#eniddm

Borders and fortifications

The north of the city is bordered by the Kismet Ocean. Shipbuilding and fishing have become prominent industries on this northern coast of the city and the beaches are necessary to visit if one is touring the area. Sailors and fisherman who have lived and worked on the coast for many years always muse to bar patrons, their protégées, and tourists that there is little more humbling than looking out into the vastness of this ocean.

To guide ships returning to port, there are 3 lighthouses named for elven deities. The central lighthouse has been affectionately named “Lady Moonbow” after elven goddess Sehanine Moonbow. The western lighthouse is called Lady Hanali for the elven goddess of romantic love and beauty. The eastern lighthouse is called Lord Naralis, named for Naralis Analor, the minor elven god associated with healing. These lighthouses and their corresponding deities were praised and honored as guides to bring home returning travelers. They were also places one could get healing if needed when returning form a voyage, but also places of safety and protection in times of invasion and war. Not only are these places of great utility as lighthouses (and outfitted with battlements and other wartime protections), but they are often frequented and revered by visitors as if they are also temples to the elven deities.

Despite the protection provided by the Kismet Ocean to the north and Two Moon Bay on the city’s eastern and southern borders, the city’s planners over the past many centuries have nonetheless erected a wall around the city, as is seen protecting many of the landlocked cities. Fortifying the city has been a priority since the city’s founding from both coastal/foreign and domestic invasion, the latter of which was more pressing around the period of the Reign of Human Kings but less pressing after the peace and unification under the Free State of Falschegal. The former, in contrast, was more of a prominent concern prior to the arrival of humans on the landmass that would become known as Falschegal. The city’s elven and dwarven founders protected the city from invading nations to the west, most of all humans. Humans would eventually arrive on Lossan’s shores claiming a desire to peaceably integrate themselves into the city’s society. The native non-human populations would, over time, watch the human population burgeon and displace the founding and native families in civic and other prominent positions of power. 

As this history has long passed, every generation of the city’s leaders since then has been jokingly chided for maintaining the coastal fortifications. The truth, everyone knows, is that the lighthouses and the Northern Wall are integral parts of the city’s heritage.

Though coastal and foreign invasion was a frequent concern throughout the city’s history, the more contemporary worry since the rise of Dunghill Kunt has been domestic invasion from the east. The city’s Western Wall has, as a result, garnered more attention in recent years. That is the only part of the city bordered entirely by land, and though the adjacent cities have historically been Lossan’s allies, the city’s leaders have still not wanted to risk adjacent cities being used as pathways for other domestic invaders. The Western Wall’s fortifications have been strengthened over the past few years as a result, and the city’s liaisons to the neighboring towns have insisted that it is nothing personal against their allies. Human followers of Dunghill Kunt have used the situation to their advantage, attempting to sow discord among Lossan and its allies, with the hope that Lossan will find itself isolated and more vulnerable to attack when the time comes.

The iron mines for which the Iron Coast is known are not located in Lossan and her sister city, Angesco. For Lossan, rather, the mines are clustered around the city along its western edge. Historically, Lossan and Angesco rose to prominence as mining populations in adjacent cities sought nearby locations for commerce, recreation, and eventually long-term habitation. As Lossan and Angesco have also played prominent roles in converting saltwater to freshwater in their respective parts of the region, they have burgeoned over the years as sprawling metropolises. While smaller in size and population than Broadison and Wells Pier, Lossan is nonetheless larger and more populous than its southern brethren, Atlas and Sixth Terrace.

To the south, the Iron Bridge connects Lossan to a neighboring city, Haeldürn. Founded by dwarves who were heavily involved in the iron industry, inhabitants of Haeldürn have remained allies with Lossan (though, anecdotally, the uncouth, rough-handed miners have had a thing or two to say about the “softness” of Lossan’s city folk). To the east, the Waller Bridge connects Lossan to another ally city, Khleebur, which was founded by elves and grew around one of the Iron Coast’s more prominent universities. There is arguably more cultural and intellectual similarity between Khleebur and Lossan than Lossan and Haeldürn, which has led to good relations between Lossan and Khleebur through both cities’ histories. Indeed, students from Khleebur often find themselves in Lossan for recreation when they are taking breaks from their studies.

