“Exactamundo my tiny porcelain princess.” Oz planted himself on the chest that served as a table as he explained “ you see this is no ordinary Tale, it is an epic saga. It transcend the very nature of the art, it has everything, good versus evil, new friends, old adversaries , a princess, a peasant, a pirate…well smuggler really but there is a talking bear of sorts, an epic sword fight where the blades are made of fire…did I mention a mysterious magic that is almost all powerful?”

Hilde carefully shook her head

“Well there is so much more to it , in fact it will take several evenings to properly relay it all to you and that is of course the first tale”

“ Fourth.” Hilde corrected and then inquired as only a curious child might” But what about the first three chapters?”

“ My dear , you are going to have to trust me on this, you don’t need them, in fact, many people will tell you that they are entirely out of sorts on the subject. The fourth chapter put’s you just where you need to be.”

“ And the fifth chapter?”

Hilde took note at the smile that formed on Oz’s  face, it was one of pure joy” The fifth chapter is the best chapter, without compare, it supersedes the fourth by leaps and bounds, in fact I will wager hard coin, that you will want to hear the fifth chapter time and time again….and before you ask, the sixth chapter is…well it’s okay…I guess….but seriously…the fourth gets you into it, the fifth holds you and keeps you spellbound and the sixth will bring it together in a somewhat neat package.” Oz stared off replaying the imagery.

“and there are how many of these stories?”

“Well technically, there are hmmm, let me think “ Mumbling to himself whilst counting off on his fingers” there’s like fifteen or so , some come  before the core story line, and  few after and few off shoots…look bottom line, I’m telling you four, five, and six which I promise you will be more than entertaining for the weeks to come.”

The doll, lowered her head slightly before speaking “Will you be my keeper for the weeks to come?” Weighing her words before inquiring “Has it become your turn to watch me?”

“Don’t talk nonsense little one, I’m here for the very reason I’m anywhere in the world, because I want to be, but to be fair I can see why you might think that.”

Hilde raised her head to meet his gaze and silently bade him to continue.

“ Dunkel, who, understandably so, sees you as much more than a ward, and in truth likely a daughter, spends his time with you earnestly. The charming Raven delights in your company, and why should he not? The others, come and go yes, but had you thought of why?” he continued without pause” before you jump to a misconstrued conclusion, it is simple ‘They like you Hilde’. You give them a ray of hope in this dreary landscape. A constant in turbulent times, and make no mistake there isn’t a one of them that wouldn’t step up should the need arise to come to protect you, assist you or simply sit with you …so I’m not your keeper…I’m the teller of amazing stories and exploits, the singers of song, the…..well the list is long and distinguished, so I shall skip to the one most relevant…the giver of gifts to those who are deserving and possibly in need”

“You brought me a gift?” Tilting her head slightly

“Gifts, plural , child.” Crossing the room and carefully drawing back a tarp covering a makeshift workbench, revealing a wicker basket filled with several wrapped parcels” In one of the worlds I’ve visited they had a tradition to give presents to well behaved children, they also received a gift on the day of their birth, some of the traditions that are paired with these events make little sense but can be very entertaining to say the least, sadly I couldn’t find a donkey to stuff with candy.”

“Donkey?”

“Never mind, it is of no consequence, “gently placing the basket before the doll.” Now if you will indulge me, please accept these small tokens, I hope that you appreciate them and that they are to your liking.” Mustering a smile of sincerity.

Hesitantly and carefully, Hilde reached down and selected the first canvas wrapped bundle. Tugging slowly at the ribbon, to reveal a pair of shoes, soft polished in black with a crushed velvet inset, purple in hue. “They  are very pretty….”

“They should fit, Dunkel was kind enough to give me the size and velvet came  from an old cloak, I figured it could help add a buffer , also easy to slip into them….and if you look under them you’ll find a pair of bleached deerskin leathers…they go from your ankle to you knee, they will add a bit of protection”

“Protection? From who?” Quizzically she asked with a touch hollow in her voice.

“From whom my dear , and in this land it can be just about anything, I’ve heard of a castle that had furniture that would attack you, if you act like a poor house guest.”

“You made that up!”

“No it’s true, a tale as old as time, now open your next gift”

The box was without indication of its contents and as soon as the lid was lifted a transformation from the mundane to the exquisite. The dress was a rich alizarin crimson with ancient linen lace at the cuffs and hem, form fitting yet still flowing, perfectly presentable but nothing that would draw a great deal of attention. The buttons were marcasite with tiny onyx flakes. A pair of soft leather short gloves, dyed to cocoa hue. And to finish the ensemble, a demure corset belt of a dull ebony, with a pair of statically placed sheaths .

Carefully and wordlessly, Hilde lifted the garment and began to go over every detail and aspect. Lightly letting her fingertips drift over it, tracing the lace, manipulating the buttons, enjoying how they caught the light. She continued with each item , examining closely, before eventually lifting her eyes up at the blue tiefling asking ,” Why?”

The expression on Ozs face changed instantly to confusion” ‘Why?’ Not ‘Thank you?’” The tone suggested not just misunderstanding but a hint of offense.

“Oh, yes, I mean , no, I mean thank you ….but…why are you giving me all these wonderful gifts?…You never have paid me any mind… but now…out of no where you are ….well all of this.” A delicate sweep of her stark white porcelain  across the bevy of offerings.

He smiled softly” That’s fair I suppose and yes you are right to be…. let’s say suspicious, and it is a testament to your ongoing education that you should be. Undoubtedly your would-be father, as well as I am sure a select few have advised you to be wary of anyone bearing gifts. That there will be strings attached, quid pro quo, etc etc. But fear not, I’ve had this conversation with Dunkel, who vetted me with great interest and more than that he explained the ramifications will be severe if my intentions are anything but honest, earnest and pure. I want nothing in return Hilde; I simply seized an opportunity to be a generous benefactor and perhaps become a better friend. And in my defense, up until quite recently you spent an inordinate amount of time in the company of a twisted brain, marinating in a jar of brine, who harbored his own agenda, the distance I kept was from him, not you.” Returning a soft but hopeful smile.

Hesitantly she responded “…well I guess that’s true..”

“And again if we’re be truthful, I do spend a good deal of my time …umm acquainting myself with the locals of wherever we stop in lieu of the company of our hmmm …merry troop, yes that’s it.”

As Hilde worked through the logic of the explanation Oz carefully retrieved a small slender case from inside his jacket and placed it down beside the doll. “More gifts?”

“Yes, just this one more and…. this “Holding out small knit cap.

“A hat? You know I don’t feel cold anymore” her voice sounded so hollow and distant. The reality of her existence and newly acquired form was a struggle that simply was never going to go away, but Oz would be damned to the very hells so many thought he was spawned from, before he would at the least make some effort.

“The hat is for sleeping, and before you say anything, just indulge me” with great care and the lightest of touch, he places the cap on her head and gently adjusted it. “Now forgive me for being blunt, your new body has so many wonderful benefits, but I can only imagine that with a lack of a few…hmmm features, the adjustment has been let’s say difficult” delicately Oz tugs the edge of the brim down over Hildes eyes, the eyes that will never close.

“I…. I can’t see…I …I can’t see…I won’t have to stare at the tent ceiling tonight …or watch the candle slowly melt away…or wait for the mice that sneak in looking for biscuits and candy…I can ...I can sleep tonight!” the tone raised higher, less hollow and for the briefest of moments it was Hilde the girl. The brim was lifted and perfectly painted eyes looked upon the azure bard, and the tiniest of whispers escaped “…thank you… Oz.”

“Think nothing of it Hildegard “Winking at the petite porcelain figure “Now one last gift, and I will tell you now, I did not mention this to Dunkel and would appreciate it if you refrained from doing so as well.”

His expression went to an unfamiliar seriousness, as he opened the slender box, revealing the contents.

“Knives?”

“No dear child, not knives. Knives are for cutting bread and spreading jam, daggers are for assassins and soldiers. These are for ladies, Stilettos. “Carefully holding the first up, letting the candlelight play off the polished finish. “This one goes in the front sheath of the corset. It’s for display, very pretty and fashionable, made of pure silver, not good for cutting but will deter most of the supernatural nasties that creep and crawl the many lands we visit, and the other …” Pulling out the second item, ugly by comparison but simplistic in its use. “This one goes in the other sheath, the one that rests in the small of your back, the one no one should see. It isn’t anything truly special, just a ring shank nail with a leather wrapped handle, the point has been hammered to a wicked point and tempered for hardness, the carnival blacksmith did me a favor for a bottle of wine. It’s made of iron, which our little Fey friends hate, I mean really hate, burns on contact so if it comes to it, you have a way to protect yourself.”

“But I don’t want to hurt anybody…”

“And no one is asking you to, Hill Street Blues, these are just to poke people who might get too close for comfort, you won’t do too much damage, plus they really complete the outfit.” Flashing the toothy grin “Remember accessories can make or break you…now , it’s your choice I could start the tale tonight…or we could sneak over and watch Rainer and his dance lesson.”

“Oooh can we?” sounding positively giddy at the prospect.

“Of course, but a few quick rules, he can’t know we’re there, so we stay quiet, and no giggling , he’s actually improved considerably in a short time.”

Leading the delicate doll out of the tent into the twilight of early evening  “ Oh in case I didn’t mention it to you earlier , in the entirety of the epic sage I will tell you, there was one character that was in every chapter, from beginning to end, a pivotal persona that you may recognize and identify with, as they are small, clad in armor of white, silver and blue, not unlike Dunkel, tenacious and fierce in battle, funny and more than capable….the name was…hmmm Artua …yes that’s it, and his faithful companion, a gold skinned know it all who knew every language but no one want to talk to him…you're going to love this story”

Hesitant to interrupt what was clearly a profound moment of self-reflection, Oz simply decided he was bored and a conversation was just the thing he needed.

“Fancy a nip my friend?” His words were unexpected as was his presence but Raven barely showed a surprised reaction. Calmly he lifted his eye up to meet Oz's offering, a silver flask. Wordlessly he took the vessel and took a measured pull. When he winced, Oz offered a word or two” Yes that first taste can have a bite, the second makes you wonder why you’d put yourself through it again, the third has a numbing effect…..by the fourth…well who cares at that point eh?” followed by a pointed smile.

Raven smirked as he handed back the container, “Thanks Oz…I could do with a little numbing, though you may be surprised to hear, not because of these” His hand lightly brushed a recently cut rune radiating from his shoulder. “Haven’t seen much of you lately. Where have you been hiding yourself?“ 

“Well not hiding so much as ….well exploring I guess is the best way to put it” taking another pull of the spirit, ”As you know the locals are enamored with the denizens of the Carnival….so long as they stay in their canvased domiciles and away from the ‘proper folk’ of the town” carefully finding a barrel to hop upon and sit regally. “A blue skinned tiefling walks into a bar…wait, that’s either the beginning to a terrific joke or a hate crime…possibly both, in this case I let past events curb my need to wet my whistle at the local watering hole …pun intended and find distractions more suitable to our heavily outnumbered surroundings.”

With an uncharacteristically curious expression, Raven took a seat on the edge of a stump, mildly intrigued and uncommonly amused by what was undoubtedly going to be a tale of some sort. “Better to be aware of the crimes he committed now, than to be surprised later.” He rationalized. Bex rolled her eyes and fluttered over to a nearby fire Raven had built to heat the blade she had been using, curling up in the flames.

“Well, I thought it best to learn about our new neighborhood, so I set out on that first night. I found this little farmhouse, well on the opposite side of the town, nowhere near the Carnival. Quite  a charming place really, some might call it a fixer upper, but I digress, what first drew my attention was a lovely aroma on the air, the lady of the house was an accomplished cook as it turns out, and after a quick peek , none too hard on the eyes neither…sadly her husband was absent…off on a project I’ll explain in a moment.” Taking another nip and again offering it to Raven who decided he had more than enough, motioned no thanks. “She was startled first by a knock at the door and moreover by yours truly on the other side. I quickly assured her I was no threat, in fact I needed her assistance, being lost and hungry, that it was becoming dark and all. And yes, I admit I laid it on pretty thick. A few compliments, a casual comment here and there and next, I’m asking her to pass the biscuits “

“You talked your way into a meal and sat with another man’s woman…eating his food not knowing when he would walk through the door?” Raven asked with a raised eyebrow.

