefly wonders if she could have just left Team Nine to save Sixth Terrace; they were already on their way to the South Coast from The Golden Trident and would have stumbled upon the city in flames anyway. Then perhaps Lex could have gone to Lossan instead before that city fell. But no, she wanted to be in Sixth Terrace to wave Team Nine off from the danger in case they were in bad shape after The Golden Trident, right?

She shakes the thought from her head. It’s the guilt again, dealing in “oughts” and “should haves” when there is nothing but the present and no way to change the past. 

“Setting up permanent guard rotations is the goal, but it’s not something we can commit to just yet,” Gaerdon continues, as per their original conversation. “We would have to check with our people. The healing your friends did was a big help, and maybe after more people have rested up, we could have enough numbers to hold the city with regular guard rotations. It’s hard to say right now.”

His colleague, another city elder with a tight braid and a severe expression, purses her lips as she nods as well. “They’ll answer the call to action,” she assures him. 

“Will they be alright with the newcomers?” Lex asks of the remaining Golden Trident refugees and the purple-haired sailor’s crew.  Not that the Sixth Terrace natives had much of a choice under the circumstances, but it was worth asking. Local cohesion and beyond could not be ignored as a critical factor in the Revolution’s success. 

The tight-braided elder, Zaidra, shoos the question away with a wave of her hand. “They’ll make do,” she says. “Nothing brings a people together like shared suffering and loss. Besides, the extra numbers will help to make up for those we lost.” She purses her lips again at such a reminder, of speaking so transactionally about the deaths of her people. But Lex offers a nod of understanding; Zaidra is voicing these thoughts to the very people who know the tough decisions and realities that war and rebellion bring. 

Gaerdon nods along in agreement before covering a yawn. “Fortuitous,” he repeats gruffly, with a wink at Lex. “If you don’t mind, ladies, I think I’ll need to wrap up a few things and turn in for the night. We can regroup on this tomorrow morning. If you see my son around, remind him that he needs to sleep too.”

“We could try, but he does take after you, Gaerdon,” Zaidra teases. 

“Gods help him then,” Gaerdon laughs, waving goodbye as he departs. 

Zaidra watches her colleague walk away before nodding to Lex, signalling her own departure. “Gaerdon’s a good man,” Zaidra says. “I’m glad he survived and is here to help rebuild. His son will be lucky to grow to be like him.”

“I know.” Lex nods with a small smile. “Get some sleep, Zaidra.”

“Same to you, Ms. Hammond.”

//

An adolescent half orc in a dark grey tunic and a green bandolier adorned with badges approaches Lex, his shoulders squared and a quill and paper clutched in his hand. Despite the uprightness of his posture, there is a weariness and heaviness in his eyes that he cannot mask. He looks tired in a way that a young man shouldn’t look and Lex feels a pang of regret for what the rebellion is doing to the innocent. 

We are making a better world, Lex has to remind herself. Slowly but surely. 

“There are more than 40 citizens still left unaccounted for,” he reports. His voice starts evenly and professional, but then grows somber and he suddenly seems a little more his age: “Gosh, what do I tell their families?”

Lex sighs and puts a hand on his shoulder. She has to reach up, she finds, as it is clearer in closer proximity to that he is a few inches taller. “You can give me that list, son. I can tell them if you’d prefer. You should get some rest.”

He shakes his head. “Thanks, but I should do it,” he insists. He looks over at the city elders, particularly at the half-orc man who stands with his arms folded as he talks to the others. Gaerdon. “No offense, ma’am, but I know these families. They’re my neighbors. It might be better if they hear it from me.” He falters at the end and lowers his gaze. “If that’s alright with you, ma’am.”

Lex lets herself chuckle at his deference at the end. “No offense taken, you’re completely right.” She gives his shoulder a squeeze. “I just wanted to give you the option.” She looks around at the activity around them, a curious mix of pep and solemnity as the people are winding down for the night. There is determination to push forward together, Lex can feel it in the air, but it is not without a muted sadness and shock of everything that has happened. 