Topography and climate

Lossan is perhaps most known for its hilly topography. Indeed, the hills rise the farther one travels into the city, and from a distance outside of the city, it is clear that the hills have raised the center of the city high above the walls at the city’s borders. Such is one of many visual quirks that speak to Lossan’s uniqueness and beauty. Some say it is a cornerstone of a childhood in Lossan to have stood at the top of one of these hills and let a smooth marble or a wheeled toy race down a steep hill, rejoicing as gravity accelerated the chosen objects down to the bottom. It is also for this reason that the city government and records are housed at the center of the city, where the hills are highest (the rationale being that, in the case of invasion, the higher ground would be the most secure and harder to storm).

Naturally, the variant topography has affected the distribution of the population within the city by social class over the past few centuries. The center of the city has been hailed as more prestigious, particularly because of its higher ground and greater protection. Those that have made the City Centre their home or place of business tend to be wealthier and are able to afford the requisite transportation to get them to the tops of the hill. The wealthier occupants of the city are also rumored to have exclusive, heavily-guarded destination circles for teleportation to avoid strenuous uphill travel, though existence of these circles has never been confirmed. In contrast, the poorer populations have found themselves relegated closer to the city walls and farther from the City Centre.

Aside from its hilly topography, Lossan is also known for its warmer weather, despite being farther north than many inland cities that experience colder average temperatures all year round. That being said, a morning chill has been to known to overtake the city, as does a distinct fog that surrounds the Iron Bridge before dissipates by the early afternoon.

Culture and relations

Culturally, Lossan is distinct in its own right while also being emblematic of a broader common culture on the Iron Coast. Lossan bears similar cosmopolitan characteristics as Angesco, Broadison, Southport, Wells Pier, Sixth Terrace, and Atlas in that the city’s population is more diverse in the races and species that occupy and pass through the city daily. Such diversity has normalized an acceptance and peace among varied races and species that are less common in smaller towns farther inland, where many towns have self-segregated by race and species, with human towns being the most insular.

Anecdotally, it is often observed that those from the Iron Coast are far less tense than those on the Lake Coast, particularly those living in or near Broadison. Again, most of these observations are entirely anecdotal in nature, with very few studies or empirical evidence confirming this distinction or its causes. Nonetheless, one only needs to think of friends or family raised on the Iron Coast and compare their general disposition to those raised on the Lake Coast — the reader is free to come to their own conclusion about these alleged regional differences.

There is often a playful rivalry with the Iron Triangle regarding the competing iron mining, processing, and manufacturing industries. Such a rivalry is most prominent in the dwarven populations from both competing regions, as dwarves have historically been most proactive in the rise of the iron industry. Around the time of Falschegal’s unification and the expansion of travel, there was some brief competition between the two regions, as they both fought to retain overlapping buyers and distributors in equidistant regions. Overtime, however, the competition surrounding mining has tapered off, as the quality of the iron itself from either region was found to be comparable. The primary difference was found to be in the manufacturing process and the purposes for which the iron was used. As the dwarven miners were less responsible for what happened to iron ore after it was mined, they let the rivalry carry over to the manufacturers and distributors. Thankfully, the rivalry now is mostly in jest, as many of those who work in the iron industry gather from all over the country, from Iron Coast and Iron Triangle alike, to amicably discuss the status of mining in their respective regions, compare techniques and seasonal yields, and revise standards for worker safety.

//

“Ugh, those animals are getting bolder. This is ridiculous. How many men did we lose?”

“Twenty Orange Guard, ten of our allies in the Wells Pier Municipal Patrol.”

“Non-human civilian casualties?”

“Zero.”

“Son of a bitch. How do they keep doing this? Have any of the anarchists been arrested?”

“No sir. They are very well-organized. They somehow know when local law enforcement is weakest, even when schedules are changed. And in many cities, witnesses are of absolutely no help.”

“And the debt records? And all of the money?”

“Completely destroyed.”

“Ugh, this is such HORSE SHIT.” Dunghill throws his filled lunch plate across the room. It shatters, leaving food smeared on the wall. Nobody reacts; this is probably not the first time this has happened. 

Governor M’knawl, the other man at the table, stirs the hot beverage in front of him with ease and composure, a stark contrast with the Chancellor’s wild gesticulations and flying spittle of rage. 

(A faint look of disgust briefly flashes across M’knawl’s face in response to Dunghill’s behavior, but it is fleeting and goes unnoticed.)

“Might I suggest, Chancellor,” M’knawl offers, “that we view this as an opportunity?”