 “I’ve talked my way into far worse, but I digress. Your concerns are of course valid, but she had alleviated me of them with the nugget of knowledge, her husband is…or should I say, was, the producer of such potent brew”

The prospect that Oz may have brought an early demise to a local sat heavily, it could bring an angry mob and unwanted attention, but Raven held his tongue for now.

“My hostess , Reena, shared that when her spouse didn’t drink it all, he could make a small profit by parting with this Shine, and that his still was hidden over the next hill” adding with a toothy grin “ and that if he hasn’t shown up for dinner by now, that he is likely passed out in that shed and wouldn’t be back until morning.”

Raven tilted his head “Oz…”

“Relax, I am not about to share details that are not pertinent to the tale, now where was I….oh yes, So after…umm…dessert….I bid the fair lady a good night and promptly made my way up the hill.”

“Up the hill?”

“To the still Raven, “giving his audience an incredulous look “ keep up man, here’s where it gets interesting.” Flashing a mischievous grin, ”I did find it, rather easily to my credit, never have been one for the great outdoors, and as suspected our farmer friend was fast asleep, with a jug in his hand. Cautiously I filled several flasks and bottles while he snoozed.”

Oz stopped and carefully studied the expression on Raven's face fading from mild interest to feigned disappointment, “Is that it? You bedded the wife and stole some booze?”

Chuckling softly “Of course not, far from it actually, you see, I returned a few nights later, for   a…”

“Encore performance?” Raven suggested with a smirk.

“Precisely, however while the evening transpired in a comparable manner with similar results, when I found my way back to the shed, Hubby was awake, tipsy for sure, but alert, so when he saw me he screamed something about “a Demon!” and then ran headlong into the doorjamb and knocked himself unconscious ,”

“Oof…..and then”

“Well as I woke him, I had a thought formulating” Attempting to take another pull, only to discover the flask empty “mores the pity”, deftly drawing a spare “Demon I shall be, thought I, So as I perched over his form and became his focus, he began his yammering and pleading and then my favorite part…”

“The bargaining…” Raven finished.

The moonlight helped illuminate his grin ‘Exactly!. Using his skill of mimicry ‘What do you want? I’ll give you anything, just don’t hurt me!’ No, no my new friend, I won’t hurt you, I need you, I need your skill, your talent…I need this .” Again holding up the second flask “ So in exchange for several bottles of this punch, I promised to leave his homestead alone.”

“You Needed the Shine?”

“Well yes and no, you see I promised the Vistani.” Oz said as nonchalantly as possible, given the situation..

“Wait! What?!” that famously stoic demeanor evaporated for a moment, far more than ever before, and Oz relished in it “ Ozaxius do you mean to tell me that you...”

“Now now, don’t get yer knickers in a bunch, I’m getting there” Standing on the barrel and easily teetering on the rim. “During the evenings that followed my first interlude with the Fair Reena, I continued my exploration and found the delightful sounds of the music and song, a language near and dear to my heart.” With a dramatic leap and dexterous skill, he plants his feet firmly on terra firma once more and began to slink and saunter, relaying his tale.” The language was unknown, but the meaning was clear enough, the music was like fire, raging and passionate. It moved me in a manner that was once long forgotten. Vistani music is like no other, one can not just hear it, one is enveloped by it, it surrounds you and fills you…it….” the demon  paused as his mind stepped off a cliff before the closest thing to reality brought him back” It can consume you in place….if you allow it. So raw and powerful, seductive, sensual ... .and perhaps the greatest of its characteristics, it is chaotic and it will show you the truth, whether you want it too or not…. So naturally I had to learn it.”

Again, rolling his eyes and muttering “Naturally”. Raven began to piece together the lunatics' actions in hopes to assemble a possible end to this tale which did not lead to a very hasty withdrawal of the area or at the very least the location of a shovel, for the grave Oz seems to be rushing towards.

“Well as you might imagine the Vistani, a cautious people, a people of tradition ,a people of pride , would hardly just give away something as precious as a song, or two with a total stranger, especially one who looks like This “striking a pose with his tail sweeping to and fro lazily. “So I had to endear myself upon them and try to gather their trust, no easy task I assure you, I really had to pull out the big guns…. Swift, Perry, Adele, it was a playlist I dare not attempt again in this realm lest I invoke truly dark spirits. More appropriately their agents” Carefully dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief before continuing, not permitting his somewhat dumbstruck audience to ask a question. “Having shown myself to them as an entertainer extraordinaire and moreover a keeper of tales, tunes and secrets, I offered my services such as they are, in exchange for but a single song. They exchanged glances and looks to each other silently, as if they could read the thoughts of one another. In their company was this venerable elderly woman, who assuredly held a great deal of respect and influence….plus if we’re being honest I would have hit that if given the chance but let me not travel down that path at this time. Her name is Valenteena, she continued to spout off her lineage for a few moments, and of course I pretended to listen, and she followed up with the woes of her people, how they are not trusted , nor welcomed, how all think that the Vistani could enthrall others and cast curses…I distinctly remember her winking at me when she said that, this went on for a while until she got to the thing I was waiting to here ‘ …If you wish for us to teach you the song and the tune you must first provide a boon.’”

Lowering his face into his palm Raven cringed, “Please tell me that’s not true?”

Unfazed, he stared back at Raven. “It is true, I couldn’t believe it either, I mean that cheesy rhyme almost made me wretch.“ Shaking his head slowly.

The sudden outburst was as equally surprising to Oz as it was Raven, far from his normal calm demeanor. “"You're a fool to enter into a gypsy bargain. Do you have any idea what you've done? Idiot!" He chastised his friend. Bex allowed a sardonic chuckle to escape as she repositioned herself in the flames as Raven stood and paced..

A small smile formed “I have a fairly good inkling as to the situation, but again I implore you to listen, for my tale has a happy ending….well perhaps that is the wrong phrase….although, no no no, permit me to share with you that the task they bestowed upon me…a simple retrieval of an item recently removed from one of the caravans  by a member of another encampment…so you see, easy peasy.”

Raven mouthed some unkind words in Infernal. “Faad! Uvuaz!....Hikurviwmyrw LUQMZPIRY!

“Careful cousin, don’t say anything you can’t take back.” Raising both hand up in a placating gesture….Look I know you’re concerned, so you don’t mean that…well not all of it for sure, but be at peace I’m getting to the good part” 

Raven shook his head in exasperation but relented. He found his seat again but his fixated gaze told Oz he should choose his next words carefully.

The only other encampment in proximity of the Carnival is Litwick Market, hence any mention of the folk from the other side would put any rational individual on edge.

“The Vistani charged me with the retrieval of a bow….”

“A bow?”

“Yes, Violin bow…made of gold…. that the Fey…. umm let’s say found….don’t look at me like that , I didn’t choose this task, I just wanted to learn the damn song, so off I went and before you say anything, no I didn’t go charging in there, nor did I try to sneak in, I am somewhat familiar with the rules, no invite no entry, entry with no invite, no leave….so I had to entice someone to meet me on the edge of their camp….so that’s why I needed the booze.” Raising both hands in a manner that suggested that it was obvious and hardly needed further explanation. 

Raven’s expression advocated that it did. 

”Okay so I placed a thimble out on a flat stone and added a few drops of the hooch to entice them to approach and parley. “

With a very steady, calm tone Raven asked “ Did you serve them that swill you’ve been sipping on all this time?”

“No of course not , I gave them this…” with a practiced flick of his wrist sent a silver flask of inestimable value in a delicate arc, easily snatched from the air by Raven's nimble fingers. Cautiously the tielfing removed the cap and took heedful sniff before sampling a drop or two.

An incredulous expression formed before taking a second pull as if to make sure. “Lemon…it tastes like…. Where in the Nine Hells did you find lemons all the way out here?”

“Oh, you like that do you? Well it was simple really, in fact I have several liters in a few flavors that won’t burn a hole in your belly, it can become very popular I’m telling you.”

“Oz… focus…lemons?”

“Not lemons my friend, lemon drops, you know the candy? I put half a dozen into the flask, let them dissolve and whammo a faux limoncello , and our little winged friends were more than anxious to talk…they also seem to like the peppermint and sour apple, but the lemon was their favorite by a long shot, and where as they can command a great deal of raw magic, they are light weights when it comes to drinking…happily they did not exhibit the lesser desirable traits of inebriation , so no sloppy drunks nor angry…mostly sleepy drunks”

The oddest sensation of relief began to rise, with a modicum of respect for his fellow tiefling. There was also a moment of hesitation before asking the next question, hoping desperately for a resolution, “so you traded the booze for the bow then?”

With head tilted back Oz bellowed out a warm and heart felt laugh, before going on with his recount of the event “Don’t be ridiculous “ again shaking his head, ”that was just to get them out there so we could exchange niceties, I mean I’m all for moving up to the third date as much as the next bloke but they can be rather particular. So since we are all good friends now, I says to them,” He smiled and continued, “I then  asked if they knew about the whereabout of the intended item, that the owner is so clumsy and so forgetful that he assuredly misplaced it, but without it he can’t teach me the special song. Happily they share that they Might know something, but  an exchange would be in order” As the words came out he watched Ravens head nod as if he knew the drill. “So of course I tell them I would be happy to however I was currently a little short on funds, to which they scoffed saying they had no need for coin, they wanted a competition….a riddle contest, “ Hearing the groan, Oz didn’t pause for a moment, “fear not I had no intention spending my evening trying to guess and lose so I upped the ante and offered them something better….I told them a knock-knock joke”

“A what?”

“It’s a jape…a joke…a funny….it is of no consequence, suffice it to say, where as they can be amusing, and a few even funny….to a fey…no no, my mistake, to a heavily inebriated fey it was downright hysterical….one of the little buggers laughed so hard he ….umm got pixie dust everywhere….after they calmed down, and I must stress that it was sometime, because they felt the need to repeat it as more and more of their brethren arrived, was I rewarded with the bow, now as an act of good will I went a step further and carefully scribbled down on separate scraps of paper a total of thirteen knock-knock jokes which I folded and gave to the thirteen fey that were present as individual gifts, they, and they alone might share and tell at their discretion.”

Raven arched a brow and smirked. “Generous as that might have been, you do realize that they might feel the need to reciprocate, are you prepared for that?”

“When it comes to the Fey, that is pretty much a given, nothing is ever simple with them, so I felt the need to suggest a small task of mine own so that everyone could be on level ground as it were.” Pausing for a moment to look up at the clear sky, and marveling at the stars burning so far away in yet another world, Oz sighed.

“Wait, that’s it? That’s your tale? That ending hardly has the climax one might expect from one of your adventures…and yes pun intended…not to mention the fact you haven’t answered a number of questions, Such as ‘Where did you get the candy?”

“Oh come now my dear cousin, surely you are familiar with the idiom ‘like taking candy from a baby’ have you not? Well, I assure you it is far from easy and often quite loud.”

“You stole candy from babies?”

“Hardly, but I was able to gather the goods from some of the local youths, who quickly traded with me by observing an ancient and time-honored tradition known as ‘Tricks for Treats’ with a minor modification by removing an ‘f’. A cantrip here, a sleight of hand there and in no time, I was on my way to add some flavor to the more than potent potable.”

Raven began to count off on his fingers as to insure he relayed the points of the tale .“So you used the candy, acquired from the children of the village in exchange for minor magics, to flavor the shine, which you extorted from a farmers, whose wife you bedded, apparently several times,  so as to make the Fey grant you an audience that would allow you the chance to trade a number of japes for a bow that you then would give the Vistani,  who would then teach you a song, the likes you’ve never heard before, Have I got that right so far?” The entirety of the statement was made with an unbroken stare the blue would be demon.