Gaerdon in the distance shakes another city elder’s hand before he crouches down to wipe the dirt from a young tiefling child’s face. He stays crouched, engaged in some conversation or another with the child, looking up occasionally at the dragonborn holding the child’s hand. 

“You and your father do need to rest eventually, you know,” Lex says to the adolescent half-orc. 

“I know, ma’am.” 

“What’s your name?”

“Bekbud.”

“Bekbud,” Lex repeats, extending a hand to shake. “Your dad speaks very highly of you. And don’t think I haven’t noticed those little magic displays you’ve rattled off here and there.”

“You saw those?” he asks sheepishly. 

“I’ve made a living off of stealing information and absorbing as many things as possible,” Lex laughs. “Yes, I’ve seen. You’ve got quite the spark.”

“Yeah, but I can’t always control it,” Bekbud admits. “I’ve been trying but my dad’s a tracker, not a magic guy. And the folks who have been helping me have, uh...” He gestures to the fallen city around him.  

“Tell you what,” Lex says, “if we all make it out of this rebellion alive, I know a guy who can teach you. And he’s definitely overdue for someone he can mentor and share his skills with.”

“Okay, this is the weirdest thing, because one of your lady friends said the EXACT same thing to me...”

//

“You know, we’ve already confirmed that the city is cleared. Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Give her a break, Diana, she’s keeping busy because she misses Sera.”

“Shut up, George,” Lex grumbles as she steps over a second mind flayer corpse. “I could say the same about you and Nalla.”

“Uh, you could, and I would admit that I already miss her because that’s called being honest with yourself. You should try it some time.” He sticks out his tongue at Lex. Diana shakes her head at them both as the three continue to inspect the room. 

In the center of the room, there is a table, also covered in blood, splattered and smudged in signs of struggle. Before Lex can ask, Diana is already surveying the blood and shakes her head. “Not mind flayer blood,” she confirms. “Ritual sacrifice? Or the guy that killed them?” 

“No, Team 9 killed these mind flayers,” Lex says. “Sera told me.”

“Yeah, same with Nalla,” George agrees. “Did Thea not tell you, Diana?”

“Uhm, no, we were a little preoccupied — “

Both George and Lex snicker before she can finish. If only the rest of the country could see their fearless rebellion leader now, Diana thinks with an eye roll at both of them.“Oh please, neither of you can talk. Speaking of which, I’m very happy for you Georgie.”

“My pickle is no longer in hibernation,” George announces proudly, hands on his hips. 

“Yeah, yeah, keep it in hibernation until you see Nalla again,” Lex laughs, waving him off. She turns back to the matter at hand. “So, maybe ritual sacrifice...”

“...but where is the sacrificial lamb?” Diana finishes Lex’s thought. 

The three of them stare at the table for another moment. 

“Maybe the ritual wasn’t complete,” George suggests. “Interrupted when our gals showed up? Bleeding person had a chance to get away?”

Diana nods. “That’s a solid theory.”

“I think so too,” Lex says, turning her attention to the rest of the room. “Though I’m not too thrilled about the implications.” Mind flayers were not so typically cavalier about appearing in crowded cities, military occupation or none. No, not unless their intentions were murky at best. 

The three continue to survey the room for clues or some sort of indication of what was going on here. A shattered glass jar on the ground sits atop what used to be its liquid contents, now drying on the wooden floor. They bend down to observe the liquid, though holding their breath not wanting to get too close in case the fumes were deadly. The three exchange a glance and headshakes as none of them are familiar enough with mind flayer rituals to know what this liquid could be.

George is slowly getting to his feet when Lex spots a figure right behind him, blade raised for attack. 

“George, watch out!”

Lex’s dagger flies across the air, catching the would-be assassin in the throat. It’s a reflex, one honed over years of practice (and plenty of trial and error, really), and Lex is grateful that she didn’t accidentally strike George with that throw. 

Diana quickly uses the opportunity to leap over an overturned chair between them and punch the woman before tackling her to the floor. There is struggle and a flurry of limbs, but Diana’s superior strength ultimately prevails. 

“Where did she come from?” George asks, looking over his shoulder wildly and expecting more. 