“Oh really?” More spittle flies. 

“You promised to bring the people order. This anarchy is the opposite of order. This is something they should fear. All the more reason to keep your promises to the people, hm?”

Dunghill Kunt’s expression blanks for a moment. What little thought occurs in his egomaniacal, megalomaniac mind lights up his face in realization. 

“Yes! This should teach those little worms. I’m glad I can come up with such brilliant ideas.”

(M’knawl forces out a polite cough and nods.)

“Mr. Rihan, get back here.”

“Yes, Chancellor?” The aide returns hastily. 

“Deploy the Orange Battalions. I want a battalion sent to every city where there has been a bombing in the past few weeks.”

“Sir?” the aide balks. “This will create the appearance of martial law. This will aggravate tensions within the cities —-“

The aide then collapses to his knees, eyes tightly shut, cradling his temples. Dunghill’s form flickers for a millisecond then solidifies. He looks down and glares, his hand extended at the aide. 

“Who is Chancellor?” Dunghill asks. 

“Y-you are, sir.”

“And who have the people chosen to make the decisions?”

“I...uh...you, sir, of course.”

“Good. Then get it done.”

The aide scrambles to his feet and bolts out the door. Long, untrimmed nails curl around the door, catching it before it closes. 

A goblin enters, wearing the tattered, stained, and ill-fitting remnants of a noble’s traveling cloak. He appears disheveled, as if he has traveled through the night. Or perhaps he always looks like that. 

Dunghill looks up, eyebrow raised. 

The goblin bends in a labored curtsy. 

It all started with Igurt, really. 

You’ve never hated anyone as much as you hate that goblin. Old Sawtooth was finally retiring and too old to run the Salty Tavern, so he sold it. You had gone to the tavern to bring Sawtooth a retirement pie, only to find Igurt standing at the bar - uncharacterically filthy at that - with a crooked sneer and an unashamed hunger in his eyes when he looked at you. 

“For me?” Before you could correct him, his hands were on yours, clutching the pie tin. 

His brazenness rendered you both motionless and speechless. In an attempt to get your hands free from beneath his, you pulled back, trying to leave the pie in his hands. But he tightened his grip on you, and you could feel the greasy film of his palms on the back of your hands. 

To this day, you regret not fighting back.

He leaned in closer, too close, to your face. “You’re quite pretty,” he sneered, his voice little more than a constant hiss. “I think I’ll have you and this pie.” 

Your eyes went wide. You’d never been in this situation before. You’d never been so disgusted and afraid. 

That’s when your father walked into the tavern behind you. Igurt hurriedly released you from his grip and gave your father what you saw was clearly a feigned, patronizing curtsy. 

“Hey there,” Papa said, with the same smile as always. “Where’s Sawtooth? You alright, Princess? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Igurt cut in before you could explain what had just transpired. “Pleased to meet you, ssssssir. I am Igurt, the new owner of the tavern. Sawtooth sends his regards.”

“Darn, and I thought we got here just in time before he left. Ah well. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Igurt. Ignatius Mellonbottom here. I see you’ve already met my daughter Rosalie.”

The hunger flashed in Igurt’s eyes again. You couldn’t be sure if your father saw it; he just kept smiling the same smile. “Daughter? But you look so young ssssssir.”

Papa laughed heartily, but even his warmth couldn’t bring your mind to ease. “Thank you, Mr. Igurt, that’s very nice of you to say. Well, since Mr. Sawtooth isn’t here, take this pie and consider it our welcome to you. We’re just down the road at the bakery, if you ever need anything, neighbor.”

Papa nodded at you and it took you a moment to register what he had just said. Your head was still locked up with fright. With shaking hands, you released the pie to Igurt, careful to place it in his hands so that he didn’t touch you. 

His fingers and uncut nails curled around the pie. “I am sure we will see a lot of each other, ssssssir.” But he kept his eyes trained on yours. 

—-

The weeks that followed seemed normal. Papa would sit upstairs, carving more wood figures at his wood shop and pack all of them in large crates when he was done with the whole order. 

Like everyone else, Papa’s customers were very taken with his charm and bought his pieces for toy sets, dioramas, and ornaments. They always bought regularly and in bulk, so Papa was always busy whittling away at something. But that meant you were never short on coin. 