“Well when you put it like that, so succinctly I might add, it might be construed as overly complicated, when in fact it was merely a series of interwoven transactions and deals, with a couple of promises thrown in.” Oz explained while holding his arm out, inspecting his nails.

“I will ask you only two more questions, for the sake of clarity, and believe me, both are important, first you spoke of the husband in the past tense, he Was the producer of the liquor, is he no longer making the shine, or is he just no longer?”

Evasive as ever Oz quipped “And the second question?”

With patience quickly evaporating, Raven asked evenly ”What was the task you gave the Fey in order to maintain a balance and lack of debt on either side?”

Cocking his head and giving the biggest ‘Oh you noticed that did you?’ grin Oz could muster “Well I will answer both at the same time, the task I gave was a simple one, since the Fey gave back something that they had…borrowed from the Vistani and now had to return it, it only seemed fair that they should be able to borrow something else to replace it…it’s Fey logic, try not to figure it out, So I suggested that since they found the bow, it only seemed fair to take the violin this time and to insure that they wouldn’t  be able to return  it this time, that they should gift the violin to the very nice person who made the delicious drinks they enjoyed so much, in this case I explained it was the lady of the house, so a few days later Reena found a violin of gold upon her doorstep….naturally she grabbed it as well as a few other possessions  and left, hence he is no longer her husband…past tense ….The Fey still have their prank, the Vistani received what they asked for, The farmer is no longer haunted by the blue skinned demon and the bard got the girl, the booze and the song!” Oz took an exaggerated bow, upon completion, he flicked a small piece of candy at Raven “Lemondrop?”

Raven found himself smirking, no actually, he found himself  smiling as popped the sweet into his mouth.

“Now I’ve told you my tale, at least a recent one, so I’d say that maybe You might share one with me?”

“I’m no story teller Oz.”

“No you’re not, rather tightlipped to be fair, always watching and gathering, a talent to be sure and it has its uses, however, if you’ll indulge me a query?”

Raven took a moment, carefully weighing his options for a response before nodding evenly.

“Your adornments…why? I mean I understand the aesthetic draw to it, chicks dig scars, but you were given a gift of a clean slate, unblemished and pure, a fresh start as it were, so why do this, or more aptly have this done to you, yet again? And let me be clear, I cast no judgement in any way, you do you and all.”

His response was sincere “I’m not sure you could ever understand, I’m not sure I entirely do. It’s just…” Raven paused to collect his thoughts. “These scars are more me than the skin they cover…They’re my legacy, my history, my honor and more so a reminder of who I am, where I came from and all that I fought for and earned, without them I’m not…well me.”

Oz took another drink before putting the flask away,” Well you’ll pardon me for saying so….but you’re wrong.” Instinctually he raised a hand to prevent any protest and to continue his statement “ hear me out my troubled but goodlooking chum…these scars…these are not…the  scars you once wore….they are self induced….a recopying of a history which if written or not does not change the facts, you, my friend , will be you, scars or no…now one might ask’ Oz if you knew this why not say something sooner, spare him from the pain, the sanguine stain of flesh and earth?’ Simply put, it’s not my place, one should never ever challenge another’s motives, wise or misguided as they might be perceived. With your project well past the point of no return I can now make polite inquiries, for it is unlikely that you’ll be given a third chance for another blank canvas.”

With that Oz offered his hand in friendship to his would-be cousin. “The hour is late and the drink has been strong, and the company most excellent, allow me to retire for the impending hangover will be grave.”

Raven stared at the extended hand, as he weighed the words, before accepting it. “You’re more complex than you let on Oz. Frivolous , foppish, deviant and dubious, you act like you don’t care and yet you take the time to insure a balance amongst others,  you see more than most and your actions , while overtly self-serving, generally are for the benefit of others.”

“You take that back! “Oz barked, before chuckling,” Promise you’ll keep my secret, I do have a reputation to protect after all?....good, now I really must get some sleep” Turning away and strolling towards the tents, he called out over his shoulder “…tomorrow night if you like, I can tell you about the time I bedded the dreaded chupacabra and her uglier sister…now what was her name again….”

The scent of strong coffee and spiced tea drifted through the air as campfires crackled to life. Performers stretched sleep from their limbs with yawns and gentle exercises; some rehearsed silently, going through motions with practiced grace. Somewhere, a fiddler played a lazy tune, just for themselves. Painted wagons creaked open as costumers aired out silks and sequins, while a pair of acrobats argued fondly over breakfast rations.

Everyone had their roles, their rhythms.

Rainer had his too—but that morning, his gaze lingered on the horizon. He was halfway through his second cup of tea when he noticed the shape of the hills—those gentle, sweeping rises like waves frozen mid-crest. Then the stand of trees near the creek. The way the wind carried the scent of elderflower and damp earth. It stirred something in him, a tug in his chest that felt like memory.

After asking around the Carnival grounds, he got his answer. They were camped just a few miles from Varithne.

So, on a quiet morning, with no patrols to perform and the sky clear above, Rainer set off down the Nebula Road on foot.

The walk was long but easy, the road winding through meadows scattered with wildflowers. The land was just as he remembered it—rugged, but deceptively gentle in the daylight. Sunlight spilled across the hills, painting the grasses gold and green. Birds trilled from unseen branches, and the breeze danced around him, tugging at his cloak like an old friend welcoming him back.

The village had changed little. A ribbon of smoke curled from the handful of chimneys. Fences leaned in the same tired, stubborn way. The roofs wore a patchwork of moss and lichen, and the ancient trees stood like old sentinels. A few distant figures moved slowly across the fields—farmers and herders beginning their day. Peace hung in the air like a blanket, undisturbed by time.

The path to Aynruth’s cottage was overgrown, but the stone fence still stood. The small house was just as he remembered—weathered timber, a slanted roof, and an herb garden that had taken on a life of its own. A battered hat rested on a fence post. The door stood ajar, as if still waiting for someone to return.

Then the barking began.

From around the side of the house barreled a graying hound—bigger, older, but unmistakably Maggie. She slowed as she neared, tail wagging furiously, sniffing with disbelief before lunging forward in joyful recognition. Rainer knelt, arms open, laughing as she bowled into him, whining and snuffling his face.

“Ain’t no mistakin’ that racket.”

The voice was older now, raspier, but familiar. Aynruth stood in the doorway, leaning on a cane. His beard had gone entirely white, and his back bent more than before, but the eyes—sharp and kind—had not changed.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said, stepping forward with a slow, measured gait. “Didn’t reckon I’d see the day again. Maggie never gave up, you know. Still watched the road every morning.”

Rainer rose, heart full. “I didn’t forget. I just—got lost.”

Aynruth nodded, his smile faint but warm. “That’s the way of it, sometimes. But you’re found again, and that’s what counts.”

He opened his arms, and the dragonborn stepped into a quiet, weathered embrace.

Inside, the cottage smelled of thyme, woodsmoke, and old memories.

Aynruth shuffled ahead, gesturing for Rainer to close the door behind him. The walls were lined with shelves cluttered in that way only the homes of the long-lived are—jars of dried herbs, carved wooden figures, bits of antler and stone, a bird’s nest tucked safely in a woven basket. A thick quilt lay folded on a rocking chair near the hearth, where embers still glowed from the morning fire.

“Sit yourself down,” Aynruth said, motioning toward the rough-hewn table. Maggie followed Rainer closely, then flopped to the floor beside his chair with a long, satisfied sigh.

The old farmer filled a kettle and set it on the iron hook over the fire. “Still got some of that plum-leaf tea you liked. Not much left now, but no better day to use it.”

Rainer looked around, overwhelmed not by grandeur but by how right it all felt. He hadn't realized how much of the Carnival carried the feeling of drifting, always moving. But here, in this modest home with creaky floorboards and the steady rhythm of a kettle coming to boil, there was stillness.

Aynruth eased himself into the opposite chair with a grunt. “You look older. Not in years. In weight.” He didn’t ask where Rainer had been. He didn’t need to.

“I’ve seen things,” Rainer said softly. “Done things. Lost some, helped others. I kept thinking I’d come back, but… the Mists don’t let go so easily.”

The kettle whistled.

They shared the tea in mismatched mugs. It was strong, earthy, with a hint of fruit and woodsmoke. Outside the window, bees hummed through wild marjoram, and the trees whispered gently to one another.

“You still don’t remember where you came from?” Aynruth asked, not unkindly.

Rainer shook his head. “Only fragments. But I remembered this place. I remembered you and Maggie.”

Aynruth chuckled. “Well, that’s more than most get in this land. Folk pass through, and the Mists eat their names.”

They sat in companionable silence, save for the occasional clink of ceramic or the soft groan of the rocking chair as Aynruth leaned back. Maggie snored at Rainer’s feet, her tail thumping now and then, dreaming of younger days.

After a long moment, Rainer asked, “And the village? Anything new in Varithne?”

Aynruth gave a small grunt, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Some things shift, sure. Most don’t.”

He set his cup down and glanced toward the window, eyes distant.

“Old Ilya passed on in the winter—fell asleep by the stove and didn’t wake up. She was ready, I think. Her boy took over the goats. He’s not as good with them, but he’s learning. The Maelor twins married—each other, somehow, after all that fuss with the Duskwood girl. And young Enid? She’s running letters between Neblus and Viaki now. Says the road don’t scare her, and I believe it.”

He paused, smiling faintly.

“Storm last spring knocked out half the orchard. Folks pitched in, got most of the trees standing again.”

“And you?” Rainer asked. “How are you holding up?”

Aynruth chuckled. “Old bones creak more than they used to. But I’ve got tea, a roof, and a hound who still thinks she’s a pup. I reckon I’ve got what I need. Hey but enough about me. Let’s hitch up the cart and roll into town. I’ve got some errands to run, and I’m sure lots of folks would be happy to see ya again.

Aynruth’s cart had seen better centuries. Its wheels creaked like haunted floorboards, the bench sagged like a guilty conscience, and every bump in the road played a new note in its ongoing symphony of groans. But it held together, barely, and Maggie trotted proudly alongside like she was leading a parade.

They’d set out that morning with a simple goal: a quiet arrival, maybe a surprise or two. Aynruth had even brought along a dusty pie tin with vague plans of stopping by the baker for some “proper welcome-back sweets.” The old man seemed delighted by the idea of just showing up, Rainer in tow, and watching jaws drop.

“You’ll see,” he said, flicking the reins gently. “Folk’ll get all misty-eyed. Someone might faint. Maybe old Bertom. He’s overdue for a good faint.”

Rainer chuckled, leaning back with arms folded and a smile tugging at the edge of his snout. “Do you usually orchestrate your errands like theatre?”

“You’ve been gone too long,” Aynruth replied. “Everything’s theatre. Just some of it involves more goats.”

They crested the final hill—and all hopes of a quiet entrance dissolved immediately.

A chicken flew past.

Literally flew. It flapped hard, flailed harder, and smacked into Aynruth’s hat, knocking it sideways. Another followed, careening out of the schoolhouse window with a trail of chalk dust and squawking fury.

The village square lay below them in full, chaotic bloom: turnips were rolling loose down the main lane like escaped convicts and Tillo was wielding a rake in a standoff with the forge goose.

“Did we miss a festival?” Rainer asked.

“Nope,” Aynruth muttered, straightening his hat. “This is just a Tuesday.”

They rolled in unnoticed at first, weaving slowly between barrels and confused livestock. Maggie barked once, then peeled off to enthusiastically greet a pair of sheep who promptly scattered in different directions.

Aynruth brought the cart to a stop beside the well. “Well. So much for the big surprise,” he muttered.

He climbed down with more of a dignified scoot than a dismount.

Rainer followed, only to step on a rogue turnip, yelp, and land flat on his back with a thud.

Enid was chasing down chickens when she came upon Rainer.

“Oh!” She shouted as she skidded to a halt. “I—wait, Rainer?!”

“Hi Enid.” Rainer said, brushing feathers and dirt from his cloak.

“Hey! Look! Rainer’s back!” Enid shouted.