“From that corner, behind those barrels,” Lex says, pointing to the spot as she approaches it. With George’s help, she moves the barrels and runs her fingers searching my along the wood panels in the wall. No secret door, nothing. Curious. 

She then turns her attention the floor beneath her, an accumulation of abandoned dust and dirt disturbed by the moved barrels and now Lex’s boots. At first glance, the wooden slats of floorboards don’t reveal much more than the walls did. But under closer examination, the dust and dirt seem to settle into the wood peculiarly. 

“What the hells...” Lex runs her fingers over the ground and feels markings and grooves carved into the floor. They were subtle, almost blending in with the floorboards, but still perceptible.  George stands over Lex, looking at the markings. Without touching them, he has an idea. “Ah hells,” he says. “Sigils.”

“Yeah?”

“Of the Destination Circle variety,” George confirms with a nod. “Master Fairfax wouldn’t shut up about them and said there were rumors about hidden ones everywhere. I thought he was just making that part up to make them sound more interesting.”

“Is teleportation not interesting to you, George?” Lex asks. “Traveling great distances in the blink of an eye by sheer force of powerful magic?”

“Listen, when you have to read as much as I did about teleportation and teleportation circles and transcribe scrolls and scrolls of dwarven and elven runes on them, come back to me and tell me how interesting all of it is,” George groans. “But yeah, that’s what we’ve got here.”

“So what you’re saying is, all of that work Master Fairfax made you do has finally paid off.”

“...gods, please don’t tell him that.”

“Uhm, hello?” Diana shakes the now-unconscious assassin at them. 

“Ah shit, right.”

//

Lex nudges the toe of her boot at the boot of the man sleeping beneath his cloak by an extinguished campfire. The sigils of the teleportation circle he drew on the ground hours earlier are still visible but mostly scuffed away. 

At the nudge, he peers one eye open and searches for the source of his waking.

“Nice hair,” he comments to Lex, with a flick of his own. “Needs a brush, but nice coloring.”

Lex clears her throat, bypassing what she supposes might be a compliment, just in case it’s not. “You’re a friend of Nalla’s?” she asks instead. 

“Ah, Lonehunter! A friend, a mentor, a boss. Something like that, sure.”

“She trusted you enough to request your presence here. And you performed a teleportation circle,” Lex notes. 

“And?”

“You’re powerful and she trusts you,” Lex concludes. 

“Oh stop, you’re making me blush. Warn a guy, will ya? Todd, by the way.”

“So, Todd, I am inclined to ask for your assistance on a matter of the arcane variety,” Lex continues. If not for her return to the aloof, rebellion persona, she would have had more trouble suppressing an eye roll. “I suppose if I had asked for a referral, Nalla would have suggested you.”

“Hmm. I feel like there’s a question in here, perhaps a request...”

“Some assholes set up a destination circle here. It wasn’t easy to find and almost cost my buddy here his life.” (George waves in response to what he knows is a reference to him.) “Wouldn’t be great if people were just teleporting into this city. Kind of makes city walls useless.”

“You’re the rebel leader who wrote the manifesto!” Todd exclaims. 

“I...yes? And?”

“I can tell by the way you’re using way too many words right now instead of just getting to the point.”

Now Lex actually lets herself audibly sigh. “Can you help us by destroying this destination circle, searching for any other ones in the city and destroying those too, and setting up magical traps so that assholes either can’t teleport in here, or will at least make a lot of noise if they do so somebody can tackle them?”

“That’s a tall order,” Todd notes, scrunching his face in what is very clearly overly-feigned consideration.  “I’ll have to take a time-out to see if that aligns with my business interests.”

“What exactly are your business interests?” Lex asks. 

“I’m a man who has my hands dipped in a variety of honeypots. You would be familiar with the type.” He casts a knowing, sly gaze at Lex, and finally in that moment Lex understands exactly the kind of person she’s dealing with. 