In fact, Papa was so close to paying off the lien on the building. He admitted the location wasn’t ideal for his wood carving, given the humidity of the South Forest. Still, as he cast Air Bubble on his day’s carvings, he always told stories about how he and Mama were a young, newly wedded halfling couple with a baby on the way and little money to buy property in a better location. 

For your part, you continued to run the bakery on the first floor of the building. Growing up, it was always Mama who ran the bakery and she taught you everything she knew. Papa also taught you a little about wood carving, but it was the baking that really stuck with you. Mama often teased Papa about how she had won somehow by getting you to carry on her legacy. Papa would laugh, smoke his pipe, and say he was, in fact, the winner because he had you and Mama. 

But then you lost Mama when you were 12. And even in his sadness, Papa still insisted that he was a winner for being loved by someone like Mama, and a winner because he still had you. 

—

Even if it started with Igurt, the election of Dunghill Kunt as Chancellor of Falschegal made everything worse. As the election wore on, Papa would spend more and more nights going to the Salty Tavern to drink, play cards, and debate with Igurt and his friends about Dunghill and the direction of the country as a whole. 

Dunghill was elected, to everyone’s surprise and to Igurt’s glee. Igurt didn’t hide where his allegiances were. While abhorred by Dunghill’s attitude and policies, Papa believed he should remain civil with others despite their disagreements. “Nothing wrong with a debate, we can still end the night as friends,” he always insisted. You didn’t know how true that was, but you knew it was always Papa’s style to make nice with everyone. 

Then one night, Papa came home late. You woke up to the sound of him stumbling around his wood shop and knocking over his tools. By the time you rushed over to him, he was lying on the floor, dangerously intoxicated, and with deep gashes in both of his palms. You cleaned and dressed his wounds as best as you could, but he was clearly in pain. He could barely move his hands, let alone grip anything. You wondered if that was just the alcohol. 

But it wasn’t. In the days that followed, even after his hangover was long gone and he was back to his usual self, his cheer could not will his injured hands to move. 

“Papa, who did this to you?” you asked again as you dressed his wounds again. 

His laugh was sheepish, embarrassed. “To tell you the truth, darling, I haven’t the faintest idea. I was so drunk. You know, it was just me and Igurt debating about Dunghill, just pounding mugs and mugs of mead while we shouted. It got pretty spirited. Next thing I knew, I’m stumbling home and on the floor with my hands cut wide open! It could’ve been clumsy me that did this!”

He saw the concerned frown on your face. His smile faltered. “I’m sorry, Princess, I know this is serious. And I’m sorry you had to see me like that. And like this.”

“I’m just worried about you, that’s all,” you said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really like Igurt.”

“Oh come on now, I know he seems a little rough at first, but he’s a peach of a guy. He doesn’t charge me for half of the drinks I order over there.” Seeing your apprehensive expression, he patted your leg with the back of a bandaged hand. “It’s fine. We’ll be fine.” 

—

But it wasn’t fine. With both of his hands injured, Papa fell behind on all of his wood carving orders. It was just impossible for him to grip anything, let alone make the tiny detailed carvings needed for his usual artistry. 

Many nights, he coached you through the carving process to see if you could step in for him. Your work was sufficient compared to a completely untrained hand, but nothing compared to Papa’s work. The best you could do was write letters to Papa’s customers, explaining the situation. Since they loved him so, they wrote back with words of understanding and wishes for a speedy recovery. They said they would temporarily consult some other artisans but would go straight back to him once his hands healed up.  

He never got that chance to take them up on that. He got very sick in the weeks that followed, though you couldn’t figure out how. Whenever you changed his bandages, there was no hint of infection and it seemed as if his wounds were healing. But as the days wore on, he became more and more lethargic and dazed. He would sweat and be clammy to the touch, and eventually couldn’t make it out of bed. 

That’s when Igurt came to visit one day. 

It was terrible, having this goblin in your home, in your father’s room with your father so weak. You didn’t want to leave the room, but you knew they were talking in lower voices so that you wouldn’t hear. 

Papa weakly gestured to his nightstand drawer, and Igurt eagerly obliged by pulling out a stack of papers. Igurt leaned in close and you could hear Papa’s voice, barely a whisper. 