Gasps followed. Then cheers. Then a brief interruption as the forge goose attempted to bite Rainer’s tail in protest of his celebrity status.

Mayor Bram appeared beside him looking like a man deeply betrayed by both turnips and poultry.

“Turnips got out,” Bram said grimly. “Chickens got into the griddle flour. Goose staged a coup.”

“I don’t know how to help with half of that.” Rainer admitted.

“You’re tall. You’ve got arms. “You’ll figure it out.”

Before Rainer could argue, Bram shoved a shovel into his hands and pointed dramatically toward a bale of hay that had caught fire for no apparent reason.

“Hero work. Go.”

Like a summoned spirit of scandal, Ms. Orla the village gossip appeared beside them, her shawl flapping.

“Oh, thank the stars!” she said. “The village is in complete anarchy. The turnip wagon flipped over, the goats breached the market, the Maelor twins honeymoon cow is missing, and the forge goose bit Bertom so hard he fainted into a butter churn.”

“What exactly is happening?” Rainer said, dropping the shovel to catch a wayward chicken midair.

Mayor Bram waved a dismissive hand. “You don’t have time for the details. You’re about to be incredibly useful.”

“Oh! That would be convenient for you wouldn’t it Mr. Mayor?!” Ms. Orla said with her hands on her hips. “I’ll have you know that earlier this morning, Mayor Bram decided to move the annual Plowman’s Market from the meadow to the village square ‘for convenience’ without any unified plan or proper supervision.”

“There was proper supervision!” Mayor Bran protested. “I left the Maelor twins in charge!”

“I’ve proven my point.” Ms. Orla said with a self-satisfied smirk. The Maelor twins are many things: loud, enthusiastic, inexplicably barefoot at all times; but planners, they are not.

To make matters worse, one of the twins, it was unclear which, and they aren't telling, had used the wrong feed barrel, and given the livestock a potent mix of fermented beet mash meant for a festival brew.”

Rainer furrowed his brow.

“Don’t try to logic it,” Aynruth grunted. “This is Varithne.”

Mayor Bram continued. “What I’m saying is, we could use a hand. And wouldn’t you know it, here you are—big, scaly, strong, and probably better at wrangling goats than young Joran, who can’t even spell ‘goat’ half the time.”

Rainer laughed, a full, warm sound that echoed in the streets. “I come back for a quiet visit and get conscripted into goat duty.”

“That’s how we say ‘welcome back’ around here,” Aynruth said.

The village square looked like it had survived a mild siege. Turnip greens were scattered across the ground like the aftermath of a vegetable riot. And there, standing on top of the overturned wagon like a queen surveying her kingdom, was Judith.

She was a massive, one-eyed goat with an impressive beard and the air of a creature who had never lost an argument; and wasn’t about to start now.

“She remembers you,” Aynruth muttered as he and Rainer approached. “Or maybe she just hates everyone equally. Hard to say.”

Judith’s single eye narrowed. Her nostrils flared.

Rainer squinted back at her. “She’s glaring at me.”

“She glares at everyone.”

“No, I mean specifically me.”

“Then she remembers you.”

Judith snorted. A turnip fell from her mouth.

Aynruth handed Rainer a coil of twine, a burlap sack of feed pellets, and a small wooden bucket. “Go show her who’s boss.”

“How exactly do I do—”

Judith chose that moment to leap off the wagon and charge.

What followed was less ‘goat wrangling’ and more ‘improvised gladiatorial performance.’

Rainer ducked behind a barrel, narrowly avoiding a horn to the kneecap. Judith circled like a predator, cloven hooves thudding ominously on the dirt road. He made the mistake of locking eyes with her again—challenge accepted, apparently—and was promptly chased halfway around the village.

“She’s faster than she looks!” Rainer yelled as he hurdled a watering trough.

“She does daily laps!” Aynruth hollered back. “It’s her hobby!”

Judith lunged. Rainer grabbed a feed bucket and tossed the pellets in a high arc. They scattered across the ground in a satisfying rattle, and—for a moment—Judith hesitated. Her ears twitched. Her tail gave a thoughtful flick. Then she trotted over to inspect the offering.

Rainer took the opportunity to dive forward, catching her around the middle with a kind of desperate dignity and wrapping the twine loosely around her midsection like a very angry holiday roast.

Judith let out an offended bleat, flopped dramatically to her side, and began chewing on her own restraint.

“Victory!” Rainer declared, panting as he sat in the dirt beside her.

Aynruth gave an approving nod from the fence post he was hammering back into place. “Not bad. You only got headbutted once.”

“Twice,” Rainer corrected, rubbing his ribs.

Judith gave a smug little bleat, as if keeping score.

By midday, his cloak was covered in feathers, his arms scratched from brambles, and his dignity bruised slightly from the duel with Judith. But Varithne looked better: the chickens were mostly corralled, the turnips saved, the fences patched, and only two villagers had fallen into the well—both voluntarily, as part of a debate about whether it echoed more in the afternoon.

“They do this every week?” Rainer asked, collapsing onto a hay bale beside Aynruth, who was picking straw out of his beard.

“Not quite,” the old man replied. “Sometimes it’s the sheep.”

From the field came a distant baa followed by a loud splash.

Aynruth didn’t flinch. “Yup. The sheep now.”

Rainer laughed, the sound full and surprised, his heart light. The Carnival had its wonder, its glitter and mystery—but here, there was a kind of magic too. Mud-stained, ridiculous, slightly damp magic.

He looked around the village smiling through the dirt and feathers, at Enid handing out apple slices, at Ms. Orla holding court with some of the other village wives, at the way the sunlight hit the mossy rooftops, at the chaos wrapped in humble pastoral charm and thought, Yeah. This feels like coming home.

I listened intently with shield raised and lashed out when I was sure the evil was before me however, more often than not, my strike made no purchase. And then I felt the sting of claws and metal as I was struck from unseen enemies. Again and again, I swung hardly making contact and again and again I took punishment. I thought of running and may have if I knew the way out or if my heart would let me abandon my friends to their doom, but neither were possible. Just when it seemed that the only option left was to die alongside them, I found the pillar.

The dark monolith slab stood before me as it pulsed with its own energy and life and curiously with a voice, faint but there. I reached out and placed a hand on the rough, stone surface and then I was gone. Or rather the basement was gone. The house was gone. The damnable mist and surrounding world were gone and I stood in a silence that echoed in all directions.

The voice spoke, strong now yet sweet like a drip of honey. “You have strength but not enough to overcome what resides within this house. Your friends will die here, as will you. But it does not have to be this way. I could offer you the power to save them. A dark gift that I willingly bestow upon you, my hero.”

“What would you ask of me for such an offering?”

“Only your service. You will carry me from this place and we will be together forever-more.” I hesitated, truly scared of what this could mean. “I can read your heart and I can feel that you are a good man. I can aid you in your desire to relieve the suffering of the innocent. Do not tarry for long. Your friends struggle and suffer against the evil beyond.”

Closing my eyes I said a silent prayer to The Dawnfather and whether by mistake or on purpose, I still do not know, whispered, “I accept.”

Instantly I was back in the basement, the smell and damp invading my senses along with the sounds of the battle taking place. And I knew what had to be done. I swung my blade into the monolith, cutting deeper into stone than should have been possible. As the pillar shattered and crumbled, I felt a new energy being born within. A sense of vigor, strength, and new purpose. My sword burst into flames of black and purple and my armor took a dark sheen. The darkness receded to the edges of the room and for the first time, I truly saw the horrors before me.

As I strode forward into the battle and brought the dark flame sword to bear, I heard the honey dipped voice again, now with an edge of hardness, from inside, “Now, my dark savior, do what must be done.”

**********************

            Time passed as I got to know the sweet yet steeled voice of Naomi. My armor, now dark blue and black in the sun, bears the sigil of the Blue Flame of Vengeance. My shield, once plain wood with iron bands shows the symbol of the Knights of the Shield. Worse of all, my holy pendant of Pelor seems to bear a corrupted back side with an etching that I have come to learn is Gargauth, a devil from the hells. This I keep tucked always within my tunic. I did not have a good explanation when my friends questioned the armor change and I would not know what to say if they saw the pendant. As promised, gifts were provided along with the changes I have felt and seen. I feel stronger and more capable. I have discovered that I not only understand but can speak the Devil’s language, something that I have been able to use to connect with Raven, who is the only person that I have confided this information too.

            However, even with the gifts, shame weighs heavy on my soul, if I still have one. Surely there was another way to survive that place. I should have trusted in Pelor. The Dawnfather would have seen me through or I might have perished in that place… with my honor.

**********************

            I did not realize the shame could be worse but it was a lesson quickly learned as my friends stared at me in disbelief as I stripped the old king’s corpse of its plate armor. They do not understand that I need it. It will help me to be stronger and better and I will be able to protect them and everyone with it. And yet… my heart has never felt as heavy as it does now. As I put the armor on, I feel its weight dragging on me, even as I can sense Naomi smiling with approval.

**********************

            My heart utterly breaks as I steal from my friend, something I never thought I was capable of. How low does the pit of shame delve? I do not understand why I am reaching into his bag or even what I am searching for, only that the item needs to be sacrificed, as is Naomi’s will and I feel helpless to resist.

And I fulfill that desire in an act that horrifies me as much as it intrigues as I can feel Naomi guiding my hands on the Circlet of the Sun. The light golden hue that typically emits when I provide a healing touch emanates now as blackened, as if encased in shadow and I can feel energy pulling from the item as it feeds into myself and Naomi, but I cannot stop. Do I even want to stop it? When complete the Circlet of the Sun is no more than a pile of ash and as I feel a pleased and satisfied Naomi recede into the background, I cannot help but lament what I have become.

I stare at my hands remembering when the healing magic first sprang to life. They were the instruments of my greatest pride. The day I became more than just a ward to Sir Arthur and the way I could finally help.

**********************

            The visions may be the worse part. Are they real or part of my imagination brought forth by my own shame and dishonor? Visions of the Hells and the tortures within. I have spoken with Raven about these visions and I can sense that they worry him, which cannot be a good sign, and I dare not recount the visions in detail or risk losing what is left of my sanity.

**********************

            Hildy provides the first sense of worth I have felt in a very long time, although it came from a situation I would never wish upon her. Her affliction with a demon is most troubling and although Naomi screams within my mind to destroy her, I have managed to fight back. I know that taking that step would lead to an abyss that I would never emerge from and there must be a way to help this child that does not involve her death. Naomi cannot be allowed to take this part of me for I fear it is all I have left.

**********************

            Waking up within a new body should have been jarring and I can see how it has affected my friend’s causing confusion and a feeling of displacement however; all I can focus on is the silence within. The feeling of solitude and the fact that I cannot hear or feel Naomi presence. It is a sensation as puzzling as it is glorious.

It was the moment when Dr. Mordenheim offered to reunite me with Naomi I realized that The Dawnfather had not abandoned me, as I feared. Although I had made a terrible decision I was not damned from walking in his light. The feeling of belonging only to myself again… I had forgotten what it was to be free. Truly free. I nearly succumbed to the power she provided and the despair that followed, nearly believed that I needed and deserved both. But The Dawnfather has seen fit to give me another chance.

I have lost her gifts but did I ever truly need them? I will continue this journey, not as a dark warrior but in the brilliant light of the dawn and I will make amends for the wrong I have committed.

All along, I felt we were kindred, for a number of reasons, but only now do I see the irony in this line of work. In this life. There are no strings on me, but I am a puppet. I do not act on my own. Perhaps I never have. 

Would things be different if I had stayed by your side? Or if you had left to be by mine? Did things have to end the way they did between us? Perhaps it is fate that guided our hands to interlock fingers. Perhaps it was fate that guided our feet in different directions.

Yet, though you are gone, I see us standing side by side. I see myself in the reflection of your eyes. There’s a vision of a furnace, fueled by the coal of ambition and fire of passion. The will to do what must be done, and change the world that we find dissatisfactory. 