Todd senses coldness the forming in her eyes, warring with whatever trust she has in Nalla thus far, and he laughs. “Oh please, I’m not that kind of type,” he snorts. “Listen, I dig this whole revolution thing you’ve got going on. Gutsy. Bold. Not quite how I would do things but we hate the same guys. I’ve just happened to find a way to both make money and stick it to those same guys. Bet you wish you could say the same, hmm?”

Lex does not give him the satisfaction of an answer. 

“Just leave me enough bad guys to wring dry after all of this is done,” Todd says. “They’re an important part of my business model.”

“I doubt I could get rid of them all, even if I tried,” Lex says. “But I will try.”

“Ooo, so dark, so edgy.” He pulls his cloak back over him and nestles back into the spot where Lex found him sleeping. “Everyone has a billowing cape, you know,” Todd says with a pointed look. “For some people it’s an actual cape. For others, it’s blowing things gland writing words that take up pages and pages of billowing parchment.” He winks. “You’re doing great out here, sweetie. Keep up the good work and let me rest enough so I can help you in the morning.”

//

Over an hour after Team Nine departs for Lossan, after she, Gaerdon, and Zaidra parted ways so that they could all get some rest, Lex finally manages to leave the town square and settle in. Admittedly, the appearance of an assassin didn’t help settle her nerves, and Lex can’t decide if she’s shaken into alertness or unnecessarily fighting exhaustion. She and George remain in the sitting room, leaving Diana the bedroom to get some sleep. 

The plans that Nari suggested for getting into Lossan are still fresh in Lex’s mind. The idea that Team Nine could likely take back the city assuages some of Lex’s guilt, though she knows she cannot get back any of the lives lost in the course of the decision she made. And in any case, she doesn't want to assume that Team Nine will take back the city. Not that she doubts their abilities, no; she just worries that celebrating victories prematurely is a particularly egregious form of letting one’s guard down. Definitely no space for such complacency when the battle still waged and the cause was so fragile. 

Unexpectedly, Thea’s voice flutters into Lex’s mind, slowed by the familiar slur of intoxication. 

There doesn’t seem to be any context for what she’s saying, and quite frankly, Lex is a little confused. But some words catch her attention.

Town with dwarves? Died? Thea?

They’re not even in Lossan yet and they almost lost Thea. 

Diana’s voice can be heard behind the closed door of the room next to them, though her voice does not reach their minds via the Sending Stone. Lex can’t quite make out the words, but the familiar, especially husky tone quickly makes her try to stop listening. Best not to overhear something...private. 

Looks like I won’t be able to ask her to send Thea a message privately on my behalf, Lex thinks time herself. Perhaps later. 

George, undeterred by the confusion, takes the opportunity to check in with Nalla, who reports back that she’s fine. 

And THIS is why we don’t celebrate victories before they’ve happened, Lex tells herself grimly. This team, as powerful as they were as a unit, was not entirely invincible. 

With the group Sending Stone in one hand, Lex scrawls the words out on the parchment in front of her with the other. She quickly crosses a few sentences out and rewrites them before re-reading the words and speaking through the Sending Stone.

Please stay safe, all of you

“Glad you’re all alive. Get rest before Lossan. Garvin and Lark’ai can help. Might be prisoners or dead. Leaders probably at Kunt Tower.”

Lex rubs her temples after delivering her message. Every major city has a Kunt Tower and each one had something different and annoying about it. Even if Kunt is gone, she is sure that the same traps and dark magic remain.

“What, you’re not gonna check in on Thea?” George asks. 

“She says she’s fine,” Lex says with a shrug. “Besides,” she nods at the closed bedroom door, “Thea’s probably...busy. I’ll check in with her tomorrow.”

“What? Oh...OHHHH.” The realization dawns on George’s face. The expression of understanding then turns to an eyebrow waggle. Lex rolls her eyes and looks down at the parchment, scribbling out what she just wrote before tossing the scraps into the lit fireplace. 

“So...uh, what was with that staring contest you had with Nari the other day?”

Cliffside can’t say that he’s particularly surprised at this development, which perhaps helps soften the blow of the loss. The city had been prematurely and haphazardly taken, or so the reports claimed. 