“We’ve gone through our savings. I haven’t paid the mortgage. I can’t lose this house. Can you help—“

Igurt cut in. He spoke in a voice that he seemed to think sounded kind, but to your ears still sounded as sleazy as ever. “I will do you one better. Sign your house over to me. I have enough to pay off the mortgage. You can pay me back as you get better, and once you have satisfied the debt, I’ll switch the house back over to your name.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Oh yes. Are we not...friendssss?”

You should have protested. To this day, you wish you did. But, as was always the case in Igurt’s presence, you were paralyzed with fear. Instead, you watched from across the room in horror as Igurt flipped through the stack of papers, located the one he was looking for, and signed the papers with Papa. 

With the new deed clutched in his hand, he saw his way out. You made sure to follow him and close up everything behind him. When you got to the front door, he whipped around suddenly to face you. His excited breath was hot on your face, and possibly the most revolting thing you’ve ever smelled. 

“Looks like I’m your new landlordddd.” With a hiss, he slowly backed away into the dark of the forest night, making sure you could see the grin on his face. 

—

Papa died a few days after signing the deed.  

You couldn’t believe it. Everything had happened so quickly. There was barely any time to grieve, knowing you still had to run the bakery. 

A small service was held for Papa outside of the bakery. Everyone from town attended, and even some from outside of town that you didn’t recognize. This wasn’t a surprise; Papa made a lot of friends where ever he went. 

Many prayers to Gond were made and many mourners volunteered to speak of their fondest memory of Papa. You didn’t have words at the time - just tears, disbelief, and sadness. 

Just as he requested, Papa was buried next to Mama right outside of the bakery. It was fitting, knowing how hard he worked to buy and keep this place. And fitting that he could be beside Mama again. 

Yet even through your grief that day, you could feel Igurt staring at you the entire time. 

—

After his death, you’d tried your best to channel Papa’s good humor and nature. You continued to run the bakery with a smile and the same warmth you’d always expressed toward your customers. The regulars from the town came by to make their usual orders, and eventually stopped expressing their condolences. By all appearances, you seemed fine, and they didn’t want to drudge up any sadness if you seemed past it. 

Even if you had your town regulars, it still wasn’t enough money. Just as Dunghill’s ascension to power had driven Papa to constantly drinking and debating with Igurt, it awakened something sinister in the country itself. Human customers traveling through the South Forest would either walk past your bakery altogether, or leave the bakery after getting one look at you. Some of the ruder ones would say terrible things before leaving. It became normal to spend at least one day of the week in tears because of the harsh words of a human. 

Even the non-human passerby dwindled down. No doubt it was due to the Orange Guard, constantly policing the Forest and scaring many non-humans off of the main paths. Some non-humans, you knew, declined to travel completely, fearing violence. And you didn’t blame them; a few visits from the Orange Guard, for seemingly no purpose at all other than their own boredom, left you shaken every time. 

Still, every night after closing the bakery, you still sat upstairs, trying to carve the way Papa had always taught you. But it was never anything like Papa’s work. And in this humidity, with only one set of hands to cast the magic to protect the wood, it became harder and harder to ensure the preservation of the completed figures that Papa left behind. 

The letters from his buyers helped somewhat. They sent their deepest condolences and reminded you that Papa had sold to them since before you were a little girl. They were invested in doing what they could to help. Their offer still stood: if you could get back to supplying them with Papa’s quality of work or better, they would buy from you exclusively again. 

You would never rise to Papa’s artistry - you knew this. But you didn’t want to express this to his old buyers just yet. You thanked them for their kindness, and left the offer open while you tried to figure out what to do next. 

—- 

To make matters worse, Igurt visited weekly to collect the rent that he knew you didn’t have. Sometimes he showed up with his cronies, but he often showed up alone when the sun was setting. 

One particular night, the sun had set before you closed. He came alone. 

“You do want to buy this house back, don’t you?” He dragged every syllable with emphasis, knowing how much his presence discomforted you. 

“I do. I will get caught up on rent, I swear,” you pleaded. “Business has been slow, just give me more time.”

“You know,” Igurt sneered, “there are...other ways to pay me.” At that, he grabbed your wrist, and you struggled to pull it away. The tears welled up in your eyes and you couldn’t breathe. 

“No, NO! I —“

The door to the bakery opened suddenly, the bell ringing and jarring you both from the moment. 

A half-orc stood in the doorway, staring at Igurt. You’d seen those eyes somewhere, but couldn’t place it. 