I miss you. You told me that those that love are doomed to die of a broken heart. What a cruel twist that you would die because of me. In a way, you were right. 

Perhaps in another life we will meet again. Perhaps in this one. This land is full of uncertainty, as much as it is full of darkness. The light of knowledge and understanding cannot pierce the mists so easily. 

If you could find it in your heart to forgive an old, grizzled gnome, I would be grateful to share the sentiment, and cast our differences aside for one last embrace, between the coldest souls in the land. 

With the sweet and chilling embrace of a peppermint kiss, 

Dimble.

...

“This… Is unbecoming of you.. Up to this point, I’d only ever speculated that you had a first name, and that it wasn’t literally Uncle. You do not strike me as a hopeless romantic. I don’t know whether to be disturbed, or nauseated. Not to mention, unless my memory serves me incorrectly… the one you speak of is..” 

“No, you’re right, Renvarin. That’s her. The one you faced… The Devilish Toymaker herself.” Dunkle says with an ash stained smile, covered in both soot and grime as he stands near his forge, patting his gloves on a blackened apron.

“So, do you always like to leave your sentimental letters open like this? It's quite disturbing to imagine what may have gone on between you and an almost 7 foot tall demonic Eladrin.”

The gnome laughs from the belly, as if to suggest there is a cask of holly-jolly spirit left open inside his gullet. 

“Oh Renvarin, I find your wily nature to be so endearing. She would’ve loved to hear your remarks.” 

“Is that meant to be a compliment? The witch nearly killed us, Uncle Dunkle. Or rather, Dimble,” Renvarin responds with a mocking jest of a tone. 

“No no, that name is not for you, or any of our traveling companions. You know me as Uncle Dunkle. That’s what I’ve been reborn as, and that’s what I will be for the remainder of this journey, wherever it takes us, however long it takes. No offense.”

“None taken. Let’s change the subject, so I can more quickly erase my memory of what I’ve just read, and move on from this business.” 

“Ahh yes, the Vistani surely must have an important task for you… Let me know what kind of music you’d like played at the reception. I’ll be sure to provide the brass so Vimak can play you a proper tune. And I’ll make the fanciest bubble maker so when you walk out of the chapel doors--”

“That’s enough of that, Uncle. Seriously. What is it you called me here for? I’m confused. You wanted me to watch Hilde for a time, which makes sense, but you abruptly demand I bring her down with me to Grembrek’s dirty forge. You look like the two of you have been rolling in soot for weeks. I suppose you’ve been down here every night since we’ve returned to the carnival… But still. And by the way, if you need a pointer or two about bathing and how to properly use soap to remove the scum from your fingernails, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m sure we can procure something that smells of ginger or peppermint around here…”

“Thank you, Renvarin, but that won’t be necessary. This new project I’m working on will more or less take care of that need.”

“So, you’ve invented a way to maintain proper hygiene…?” 

“No, no, I’ve been working on a new suit of armor. One that won’t be coming off much at all, so nothing underneath it will ever get dirty.”

“That’s… Not how this works…”

“The armor will stay clean, and so will I.”

“You’ll surely sweat… Bleed… And I would imagine there’s no internal cooling in that thing.”” 

“There’s a number of improvements to the suit. I won’t be bleeding nearly as much.”

“You aren’t getting the point…You know what, never mind. You’re clearly very excited about this. I presume you want Hilde to see your armor? Is that what this is about?” Renvarin asks in an annoyed tone.

“Yes. I’m glad you haven’t brought her down yet. I don’t want her to see it until I’m wearing it. Sit down for a minute, please. I’d like to regale you with a story as I apply the finishing touches, and don the suit for the first time.” 

Renvarin nods, and wanders towards the grandfather clock ticking in the corner of the room, imagining himself being late for yet another appointment, for no good reason yet again. He knows how the Yeuletide tales go. One thing leads to another, and suddenly the gnome breaks out into song, asking for a reminder to get him back on track towards the conclusion of his story, no differently than a horrifically mutated train desperate to stay on the tracks of its service line. 

“Very well. I’ll go fetch Hilde once you’re ready. You may begin your story, unless you wanted to bathe before you equipped your armor?”

“That won’t be necessary.” 

“Right. Of course not.” 

“Anyway…” Dunkle says, smiling, clearing his throat. He takes off his goggles and apron, tossing them onto the table. “When we were finally reunited with Hilde, there’s no denying that the brevity of the situation was challenging to swallow. Our hearts were all dismayed, no doubt. Mine especially so. The situation that my poor dear Hilde has found herself in reminded me of a certain someone and many of her creations.”

“Melinda?”

“Yes. She wasn’t always the way she was, you know.”

“She didn’t always sew button eyes into unwilling toys and turn them into monsters?”

“No, she was always interested in sewing button eyes into her pawns. But they didn’t mutate the way they did after she took upon that infernal influence of the damned Kramp. Believe it or not, she was just like me. She had goals, ambitions. She wanted to change the world and what she saw in herself ended up being projected out into it.”

“Is that so? She was taken prisoner like you? A slave?”

Uncle Dunkle frowns, and shakes his head. He walks towards the grandfather clock, eyeing its arms as it ticks, and tocks, with robotic harmony.

“Not quite, Renvarin. I wasn’t a slave either.”

“I don’t understand, then. I thought—”

“Whatever you, or the others may have thought… The whole story may not be fully told. Maybe that’s a weakness I won’t ever overcome. Who knows… You know, this armor, I wear it to hide my weakness, right? Because my true form is soft and mutable, too easily so. This world would break me down without this hardened shell. I’m sure you understand. I know Raven surely does.” 

Renvarin nods solemnly, surprised by the moment of seriousness offered by the otherwise whimsical gnome obsessed with snickerdoodles and Yeuletide Spirit. 

“We weren’t slaves. My people were enslaved, this is true… Melinda’s people were more or less exterminated. Some remain with The Saint, at the capital of his lands, everpresent servants of his tidings and efforts. But Melinda was the only one left of her family. She joined Krampus out of necessity, not because she was forced to. She was frustrated with a system that left her people abandoned and oppressed. A system that encouraged weakness and naivety. She felt that the Saint had betrayed her, and her people. Why should she bleed and die for Yeule, when Yeule has done nothing for her?”

“You… You also felt this way.” Renvarin says, following Uncle Dunkle’s reasoning 

“That’s correct. I remember the day she found me… How I cried… I cursed the Saint for abandoning me. Why would he do that to one of his children? One of the dedicated few who would stop at nothing to spread Yeuletide cheer? Why was there no one to save me? To look out for me? Protect me? To love me? Why wasn’t there any hope? I was but a child when my village was razed by the forces of Kramp. My family’s dying wishes were for me to protect my nephew… But  how come they didn’t wish for my safety? Why me? It wasn’t fair! I wasn’t any more capable of raising or protecting a child… I was just as confused and scared as he was? Why didn’t I have a savior? Why was I doomed to fulfill a task I didn’t understand?”

The room falls quiet, as Uncle Dunkle realizes his tone has shifted, and he has begun shouting. Renvarin looks down at Uncle Dunkle’s hand, as he grips his hammer so tightly it shakes. Then, the gnome scoffs, and laughs coldly. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No, please. You are only mortal, like the rest of us. We’ve all had our moments…”

“Right. Thank you for your patience and understanding, Renvarin.” 

Silence falls again.

“I thought that when Hilde was… When we found her, in the form she’s in… That the answer to her problems, to our problems, might lie in the teachings of someone like that woman who did this to her… In the teachings of my old friend, Melinda. Maybe if I knew more about toys the way they did… About how to suffuse spirits and their transitive properties… But no. I know now that this is folly. Melinda sought to create a world held together by strings, so that nothing would ever fall out of place. Everything would be connected, interlaced… That way there would be no conflict. No one would ever be hurt the way her people were again. And my armor… It represented my weakness, as much as it did my strength. My need to project who I wanted to be out into the world. To protect what I found most soft, and innocent. The truth is… My nephew is dead, Renvarin. Everything I ever vowed to protect, has been trampled, killed, or corrupted. Poor Hilde… I left her with that damnable brain… And look what happened.” 

“You can’t blame yourself for everything. You didn’t—”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. My guilt may never evade me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a responsibility, or a duty. An oath to fulfil. A task to complete. This new armor will represent that. This armor… It represents not what I wish to be, but what I and everything I hold dear has become. And by extension I won’t let what should be most important to me slip out of my sight ever again. I’m very grateful for Mr. Grimpride for helping me with this suit, and for affording me his space to produce the parts necessary and hold onto my things while we were gone. It's time to stop pretending, and for once in my life play a serious role.” 

“Listen, Uncle, you don’t have to do anything, you know that right? In all seriousness, if you wish to be holly, and jolly, you can still be that. Just because Hilde… You don’t have to change.” 

Uncle Dunkle laughs, and shakes his head. 

“Everything changes, Renvarin. We can’t escape it. Things happen. We have dreams. We have ambitions. Sometimes we fail, even when we do everything right. But one thing’s for sure. If I wasn’t able to protect Hilde from her fate, I will embrace her for what she is now, and love her as much as she deserves. If we can’t prevent harm from coming to those we love, you’re damn well sure I’m going to avenge them. If you’d please be so kind, allow me to don my armor, and bring her into the tent. I want her to see.” 

Renvarin nods, and respectfully bows out of the tent. After a few minutes, he returns with Hilde, now trapped in her immutable, everlasting form. A perfect specimen. A perfect, porcelain doll, who may never feel physical sensation again.

Yet, despite her nature, both she and Renvarin gasp as they enter the tent. 

Standing before them is Uncle Dunkle, wearing a brand new suit of armor.

The armor is composed of a full plate build, clearly of masterwork craftsmanship. The culmination of years of experience, grit, and innovation. The idea of someone who seeks to preserve something impossible. An idea, the essence of a soft, pure, childlike innocence that ought to wither and die in this hellscape we call Ravenloft. The armor represented something that simply defied logic through its continued existence. 

Hope. 

Dunkle grins behind a porcelain mask. His armor is polished pure white, coated in an ivory varnish that makes his full plate suit of enhanced magi-tech armor representative of a doll’s likeness. It seems to be made of solid porcelain, though it clearly isn’t. The trimmings are expertly painted and lacquered to imitate the adornments of Hilde’s new form as a doll. And the helmet is painted with rosy cheeks, and a defiant bright smile, as well as bright blue eyes matching Hilde’s. 

He extends his arms, showcasing his mighty gauntlets and the various new accouterments baked into his armor, and activates his defense field, projecting a bright, sparkly aura around him, making him seem like a shining angel at the top of a Christmas Tree. The armor whirs with a mystical, yet clearly mechanical humming noise. Finally, he walks towards Hilde, and embraces her tightly. Together, their forms are equally as cold, unfeeling, yet beautiful. 

“Uncle Dunkle… I don’t know what to say. You look... “ 

“Just like you?”

She nods.

“That’s right. We’re kindred spirits, Hilde. I will always be here to love you and protect you. And you will always be a part of me no matter what. Wherever we go, wherever we are. You are what inspires me to be strong in the face of danger, and I wish to inspire you to feel joy in the face of despair.”

“My eyes hurt, Uncle.” Hilde says softly, hugging him tightly. She wishes to cry, yet finds herself unable. 

“Mine too, Hilde. No matter what we try to do to hide our pain, it will always be a part of us. We have to show the world we aren’t afraid to feel anything or face anything. That we aren’t ashamed of who we are. Will you help me do that?” 

“I’ll try my best…” 

“That’s all we can do.” Uncle Dunkle replies, letting his faceplate retract to reveal his tearsoaked eyes, and quivering lip. 

Renvarin, stunned, doesn’t know what to do or say, knowing it would be impolite to butt in at a tender moment such as this, or to leave. Instead, he bides his time, thinking intently about what Uncle Dunkle has said thus far. 

“Let’s go do something fun. I think Mr. Grimpride is almost finished setting up his new carnival game. Do you want to see who can get the highest score, Hilde?” 

She nods, and smiles for the first time in what feels like a new lifetime.