The trouble was that Stefan Miller was a curious mix of both the old nobility and the new Kunt worshippers. Dangerously, he was younger and he adopted and implemented more controversial changes that aligned more with Kunt’s radical ideas. Miller still had the air and poise of the old nobility and carried out these controversial changes with that same composure. 

For better or worse, his tactic of sneaking through radical policies in a calm, steady vessel was very hit-or-miss. The paralyzing shock of the brazenness of these policies bought the government time to act quickly; after all, Kunt’s policies by way of Miller were initially met with widespread disbelief that anyone in the government would so plainly take a strong stance against nonhumans. But after that initial shock had faded, however deep into implementation of those policies the government was, the uproar in response may not have been worth it in Cliffside’s eyes. Cliffside himself preferred the old way, of enacting much subtler changes over a long period of time; he was not a fan of Miller’s boldness and would have dressed the policy up as something a little more diluted. 

Such a difference in strategy and execution was apparent in how Sixth Terrace was captured. Cliffside had assigned Miller as Ambassador to the city, to act as his surrogate and agent while slowly taking control from Sixth Terrace’s local government. With that same even demeanor, Miller had carried out his orders. But Miller’s underlying methods were worthy of Cliffside’s reservations. To take the city once and for all, Miller said, he had allegedly bought his way into an alliance with a trio of dragons who could help contain the city. It was an expensive investment, but Miller stood by it, despite Cliffside’s insistence that such an alliance could prove to be dangerous and unpredictable. Cliffside was unfortunately proven right, as he was informed that the dragons had attacked the city prematurely when Orange Battalion soldiers were still working on stamping out the last of the dissenters. The victory that followed was very brief; as per the most recent update, the dragons and Miller were killed by rebel forces that came in from the south, and the Orange Battalion was driven out of the city. 

Cliffside surveys the large map as he muses about such a loss. It’s fine. We still have Lossan. We will take Wells Pier, Southport, and Broadison soon enough. As long as the rebels within those cities could be subdued, as long as his other Ambassadors didn’t have any crazy ideas to effectuate those orders, all would go according to plan. 

Still, the Resistance is peculiarly organized. For weeks, Cliffside has been trying to make sense of their plans. Before, banks, debt records, and debtor’s prisons were targeted and subject to complete destruction. Those particular commonalities did not yield much of a pattern. It made sense, after all; the rebel leader had proclaimed an all-our war on the country’s financial institutions. But after their destruction? There didn’t seem to be much else happening there. The murder of Kunt himself seemed like mere collateral damage in the course of the rebels trying to rescue their leader. Cliffside had expected an attempt on his life soon after, waits for it everyday now, but there has not even been an attempt on his life to be foiled. What was the point of it all? And now that martial law had overtaken the most restless cities, other than liberating cities that the Orange Battalion occupied, the rebels don’t seem to have a discernible plan. 

But somehow that felt...intentional? It didn’t feel sloppy or careless as Cliffside had originally thought. No, there was a method to the madness. And it was maddening to Cliffside to not be able to make sense of it. 

Worse, what the rebels lack in numbers, they make up for in efficacy, it seems. They seem to operate in packs. Very effective packs that struck swiftly and left destruction in their wake. If there were more of these rebels and they carried on like this, Cliffside would have been worried. But as it is, martial law and locking down movement in and out of cities helped reduce the threat of the rebel groups. Their numbers were scattered and their most powerful were injured. 

The arrival of Amwill Flintstone breaks into Cliffside’s thoughts. Cliffside could not say that he particularly liked the man. He was a stocky figure of Cliffside’s caliber, of the same age, upbringing, and pedigree. But there was a devious hunger that no manners or noble breeding could mask; that much became apparent when he was willing to abandon the old ways and dive off the deep end to do Kunt’s bidding. That he still holds a significant post after Kunt’s death seems to be a continuation of Kunt’s dark, chaotic legacy. 

The mixture of dwarven and orcish blood slogging through Flintstone’s veins was only apparent behind closed doors, when he allowed the veneer of magic to drop among his peers. Cliffside wondered what he had done to earn himself the absolute pleasure of seeing Flintstone all but unmasked on this particular day. 