You knew he wouldn’t show it, but you could sense the sudden fear in Igurt. He let go of you, cleared his throat, and spoke to you without taking his eyes off the half-orc. 

“You still owe me. If not my money, something else of value as a promise that you will pay me.”

“Is the house I grew up in not enough?” you pleaded again, finding your voice with the presence of this stranger. 

Igurt shook his head. “No. Something else.” His eyes drifted down your neckline, which was disgusting, but you were used to those kinds of gazes from men.

Surprisingly, his eyes fell, not lower, but on the sparrow carving on your necklace. 

Seeing the line of his gaze, you instinctively clapped your hand over the pendant. It was hand carved by Papa, made for Mama when they were young. You knew he had never made anything more beautiful or with more love and care. When Mama died, Papa didn’t want her buried with it, but insisted that you keep it so that Mama could live on in you. 

You shook your head. “No, not this. It’s not worth anything anyway.”

“Ah, but it isssss worth something to you. Give it here.” The half-orc took a step closer, but Igurt stood his ground. 

Your hand still over the sparrow, you asked carefully, “If I give this to you now, will you leave?”

“Yesssss.”

“And when I pay you, you will give it back?”

“Yesssss.”

Not wanting to let him touch you, you snapped the necklace off and threw the sparrow at his feet. He grinned and picked it up from the ground, bringing it to his nose to smell it. 

“Scent of halfling bosom,” he said with a sneer. 

And with that, he walked out the door. 

Once the half-orc closed and locked the door behind Igurt, you fell to your knees and burst into tears. 

—

The bell rings when the bakery door opens. Four figures enter that you’ve never seen before. 

You recognize them. This must be the group from the cart in the Forest. You caught a glimpse of them when you asked Yelvin, your new half orc friend (if you could call him a friend), if he could mind the bakery while you stepped out for some air. 

Since Igurt’s proposition a few weeks ago, Yelvin came every morning, never speaking a word. He would just sit at the corner table and lean back with his cloak covering his eyes. You only discovered that he wanted a hot tea after asking him if he wanted anything to eat or drink and running down a list of options. He finally nodded when you offered a hot tea. That, or he picked tea to get you to stop talking to him. But every morning you bring him one, and every morning he drinks it. 

These newcomers give Yelvin a quick glance when they walk in, also seemingly curious about his presence.  

They are obviously travelers, as you’ve never seen them before. And they look like they can handle themselves - you are not at all surprised that the constant patrolling of the Orange Guard has not deterred them. 

The looks on their faces when their eyes fall upon you is nothing new; for better or for worse, you are accustomed to being an object of desire. But they are polite, and seem to quickly readjust their gaze accordingly. At least the fire genasi and the human do. The gnome’s attention is preoccupied with the pastries in the glass case on the counter. The woman who is not quite human turns a little red. 

The last woman also looks to be the richest of the four. You are not one to manipulate, but you are in desperate need. You get her attention, hoping she will make a good customer. She turns even brighter red and can barely maintain eye contact with you. You wonder if has ever looked upon anyone with any sort of desire or even knows what that entails.  

It is the gnome that surprises you. Without hesitation, she asks to buy one of everything, without you even having to express your need for money. 

She further surprises you when she takes notice of Papa’s carvings, which you leave in the glass case next to the pastries to remember him by. She too is a wood carver, and without prompting, hands you from her big one of her own works. 

It’s a bear, and it’s beautiful. Like Papa’s work, maybe even better. 

But —

How did she know? you wonder.  Does she?

She lets you keep the bear carving as a gift and your heart races. 

You want to know more about her, get closer to her. The gravity between you seems to pulling you both together, both in this moment and in a cosmic, kismet sort of way. 

You think for a second she might be feeling the same pull. 

And then suddenly, she is rambling on about Gond and asking about your deity...?

You are thrown for a second, but nonetheless charmed. It’s been months since you could think of anything but the looking specter of poverty, homelessness, and Igurt’s unwanted advances. 

You feel the eyes of 2 of her companions on you both, the amusement alight in their eyes. You hadn’t intended to get into such a display today, but here you are. The not-quite-human companion is still red in the face and you wonder for a second if you should express concern. But her companions seem to be further amused by her, so you drop it. 

The gnome is still talking, leaning against the wall next to you. 

She’s a few inches taller than you and, while perhaps not the warriors at least one of her companions seems to be, her armor and brushes with battle seem to suit her.  