The Porcelain Gnome takes her hand, and walks her out of the tent. 

“Right… I’ll just go then. You’re welcome, by the way…” Renvarin mumbles, smiling as he wipes a tear of paternal endearment.

The flickering light of phosphorescent lanterns sway with the rickety rhythm of the Carnival as the late afternoon breeze swirls between wagons and tents alike. Shadow and color twist unnaturally as faerie fire blends with moonlight and starry skies. Music, both happy and melancholy, churns around the many guests. On the third night after their arrival in Tepest, Tobias sees Raven beneath the canvas canopy of what was once Professor Pacali’s tent, now home to a rotation of attractions inhabiting the space. Raven, on occasion, as part of his contribution to the carnival, would put on demonstrations of magic, minor illusions using his power to create colorful birds. They flash into being before disappearing or turning into a ‘terrifying’ devil to wow and shock the crowd. Tonight's performance is over and as the last patron exits, the paladin finds him sitting in silence, with Bex coiled lazily around a flickering skull-shaped brazier, his head down, preoccupied. Whether with intrusive thoughts and worry for Hildy or the mental toll of his re-scarification is hard to say.

Tobias enters, quietly approaching. 

"Raven… May I sit?"

Raven gestures toward a cushion without looking up.

"Of course, Tobias. What troubles you? Your tone worries me."

Tobias forces a grin followed with a dry chuckle, seating himself.

 "That obvious, am I?"

Bex lifts her crimson, batlike wings while flicking her barbed tail.

"Only to everyone who’s not blind, holy boy. You're brooding again. How quaint."

Tobias nods.

“I guess I am… I don’t mean to sound… It’s just…”

“Spit it out Toby.” Bex snapped impatiently. “The suspense is boring me.”

"I’m trying. “ He replied without snarking back at the imp. “I guess.. I shouldn’t be upset but…I lost something... when Naomi was torn from me. And not just her power. I lost a connection—to her world, your world. To the things I might need to understand to stop her if…."

“When.” Bex corrected immediately.

He nodded in agreement. “When she returns.” His eyes look to Raven, earnestly.  "I want to learn Infernal again. From you…” Then to Zybeksiya. ”Both of you."

Raven finally turns to meet Tobias’s eyes, his own glowing faintly emerald in the dim light. He masks his discomfort well. What has become increasingly obvious to his companion is the warlock’s kinship to suffering.

 "You remember what you told me, about the dreams, the visions of hell, the whispers of burning wings."

Raven reaches out, touching his chest lightly.

"That is what Infernal is. It’s not just language—it’s intention, dominance, and elegance laced in pain. Are you certain you want to bring that back into yourself, revisit those feelings?"

Tobias wears a look of sincerity.

"I’m not asking to wield her power again. Just to understand. If…” He looks at Bex and before she can retort, ”When she comes back… I want to be ready."

Bex stretches, then leaps into the air before landing on Raven’s shoulder, her voice syruped with dry amusement.

"Sweet. Naïve. But I like this one. Still smells like guilt and shame. Very Nine Hells." She eyes Tobias with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. Then her smirk widens into a mischievous grin. "I’ll help. But don’t cry when you accidentally say ‘bind me, mistress’ instead of ‘pass the salt’ in front of your friends."

Week One: The Basics of Blasphemy

The Carnival is quiet as the early morning shadow of a rising sun lingers across the forest clearing. Posts set in the soft earth are hung with lanterns and illusionary fireflies offer a subdued yet somewhat enchanting illumination. Raven sits with Tobias by a stream just outside camp where just moments ago he had cleaned fresh wounds leaving black blood streaking in the ripples of the mild current.

 "Repeat after me. 'Zaar venith koresh Glasya mal’ne.'" Raven says.

 "Zaar venith koresh… Glasya mal...ne?” Tobias struggles with his pronunciation. “What does it mean?"

Raven smirks. "’Speak her name in reverence, or die with your tongue shriveled.' It’s a common greeting in court."

Tobias wears a disconcerted expression on his face. "That was a greeting?"

Bex, sitting nearby in her curled imp form, clicking her claws with disinterest adds, "You should hear how we say 'please.'"

Week Two: Of Fire and Feelings

It was just after supper, Raven and Tobias sat cross-legged in the communal tent their group shared. The others were out and about. Dunkle working to forge a breastplate, Rainer patrolling the ever expanding Litwick Market and Morag probably searching for ingredients to concoct another vile recipe. Even in Malboge the orc’s culinary offerings would be seen as suspect, perhaps even a form of torture for one of Glasya’s hapless victims. Strange shadows flickered around them seemingly from no particular source.

Tobias was feeling slightly frustrated with his progression.  "You used to talk to me in Infernal. It came so naturally then.”

“That’s because she was speaking for you, translating, channeling or perhaps some other fel possession.”

“It felt like a secret only we shared." Tobias confessed.

Raven groaned softly as he shifted. "Because it was. I never spoke of your agreement with the others..”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t my story to tell….but more than that…” The warlock paused. Grimacing, as linen pulled free from a drying scab.. “We’re not alike in many ways, Tobias… but that pain—of being used by something greater, of not knowing if it’s your thoughts or theirs anymore… That binds us more than language ever could. It’s a silent understanding that we know each other."

Bex was relaxing, curled on a shelf, watching them. "Familiarity, kinship…And trust me, darling. If you survive learning the Infernal subjunctive case, you really get to know someone."

A week later…

The Witchlight Carnival Grounds – Varithne, Darkon

The Carnival had reappeared on the outskirts of Varithne, a small settlement between Neblus and Viaki, clinging to the ashen hills of Darkon like a secret no one wanted to tell. Modest farmhouses loomed like bones jutting from the earth, and the gnarled trees seemed to recoil from the festively colored tents.

Despite the mists and superstition, the Carnival called to the weary and the curious. Its lights flickered unnaturally, music wound around the breeze like a whisper half-remembered, and the smell of honeyed chestnuts and spiced cider masked the deeper scent of damp stone and faded hope.

Beneath a fading silver moon, Raven, Bex, and Tobias sit atop a wagon’s roof surveying the strange new land. Raven was shirtless allowing the typically uncomfortable, at least for him, cool evening air breath relief to recently branded sigils.

Tobias begins reciting slowly. "Naomi ethar grath vex’alor…" (He pauses.) "‘Naomi will seek her fire again…’ Right?"

Raven nods. "Very good. And?"

Tobias hesitates, then continues speaking in infernal. "…But I will meet her with the steel of my will."

Bex had been quiet with only an occasional jab aimed at Tobias, her face bemused as usual. Now however, her expression was more serious, concerned even.

"If she finds you, boy… she'll try to charm you again. Just like she did last time, she'll prey on your doubt. Try to make you forget what it is you stand for, challenge your beliefs."

Tobias had a look of sincerity about him. "Then I’m glad I have you two to remind me who I am."

Raven places a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. "And in Infernal, you’ll remind her: you’re no longer hers."

“You’ve an awful lot of faith in a hellborn warlock and an imp.” She scoffed.

“I disagree. I have faith in my friends.”

Bex rolled her eyes and turned away hiding the faintest of smiles.

Later That Night…

Tobias is laying in his cot half-asleep, half dreaming, murmuring. He wakes with a start.

"Xar’aven sereth val…" What’s that mean again?

Raven was nearby sitting near a brazier for warmth. He wasn’t much for cold and the chill autumn evening brought him little in the way of comfort after his brands had cooled.

"The raven walks the blade’s edge. It was an old saying in Oessia. About me. About navigating life in Glasya’s court, About surviving when others fell."

Tobias considered his friend’s words for a moment before replying.

"Fitting."

Raven smiled in gratitude. "For both of us."

Days later the companions found themselves visiting one of the more peculiar attractions. The Hall of Whispers, was a long, domed tent lined with hanging velvet drapes and enchanted mirrors. Inside, voices echoed endlessly—some yours, some not—speaking truths, lies, or things you had yet to say.

Raven and Tobias had volunteered to staff the attraction that night. Tobias wore a sweeping half-cloak of dark velvet trimmed in gold thread, his sun-shaped holy symbol discreet beneath the collar. Raven, ever regal, wore a coat of infernal silk—black as shadow, iridescent in the lanternlight—with a blood-red sash cinched at his waist. He was dressed less for impression, more so for the gentle caress the fabric offered his razor cut flesh.

Floating lazily above them, invisible to mortals, Bex lounged midair in her impish form, her clawed toes hooked into a ribboned trapeze.

Raven was adjusting a velvet curtain. “Interesting.” His voice, as he began to speak, was low and smooth. "According to this inscription, this mirror speaks only what the listener fears most. A fitting place to practice a language built on fear."

Tobias cleared his throat, attempting to stay professional as the evening's guests entered.  "What phrase did you say earlier? The one about the blade?"

Raven enunciated softly, "Xar’aven sereth val. Repeat it. Breathe from the chest—not the throat."

Tobias took a breath, concentrating,  "Xar’aven… sereth… val."

Bex’s voice descended from above them, "Better. Say it like you're seducing a sin, not reading a sermon."  she coaxed, swaying upside down from her tail.

Tobias scowled but tried again, putting subtle force into the syllables. The mirror nearest him fogged slightly, as if reacting to the cadence. When it cleared there was Tobias, Champion of  Gargauth with Naomi, proudly, affectionately, on his arm. A quick gasp escaped from his throat as the image faded to oblivion.

“You ok?” Raven asked.

“Did you see that?”

“See what?” Raven asked, confused.

“Nevermind…”

A small cluster of locals wandered into the tent. Leading them was an elderly woman in a rust-colored shawl, her eyes sharp despite the cataracts. Two children followed—wide-eyed and gripping each other’s hands. Behind them stood a disheveled man in tattered priest robes with a lopsided silver medallion etched with the symbol of Ezra.

"You the devil-tongued one, eh?” The old woman directed toward Raven. “Locals say you speak fallen tongues. Might you show us a word or two for protection?"

Raven bends low with a courtly bow. "I teach remembrance, not rebellion. But a word, perhaps—yes." He smiles faintly and gestures to the misted mirror behind her.
"Speak this as you light a candle: Velax'ti shan deru. It means: 'Let flame forget shadow.'"

The children repeat it in uncertain unison. For a moment, the mirror shows only soft candlelight. then the light expands. It glows brighter chasing away darkness and revealing an image of the family some time in the future, safe and content. The old woman nods once, satisfied, and drops a silver crescent coin into the donation box.

“Was that your doing?” Tobias asked.

“Not me.” Raven answered. “The mirrors here supposedly speak truths, lies fantasy, whose to say what called forth that image of if it shall ever come to pass.”

“For good or ill.” Tobias added.

For good or ill..” Raven agreed.

As the crowd dispersed, Raven turned to Tobias again. He rolled back his sleeve, gesturing toward thin scars cut into his forearm embroidered with runes Bex had written a few short weeks ago. Raven points to the markings. "Try this one. Theran'desh il morai."

Tobias reads. "Theran’d… il… morai. What does it mean?"

Raven seemed distracted for a second, his gaze distant. When he spoke his voice was hushed. "'The fire remembers the hands that shaped it.' It’s the first lesson Glasya taught me when I was presented to court. Pain leaves prints. Even when you no longer feel it."

Tobias thought quietly about what Raven had just said. "I think I understand now why the language feels alive. It isn’t just words. It’s… chains."

Bex fluttered over to where the two were talking, finding a perch on Tobias’ shoulder for effect. "Chains that sing lullabies and trick you asleep. Chains that bite when you speak them wrong.You’re improving but always remember words hold power."

Several nights later…

After their shift ends, the trio slips behind the attraction for fresh air beneath the color-warped stars. In the distance, Sahani twirls glowing runes while Oz serenades the carnival folk near the fire. Morag’s laughter echoes as he roars over something Vimak said.

Tobias leans against a tent post, practicing syllables under his breath.

Tobias is tentative, careful. "Doruul... nax… shiven. ‘To see the devil’s path,’ right?"