“I see we lost one,” Flintstone observes, looking at the altered markers on Sixth Terrace. 

“We are holding the cities and taking more by the day,” Cliffside says. “The rebellion will wane soon enough.”

“Ah, then how do you explain what happened in Sixth Terrace?”

“A mistake in allyship,” Cliffside grumbles, staring warningly at Flintstone. Again, reports from the city stated that the dragons, in spite of the generous offerings from the administration for their loyalty, had acted much too quickly. That careless alliance was the problem. 

“Don’t forget the rebel invasion from the south.” 

“An unfortunate and unexpected occurrence,” Cliffside says curtly, “one that would not have been effective if the city had been taken properly.” Flintstone does not say anything but looks on knowingly. Cliffside finds the amusement in his doubt infuriating, though he does his best not to show it. He is not accustomed to being undermined with such thinly-veiled mockery. 

“The rebels are giving you a little more trouble than you bargained for, Chancellor,” Flintstone comments with a sneer. 

“We are handling it, I assure you.” 

“I’m not sure your methods are quite cutting it.” Flintstone circles around the table slowly, dragging a finger along the edge of the map. “I do recall, Chancellor, that many under your influence sought to constrain some of Kunt’s directives.”

“I can recall no such thing,” Cliffside says, lips pursed. 

“Oh sure, I’m sure you only made some suggestions to your people, but they took the hints pretty clearly. They took steps to prevent some of Dunghill Kunt’s...plans.”

“To let those plans come to fruition too early in the administration  would have only confirmed the Resistance’s suspicions about our leadership. War would have erupted much sooner if we had been so bold so quickly. We have crept slowly into their cities to gain the upper hand, and they have let us because we have moved carefully.”

“Kunt is dead now.” Flintstone finds some stray, unused tokens at the margins of the map and places them southward, around the Golden Trident. “And perhaps if not for the constraint imposed upon him, he would still be alive and this war would look very different.”

“What are you saying?”

“You need our help. It’s about time you let us.” Flintstone moves the tokens from the Golden Trident to the newly-liberated Sixth Terrace. “Let us help in ways we deem most effective. This is war, Chancellor. Your old way is not always effective in war.” He brings a heavy hand onto the pieces he just moved with a thud. “War is quick. Unpredictable. Chaotic.”

“Go on.”

“My spies have gathered information regarding a rebel group that was seen fleeing the Golden Trident around the time that communications with King Sunry were cut off,” Flintstone says. 

“And?”

“Subsequent sources reported seeing an influx of rebels coming to the aid of Sixth Terrace from the waters. Over 100 of them, apparently. I do not think that is a coincidence, and I highly doubt they are the only group moving between the cities we’ve captured.”

“Perhaps not,” Cliffside grudgingly agrees, on both accounts. 

“It would be in all of our best interests to...reduce those threats.”

“Hm.” Cliffside knows that Flintstone is right, as far as positioning the Orange Battalion is concerned. It simply isn’t feasible to both hold the cities while also sending scouts out to squash those groups. The Battalions were by no means skilled trackers, nor were they able to move swiftly and subtly. 

And it was true, it seems to be the numbers moving between the cities that are becoming problematic. Those are harder to pin down. And as was obvious with Sixth Terrace, it is the groups on the run that could liberate captured cities. 

It stood to reason, then, that a few extra sets of hands would be needed.

Flintstone sneers, knowing he has Cliffside right where he wants him. Cliffside lets himself be had, but only grudgingly, knowing that the alternative could be repeats of Sixth Terrace and a humiliating defeat that he had ensured the other nobles would never happen. 

“You worry about holding the cities, boss,” Flintstone says, clapping a hand on Cliffside’s shoulder in a gesture that the latter man finds several levels of unwelcome. Flintstone seems to relish in Cliffside’s recoiling. “I’ll take care of the rebels on the run. Just give me the go-ahead and it’ll be done.”

“Dare I ask what you have in mind for them?” Cliffside asks as he reluctantly scrawls a quick note on some parchment before handing it to Flintstone.