She continues to ramble, and you can’t help but reach over and brush a loose strand of hair from her face while she talks. You want to see her better, study her more, trace the lines of her face. You watch her hands as she talks. They are beautiful, and undoubtedly deft and skilled, given her artistry. 

She gets her companions to agree to retrieve your sparrow necklace from Igurt.

The coast is a nice place to live, she tells you. 

“I can’t believe they still fucking let that bastard become a regional magistrate,” you hear Lex continue. “After everything we’ve helped expose about him?”

“Keep your voice down,” her companion hisses. “The news is not public yet. It’s no doubt Governor Michnok M’knawl’s doing. But we expected this.”

—

You’re 15, waiting for the judgment of the Elders. They are huddled amongst themselves, whispering and sneaking furtive glances at you before turning back to their deliberations. 

It happened in the night, without warning. You were awake reading (which you have a lot of time for, it’s not like you have any social engagements to tend to) when it happened again. 

The surge seemed to originate in your chest and spread to your extremities. Panicking, you clenched your fists, hoping to hold it in this time. But it was no use. Your muscles ached with the strain and yet the blue light still sparked down your forearms. 

In a flash, the blue light erupted from your hands. Your scream was drowned out by the roar of wind, howling even more loudly as it swirled around you like a vortex. 

You were told later that the explosion that followed could be heard from nearby mountain villages. 

The neighbors found you unconscious in the wreckage. Your house was destroyed. Your parents were killed. 

It was an accident, you kept insisting. 

“We’ve never known what to do with this one,” you overhear one of the Elders mutter. “He’s not a bad seed, but he’s trouble.”

You hang your head in shame.  

—

“Fine,” Lex grumbles. You hear the clatter of coin on tabletop. “Thank you for your assistance. We will undoubtedly see each other again.”

As an air genasi, sea elf, tiefling, and an aasimar (hoo boy, what a body on that one) pass you and exit the tavern. You feel Lex take the empty seat next to you.

You can now relax your firm grip on your battleaxe. 

—

To say the Merry Mountains are cold is an understatement. Even your (more than) plentiful body hair can’t hold off the chill. You try to tug your fur cloak tighter to your body, as if that will help. The flames of the weak fire in front of you create shadows on the cave walls around you. 

The wind almost whips the scroll out of your hands, but with a quick hand movement you summon the scroll back. 

I’m getting better, you think with some satisfaction.  

Then again, perhaps it was not your magical abilities improving, but the fear of losing the reading material Master Fairfax has entrusted to you. 

He was the first one to treat your abilities as a blessing rather than a curse. Since you began your instruction with him, there hasn’t been a volume on modern and ancient arcana that you haven’t read in the town library. 

Other than you, Master Fairfax doesn’t have many students. The Elders of your town know very little about magic and have thus had little inclination to encourage its instruction (you are, notably, the only dwarven pupil). You and the other handful of students have been relegated to a far edge of town, where you won’t be a danger. 

The scroll flies from your hands. But this time, it’s not because of the wind.

One of the other students, a half-elf, is sitting on a bench across from you, waving the scroll. 

“I can teach you that one,” she calls across the cave. “I see there’s a lot you can teach me too.”

You can feel the rare smile spread across your lips. 

—

“A shot for me,” Lex tells the bartender. “No, I’m not going to tell you why, mind your business.” She waves him off. 

She takes her shot nods at you. 

“Liked what you saw?” she asks playfully. 

“Maybe.”

“We really have to stop having the same type. What’s the position of Team 9?”

“Missionary.”

“Wow, really? Wait, is it because they’re all women? Was that a sexist joke?”

“What? Oh...yikes. I can see why it sounded like that, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way, I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

“It’s okay, man,” she laughs. “I know you didn’t mean it like that. But I had to flag it for you, so you’re not inclined to say that to their faces. They don’t know you like I do.”

“Nono, you’re right. It’s fine, I apologize. Coltan reports that they’re approaching Atlas with refugees under their protection.”

“Huh. Didn’t think they had it in them.”

“Don’t be so hard on them,” you insist. “You don’t give them enough credit. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Had to meet with Team Seven first. I have to go check something out but we still might be too late. You got this on your own?”

“Please. Now you’re underestimating me. Get outta here. I’ll send a raven once it’s done.”

“Thanks buddy.”

You down the last bit of ale. By the time you put down your stein, she’s gone.