Raven smirks, correcting him gently. "Doruul nax’shiven. One breath. Otherwise, you’re saying ‘to sew the devil’s mouth shut.’ Which… would be bold."

Tobias laughs. "Maybe that’s what I meant to say."

Bex flits down beside them, for once not teasing. "You’ve come far, paladin. That tongue doesn’t curl so poorly now."

Tobias "I owe it to you. Both of you. You could’ve said no."

Raven bows slightly, politely. "I would not deny a man the weapon he needs to face the ghosts that once wore his skin."

“Let’s hope it’s enough.” Bex offers.

A brief silence passes. Warmth, rare and unspoken, hums in the chill.

Though, as he sat, a voice caught Renvarin’s ear, one that he’d made no small effort to block out whenever he’d returned to the Carnival in the past. It was that duergar, the one who’d made Renvarin look a fool… but who’d also sought to encourage and entertain the children. At once, Renvarin gathered his blade, fixed his boots, and followed the direction of the voice. It was still late morning, and so with no guests it was odd to hear the voice of the duergar at this hour. 

As Renvarin crossed the grounds, adjusting his sword belt, there before the booth he spotted little porcelain Hildy, fumbling with both hands a small stack of rings being handed to her to throw at the bottles. Renvarin stopped some ways off, not wanting to interfere, and watched. 

“Come on, little lady,” the duergar shouted encouragingly as Hildy struggled to get a grip on a ring. “One more shot, I’m sure you’ll get it this time.”

Gingerly, mechanically, Hildy took the rings in her small porcelain hands. She adjusted her foot for a throw and reared her arm back in two clunky, disjointed movements. Quite clearly she was still unused to moving. Suddenly her arm snapped forward and the ring flew wide, back over the side of the booth. 

“Oh, so close!” the duergar said. 

Hildy pulled her arm back again, trying to adjust to the direction the ring had flown. Two awkward, mechanical clicks, then… release! The ring flew out sideways, perpendicular to the booth, missing it entirely. 

“I can’t do it!” Renvarin heard Hildy’s voicebox crackle aloud in frustration. She threw the remaining ring to the ground. “I can’t do anything! I can’t move, I can’t run, I can’t even eat. I just want my old body back.”

Whether the duergar said anything to her, Renvarin was unsure. He’d caught only a sorry look on the duergar’s face before turning and walking back to his tent, unable to bear watching the struggle any longer. His heart hadn’t sank, no, he was furious. It wasn’t fair. Everything had been torn away from this girl – her family back in Falkovnia, her safety at the hands of a devil, her mind from Stewart, and now even her autonomy. And what had she done? She’d simply been born to a realm that sought only to corrode and torment its inhabitants, until Renvarin and his companions had come along… were they to blame? After everything, was that the sick truth?

  Renvarin flung the tent flap aside, donned his fighting leathers – no more inaction. He sheathed both daggers – no more contemplating. Back outside, he stormed across the empty bit of lawn back behind the communal tent, making his way towards the trees that bordered the Carnival grounds. He needed to leave, but didn’t need everyone to notice, lest he cause a commotion with his compatriots.

“Where ya goin’, long ears?”

Hermos. Artemins smite him.

Renvarin sighed. “Visiting a friend. There’s something I must see to.”

“I ‘ope you’re not tinkin’ of gettin’ lost in de mist again.”

The look of shock on Renvarin’s face lasted only an instant, but was there just long enough for Hermos to notice. The giant smirked, tapped his head knowingly, and waved at Renvarin dismissively.

With another sigh, this one of relief, Renvarin walked beyond the trees to the silver veil that marked the boundary, and was gone.

***

Low campfires and paper lanterns strung from boughs cast shadows long enough for Renvarin to slip over to a wagon he knew all too well by now. Arriving here at night never seemed to bode well for him, but this time the cover of darkness was welcome. Skulking up to the door, he gave a light knock. Esmerelda appeared in but a moment. She wore her sleeping shift, but didn’t appear at all bothered or surprised by his appearance – she rarely was, in truth. She stepped aside letting him in.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she said with small amusement as Renvarin sat upon the edge of a chair, clearly on edge himself.

“I feel sanity escaping me, trapped to the confines of that blasted carnival,” he spoke quickly. Esmerelda settled in a chair beside him, placing a soothing hand on his shoulder, and shushing him slightly. 

Renvarin bolted from his chair and began pacing. “I understand we are in over our heads. But I can’t help but feel we’re wasting time. There’s a demon and a devil on the loose because of us, and a-a murderous brain growing stronger by the minute.”

Esmerelda looked at Renvarin with complete calm in the ensuing silence. She reached over to a cup of tea that had been cooling on a table, took a sip, then said, “I need you to start from the beginning. Is this to do with Hildy?”

Renvarin put his face in his hand for a moment, composed himself and pushed his hair back. “We failed that girl. Her body was lost, and the demon inside was set loose. Further, Stewart, that brain, escaped with a body of his own.”

“I’m familiar with the brain, dear. And the devil?”

“Tobias was harboring it. It was set free when–” he caught himself. His body – their bodies. How did he begin to explain that? “He was killed. In a manner of speaking. Rainer brought him back to life, but…”

Esmerelda gave an appraising look. If she knew he was lying, she showed no signs. Instead she took another sip of her tea, stood, and took both of Renvarin’s hands in her own. “So what do you need from me?” There was no pressure in her tone, only gentle understanding. 

For all of Renvarin’s flaws he knew all too well how much he and his companions had begun to rely on not only Esmerelda, but all of the Vistani. Never did she ask for anything in return, save for Renvarin’s attention and more recently the request of foresight. Rarely did he even provide her that grace. But that’s why he’d come – he needed to be better.

Renvarin shut his eyes for an instant, breathed deep. “I need help. Not to go somewhere or hunt some thing, not yet. I need to discuss with my father.” His voice dropped, nearly to a whisper, “But I thought this a good opportunity for you to come with me, to meet him.”

Awe more than surprise was written across Esmerelda’s face. “What has gotten into you?” she asked, now grinning. “While I’m flattered, this is entirely unlike you. I’m almost fearful. What’s happened?”

“What? Nothing has happened, nothing more than what I’ve just explained to you. Renvarin gripped her hands tighter, then, with assurance. “Do you not understand?  You’re important to me,” he almost couldn’t believe the words coming from his own mouth, “I feel I’m going insane, and everyone is grieving after Hildy, and I just really need… someone right now.”

Esmerelda gently cupped Renvarin’s face, brought his head to hers and kissed his forehead. “And you have me. Stay the night. And I’d be glad to meet your father in the morning.”

***

A frigid gust swept across the rolling hills of Sithicus that chilled Renvarin and, truthfully, made him feel as though the realm’s dreadlord had never been slain at all. An occasional sunbeam passed between the clouded sky, but the realm appeared just as dreary as ever. The gnoll they strode across appeared void of all life and not a single monument stood to attest that civilization had ever once graced these lands, save for a lone, ruined cathedral off in the distance. Esmerelda had said that this was to be the place they’d find Mistendol, and though Renvarin had no way of confirming this truth for himself, he knew it to be so.

Esmerelda had wrapped herself in a thick blanket as they walked, and despite her claims appeared to be equally as chilled as Renvarin. Yet in spite of this, her stride never slowed; she kept pace with the quick elf and never let slip even a grumble of discontent. She was not only capable and strong-willed, but evidently excited to be joining Renvarin in this journey, and that told Renvarin he’d made the right choice.

As they began to approach the cathedral, Renvarin understood; they’d been approaching the cusp of a valley, and from here – though the road leading down had long become overgrown and succumbed to negligence – a large town could be seen sprawled across the valley floor. 

The cathedral itself was as decrepit as Renvarin had presumed. Great holes were taken out of the ceiling, the crumbled pieces littering the overgrown floor. Only one banister remained to a single second floor walkway, and below that, tucked in the corner not far from what may have once been a pulpit, were the furnishings of a camp. Hunched over a battered table and a myriad of alchemical apparatuses was a man covered by a cloak of feathers.

“Father.” Renvarin called as he strode into the space.

The man, Mistendol, looked up. “Back again so soon?” His eyes landed on Esmerelda, his voice suspicious. “And who’s this?” Something changed in the old elf’s eyes then, and his tone darkened. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a Vistani shaman visiting me in my home?”

Renvarin blanched slightly. “Peace, Father. This is Esmerelda.”

“Ah, yes. You’ve told me of this one in passing.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Esmerelda said with a nod, her voice hardened in a way Renvarin hadn’t expected. Then she said aloud, “I wasn’t aware your father was the Bane of Lamoran.”

A knot formed in the pit of Renvarin’s stomach as the two eyed each other. “I… did not think you two would be familiar with each other.”

“Of course not,” Mistendol said, his voice still devoid of pleasantry. “Why would you?”

That one stung Renvarin, though the wizard did not seem to notice as he began to resume his work.

“I came here that I might seek your assistance.”

“And I should hope that your asking for favors won’t become a regular occurrence. I’ve much to attend to.”

“What is this you’re working on? Perhaps—”

“Renvarin,” Esmerelda cut in, cautiously.

“Nothing you can assist with.” Mistendol replied matter-of-fact. “At least not yet. I’m helping the people of Sithicus rebuild.” He moved over to a side table littered with what appeared to be artifacts, reagents, other odds and ends. “In time perhaps our people will have a home here once again. A true home. Not one of blood, scraps and ruin.”

Renvarin didn’t know what to say. He knew what Esmerelda had meant when she’d spoken his name. This wasn’t the time, nor his battle to fight — at least not yet, even alongside his father. 

Renvarin meandered over to the side table. “I’ve come to ask for advice. The little girl, perhaps you’d seen her aboard our vessel in Kartakass, her body has been stolen.”

“Stolen?” Mistendol said more than asked, refusing to look up from his work.

“Well, lost, more like. She was killed, her body destroyed, and her soul placed in a puppet.”

“And you wish to know how you might find a suitable form for her.”

Renvarin was silent for a long moment. He heard Esmerelda move somewhere behind him. 

“Yes.”

“You cannot,” Mistendol said at once. “It’s futile. You won’t find a replacement more suitable than the puppet she has now.”

“But you see, I was thinking.” Mistendol’s eyes lifted slowely to look upon his son intently. “My Deal, the contract of the Bastardizer. My firstborn is promised in exchange for my blade. If just the soul is taken—“

“Renvarin!” Esmerelda spoke again, audibly flustered this time. She approached now, standing close to him. 

“‘If’ is a strong word,” Mistendol chided.

“And where would this child come from, hm? Surely this would not be one of ours, borne from my womb. Surely you would not even think—!”

Mistendol had crossed his arms and was now shaking his head. Renvarin looked between the two of them, not backing down. 

Esmerelda drew closer then, leering. “You are the most selfish man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing.” She turned on her heel and stormed off, crossing the cathedral but stopping near the door, refusing to leave just yet. 

With the utmost calm Mistendol spoke plainly, loud enough for Esmerelda to hear, “It wouldn’t work. The soul of a child is nearly impossible to rehome. Her soul maintains her memories, her autonomy. It’s the very essence of her being. She would go mad, trapped in the body of an infant, unable to move or speak in accordance with what is familiar. Her body would be at war with her mind.”

“It is now!” Renvarin snapped back.

“But she will adapt. Her mind will grow and her body, if it is truly inorganic, can be reforged, expanded, and rebuilt.”

“There must be another way, through magic. Surely there’s a spell or artifact…”

Mistendol resumed his work, seeming to muse, picking his next words carefully. His son’s ambition was not lost on him. If he ever needed proof that this was indeed his blood, it was present before him now. This ambition he knew all too well, thus was there need to temper his son’s expectations, lest he lose him to his grief and this apparent sense of duty. Just as he had lost himself to his own duty, in the name of the Queen of Memories. He had left Kartakass, destroyed his chance at love, abandoned his son. Renvarin was here now, yes, but at what cost? He chuckled inwardly at the irony, at what had been robbed from him, all for a sense of purpose. 