“It’s supposed to be so powerful that it all but consumes its host!” the Mind Flayer snaps. “How can it be too frail?”

“One can be both frail and powerful, sir,” the halfling insists. “We do not want it to be so weak that it will not have its chance to unleash its power.” He was recruited specifically for his knowledge of the forbidden corners of underdark arcana and physiology, and it was clear that Ambassador Huzhi Suliazhi, despite his prowess in other areas, was in over his head on the current subject matter. He does not like telling Suliazhi something he doesn’t want to hear right now, but the fallout from another botched transfer would be much worse than anything he’s enduring now. 

Luckily, he is saved by the hasty arrival of one of his colleagues. Another halfling runs into the room, almost out of breath, then prostrates himself in front of Suliazhi on the cold, damp stone floor. He is seemingly catching his breath before speaking, but the first halfling knows that pause all too well; he has done something similar, buying time before having to deliver less than ideal news to Suliazhi.

“The Magistrate is coming, my lord,” the second halfling quavers once he finds his voice. 

“He is early,” Suliazhi growls, displeasure dripping from every word. 

“He heard we have taken her prisoner,” the second halfling says, still at Suliazhi’s feet, “and said a meeting was necessary to clarify terms.” He glances up briefly at another two of his dwarven colleagues who have been standing silently nearby in the antechamber. At their feet lies a small humanoid, about their size, covered in stained cloth and bound at the wrists and ankles. 

“I don’t understand what he could possibly need clarified,” Suliazhi snaps. “The Orange Guard takes the city. We use the containment to find a suitable host. I have found a suitable host.”

“He says she is not a suitable host,” the second halfling reports, wincing and ready for punishment at the message he is delivering. 

“Nonsense, he doesn’t know a damn thing about how ANY of this works,”  Suliazhi snorts derisively. 

Luckily, the sound of approaching footsteps and the distraction it provides allows the first halfling a chance to exchange an eye roll with his colleagues at the thought of Suliazhi accusing someone of their ignorance. 

//

Jonathan Robertson is a composed human man, even one that would be considered handsome by many. He enters the antechamber in such a manner, retaining a serious and impassive expression as he strides into the dark, foreboding room as if it were nothing different from the well-lit, cushy dens, libraries, and municipal halls he is accustomed to occupying.   

This composure was largely the reason why he was chosen for this job, as Chief Magistrate of Falschegal’s highest court. He had convinced the regional governors and the members of the Councils of both the Many and the Small that he would be the most impartial of arbiters at this post. Like the neutral overseer of a non-lethal duel, he had insisted, he would be ruling on matters of justice as if doing little more than judging which fighter struck first and where. 

He had risen to prominence in hopes that he would issue his decisions in the heritage of the more human-leaning politicians. For the most part, he toed that line, and predictably decided cases before him in that regard. But his manner of doing so was constrained, calm, and consistent with the niceties expected of his station. He maintained the composure characteristic of the Cliffsides of society, the old respectable culture of proper noble politicians, and did not lower himself to acting in or displaying a manner of zealotry that was far beneath him. No, he left that to Kunt adherents. 

The calm and evenness of his disposition rarely ever left him. Though this demeanor was consistent with the dryer, more technical decisions to be made (those regarding the minutiae and tax and trade disputes, for example), nobody would have been surprised if he showed any sort of remorse or smug satisfaction for some of the more controversial rulings he had to issue. Those were the rulings that could reach near and far across the country’s population in tangible ways, ripping entitlements and access to food, healing, and shelter to the most vulnerable populations. And yet despite the known impact of these decisions, Robertson approached them with the requisite solemnity required of his post and did so unflinchingly, for better or for worse. It was unclear if he was simply insensitive or cruelly indifferent to the impact of his decisions; all anyone knew was that his unyielding professionalism prevented him from showing any inclination or emotion one way or another. 

With that same, impassive expression, he had even shown the rare boldness of rendering decisions contrary to the interests of his noble human brethren, sometimes in favor of the nonhumans. His grounds for doing so were narrow and of technical, legal reasoning. Some regarded these rogue decisions as a betrayal, while he considered these decisions to be consistent with the impartiality that he vowed from the outset. Though his brethren eventually came around, they spent many weeks all but spitting in his face. And still, he took all of it, with the steely calm and composure he was known for. 

It is fitting, then, that he remains composed even now, as cultist worshippers of Dunghill Kunt hold his colleague, knocked unconscious and bound, right in front of him. 

“You have moved too hastily, Suliazhi,” Robertson says, gesturing to his bound and unconscious colleague. “This was not part of the plan. We can’t undo this.” 

“It is by Flintstone’s orders that we have taken her.” It was not a lie, but Flintstone did not specify what state she was in as long as she was incapacitated in some form. Suliazhi had taken it upon himself to use the situation to his advantage and dispose of her in a way that would be useful to him. 

“Cliffside doesn’t know what we’re doing here,” Robertson says. 

“What he knows and allows is none of our concern.” 

“He is our Chancellor,” Robertson says coolly. 

“Kunt is our Chancellor,” Suliazhi hisses back at him. “And we are continuing his work.”

“Clearly.”

The noble human side of this war had claimed Robertson before he even took his position as Chief Magistrate, he knew. He admits his inclinations fall in step with theirs more often than not. And yet there was something about these past few years, where he watched the human nobility and their followers reach beyond the limits of respectability and decorum with crazed hands to push down the nonhumans. 

It was more the lack of respectability than anything that he found to be in poor taste. The means, the rhetoric, the brazen rush to an end that he also sought was a little too much for his liking. Smaller, more subtle steps over a longer period of time was the old way. The new way, the path that Kunt had forged and shown the humans was possible, was quicker but far, far messier. 

Suliazhi, Robertson knew, did not seem to be afraid of making a mess. 

“Grant me the small,” Suliazhi growled, gesturing to the bound body at his dwarven underlings’ feet. “She is already in our possession after clashing with our forces.”

“No.” Robertson did not know if Suliazhi was lying, if she had actually clashed with the Orange Guard or had simply been taken before she could fight back, but that didn’t matter now. 

“Would it not be the ultimate slap in the face to the Resistance?”  Suliazhi sneers. “One of their heroes, beloved for her mind, but all of her memories gone and devoured with a servant in our place? One of their heroes, beloved for her strength and tenacity, that very strength turned on its head to serve us instead of them?”

“She is old and frail.”

“She is POWERFUL.”

“That she is.” Robertson agrees. He has worked by her side for many years. She was even at her post at least a decade before he arrived and ascended to his position. He knew all too well the power she held, and they had both both clashed many times. “She is also old and frail,” he continues coolly. “Perhaps if you had taken her in her prime, you would have what you need. But you are many decades too late. Your efforts would kill her. Using her would be a waste.”

Such an argument has merit, which he knows Suliazhi knows grudgingly. But Suliazhi would not give any indication of such an admission. “Would killing her not be satisfying enough?” Suliazhi asks carefully with a sneer. 

“Perhaps. It would also be foolish.” The city would doubtlessly rally behind her and go absolutely feral at the news of her being murdered in this war. In life, she was a hero. In martyrdom, she would be nothing short of a god. 

They stare at each other for almost twenty seconds, letting Robertson’s last remark hang tensely between them in the otherwise silent room. He need not elaborate any further than what he has already said;  Suliazhi knows he is right. 

“We keep her here until we can find another in her place,” Suliazhi hisses angrily, finally. He turns to his underlings. “Take her to the Inner Sanctum.”

“But, my lord, the outer chambers—“

Another feral yell from Suliazhi is all it takes to get the four underlings moving again. Though they are small, the body they carry is similarly small and thus not as cumbersome of a load for the group.  They scramble away, audibly sighing with relief as the door straight across from the antechamber entrance swings open. 

Suliazhi and Robertson are left alone in the antechamber as the four disappear into the Inner Sanctum. They both face the door to the Inner Sanctum but do not lose sight of the other in their respective peripheries. 

“You were once the mayor of the great city of Broadison,” Robertson comments dryly. “It’s funny, what the years can do to a man.”