Mistendol stopped working then. He noticed Renvarin looking intently at Esmerelda and let out a long sigh that he’d hoped would be imperceptible, but was not. “There is one solution.”

Renvarin turned his steely gaze to his father’s.

“Magic of the highest degree. To call it dangerous is an understatement. A wish.”

“A…wish? You mean like from a fairy tale.”

“Wishes are real, though they’re as rare as they are deadly. Their potency is entirely dependent on the will and strategy of the speaker. A slip of the tongue can throw everything to chaos. They are literal.” This last word Mistendol spoke with emphasis. Renvarin merely nodded. 

Esmerelda came back now. She’d been crying, her cheeks stained with tears, but her voice did not falter now. “Renvarin, you cannot pursue a wish. You and your friends, companions, whatever you want to call them — set free a devil, a demon, and an errant brain!” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “You would destroy everything.”

A flash of recognition sparked in Mistendol’s eyes, and he spoke before Renvarin could retort. “You say a demon. Would this be a glabrezu?”

“That sounds familiar,” Renvarin said. “Yes, I believe so.”

Esmerelda started, “How do you—?” 

“It is here. Wreaking havoc in Sithicus. I suspect the devil is here as well. Though they’ve been preoccupied, likely with each other, that hasn’t stopped the glabrezu from terrifying the local populace. As for the brain—“

“It’s traveled to Bluetspur. It obtained a body from the same craftswoman as Hildy,” Renvarin said. 

“Then you combat with an illithid, most likely,” Mistendol provided. “A very powerful foe. You should avoid Bluetspur at all costs.” 

Renvarin looked to Esmerelda then, went to take her hands but she pulled away. “A wish may be our only chance to right any of these wrongs. I can think of no other way to stop Stewart if he’s surrounded himself with similar kin.”

Esmerelda looked to Mistendol then, seeking reassurance. But he only stood, arms crossed. He would not condone Renvarin’s ideas, but nor could he deny the truth of them. He had provided a plausible solution, nothing more. Whether this solution was obtainable, well, Renvarin and his companions would need to weigh that cost on their own. He had his own fires to maintain. 

“It is little solace, I know, but I will do what I can to entertain the threat of the glabrezu and this devil for now,” Mistendol tried. “Do what you must, and you know where to find me if necessary.”

“That’s it?” Esmerelda said, doing nothing to mask the betrayal she felt. “Renvarin is your son and all you can think to say is ‘do what you must’? Unbelievable.”

“Esmerelda, please,” Renvarin pleaded, but it was too late, and again Esmerelda was leaving. This time, she didn’t stop at the broken door. 

“She cares for you deeply,” Mistendol said. “You should hold on tight to that.”

***

Renvarin tried following Esmerelda, over the wind-beaten hills of Sithicus and then to her cart in the Vistani camp, wherever that had been. But it was painfully obvious that she had no interest in further discussion, at least not right now, and so he returned back to the Carnival. 

When he arrived, the treeline had changed. The Carnival had moved, apparently not far from Varithne, according to Tobias, who’d received word from Rainer and so on. The kind and curious paladin had then tried to inquire as to Renvarin’s whereabouts, but the elf shrugged off the question and returned to the communal tent. Throwing down his sword belt, he sank into his cot, turning over in his mind the recent events, and letting the scent of Xar’aven’s incense batter his senses. 

Esmerelda meant more to him than he could ever hope to explain — to her or to anyone. But he’d never had to put another before himself before. And wasn’t he doing that now by seeking to restore Hildy? He wasn’t sacrificing Esmerelda, perhaps only a piece of their love, and all so that this little girl could feel whole again. His companions, too, might feel some measure of relief, knowing they succeeded in correcting one of their numerous, immeasurable wrongs. 

He knew it wasn’t morally correct, but what in these blasted realms was? Misery was waiting at every turn to put them all into a stranglehold, to smother them and snuff them all out once and for all. Renvarin couldn’t let that happen. 

Renvarin had closed his eyes, even though he could not actually sleep, hoping he wouldn’t be disturbed. But he felt someone standing over him, lingering, and cocked one eye open. 

It was Hildy. 

“Look what I got,” She crackled with some measure of joy for the first time in Renvarin couldn’t remember how long. 

Cupped in her porcelain fingers was a new stuffed toy: a crocheted egg, with a little hinge. She opened it, and inside was a small stuffed raven. 

Resting in the communal tent, Raven healed by inches, his voice hoarse but steady, and Bex—sharp-tongued as ever—kept a near-constant watch at his side, her presence bristling with a fierce devotion no one questioned.

And beneath that peace, Rainer kept his watch. He patrolled and he prayed, and when the shadows grew long and the music drifted soft through the tents, he danced. Not with the flair of a showman, but with quiet determination—steps practiced beneath Silessa’s watchful eye, movements shaped by memory and hope, each one a whispered promise to the girl with wings.

Then one night, when the moon hung pale and hollow as a memory, Rainer slept uneasily.

His bedroll rustled with each shift of his broad shoulders, and the breath that passed his scaled lips carried the weight of things unresolved and lingering dread. 

Then the shadows deepened.

Dreams do not always begin with logic. This one began with heat.

He stood barefoot in a hall of obsidian glass, every surface reflecting firelight from braziers that floated in the air like watchful eyes. The scent of brimstone clung to the air, too sweet, too sharp. He could hear chains, distant but constant, moving with the slow rhythm of a beast breathing in its sleep.

A woman waited at the end of the hall.

No — not a woman. Something far older. Far crueler.

Glasya.

Daughter of Asmodeus. Lady of the Sixth. Queen of Malbolge.

She reclined on a throne made from mirrors and broken vows, her silhouette veiled in smoke. Her horns curved like a sculptor’s ambition. Her smile could carve kingdoms into ash. Her eyes — bright with amusement and venom — pinned him in place the moment he arrived.

“You prayed,” she said, in a voice of molten silk.

Rainer stood tall despite the weight pressing down on his chest. “It wasn’t for you.”

“No,” she agreed. “That’s what makes it so interesting.”

She rose, barefoot on the obsidian, every step deliberate. Her presence distorted the dreamscape like heat over desert stone. “You dared speak her name. My little pet. My Zybeksiya.”

Rainer didn’t flinch. “She’s more than a punishment.”

“Oh, darling.” Glasya’s smile widened. “She was the punishment. You saw that much. But what makes you think your truth was yours to offer?”

He said nothing.

“You bled it so sweetly,” she continued, circling him now. “A priest’s truth. A holy man’s confession. You named her. You freed her. A single prayer — and a chain snapped.” She leaned in close, breath warm with rot and roses. “But chains are funny things. Break one link, and the weight has to go somewhere.”

She snapped her fingers.

The air split.

Rainer turned — and saw Bex, bound in chains of gold and black iron, suspended like a marionette. Her eyes were wide. Fearful. And for once, not defiant.

Glasya sauntered closer to her creation. “Do you know why I turned her into this?” she asked, tracing a clawed finger along one of the chains. “Because she defied me. Loved where she shouldn’t. Fought when she should have obeyed. So I made her small. Powerless. Ugly.” Her voice curdled with contempt. “And now, because you gave her a name, she begins to believe she’s free.”

Rainer stepped forward. “She is.”

Glasya’s eyes flared. “Not yet.”

She turned toward him again, slower this time. “But you’ve amused me, priest. I like priests who sin in silence and speak in fire. So I’ll offer a gift.”

Her hand cupped under his chin, cold and burning at once. “She will rise, in time. But every step she takes toward herself, you will pay. A piece at a time. Your conviction. Your certainty. Your  loyalty. Bit by bit, broken off and replaced with doubt.”

He clenched his jaw. “Then I’ll pay.”

“You already are,” she whispered, voice suddenly gentle and monstrous all at once. “That’s what the fey meant. ‘Truth is costly, priest.’ And you — sweet, shining, scaled thing — are deep in debt.”

The world cracked around him like glass dropped onto stone. The obsidian floor shattered. The flames screamed. The throne crumbled into screaming mouths.

And Glasya smiled through it all, untouched by the ruin. “When you fall, Rainer,” she purred, “it won’t be the devils or the fey who break you. It will be her.”

Then she was gone.

Rainer awoke — gasping, drenched in sweat, the echo of chains still ringing in his ears.

Across the tent, Bex slept curled by Raven’s side. A faint shimmer of infernal light pulsed in her chest, visible only for a moment, like something long dormant beginning to stir.

Rainer didn’t sleep again that night.

And outside, the Carnival whispered.

Morag's cuisine is primal, rooted in decay and rebirth, tinged by Krezul’s symbiotic urges. His food is both nourishment and transformation.

While foraging for marrowroot to feed a recipe, Morag hears a rhythmic cracking beneath the soil. The trees shake - not from wind, but burrowing. A crack in the land opens. Black ichor bubbles up. 

Krezul speaks, voice low and eager: “This one feeds well. Let us see if you’ve learned to harvest.”

The Carrion Maw explodes from the earth, a corpse-storm of snapping jaws and wailing spirits. Morag stands firm, brandishing his axe and spear - both crusted with old blood and fungal growth.

The fight is brutal, close-quarters. Morag rages, vines bursting from his back as Krezul augments his strikes. We use Wild Shape to transform partially into a fungal boar, gouging and ramming. We bite into the beast during a grapple, gaining its taste. The Maw’s Corpse Breath melts some of Boar-ag’s shoulder - but the symbiote seals the wound with bark and spore-flesh. Morag carves a chunk from the Maw’s flank and roars, “I’ve had worse stew meat!”

The Maw’s death rattle unleashes a psychic scream. Visions of every soul it has consumed flicker through Morag’s mind. One looks like him.

Krezul whispers:  “The Maw is not just death, It is memory. Take its heart, and you take its history.”

Morag resists the vision and slams his tusks into its pulsating gut. Spore-burst from his symbiote causes the wyrm to stagger. With a final scream, Morag rips open the beast's chest and pulls out a black, withered heart riddled with fungal veins.

Morag skins part of the creature, collects its ichor sacs, and bottles some of the writhing grave-insects living inside it. These later become ingredients for his Mawling Roast. 

“Now we consume death itself. You are ripening.”

Where the Maw died, mushrooms in the shape of Morag’s face bloom for the next few days. The Carnival’s folk avoid the area. Isolde only watches from a distance, silently amused but not without worry.

We roast its coiled flesh over low, fungal fire and stuff it with bloodroot and sourberries. Krezul explains it will grant temporary health and make us resistant to fear for a short time, but will make the skin molt if only briefly. We have learned: The Mawling Roast.

It is midnight under the Carnival’s false moon, a waxy, pulsing orb suspended by unseen forces. Morag stands at the edge of a glade where its grass meets the carnival’s gates. The clearing lies hidden between twisted poplars whose bark peels like old skin. The grass here glows faintly blue. A hush coats the air, thick and electric. It's Lanternfly hatching night—once a month, when the flies crawl from beneath the moss to dance and die in moonlight.

"Step lightly," Krezul whispers from somewhere behind Morag’s eyes. "Their light is sacred. Their wings remember the stars."

Morag crouches low, setting a crude dish of fermented fruit, goat’s blood, and crushed mint. The scent is sharp, acrid, alive. The first lanternflies arrive - luminous creatures the size of a thumb, with translucent wings like stained glass, pulsing with strange runes. They flutter erratically, drawn to the smell. We do not swat them. Instead, We sing - a low, guttural sea-chanty once used to calm storm spirits. The tune vibrates in our chest, and the flies respond, circling slower, lower.

Krezul hums along, harmonizing with a tone that comes from beneath the earth.

With inky black spore-lined gloves made of Krezul, Morag gently collects the lanternflies, one by one, dropping them into a pouch of soft moss. The moss emits a low hiss as it sedates the insects.

Occasionally, a fly lands on our tusk and whispers in our ear. We don’t flinch.

One of them burrows briefly into our palm, merging with a tiny hole in the glove then into a cut near his thumb, feeding Krezul a sliver of its bioluminescent soul. Our veins glow faintly for the next hour.

“They don’t fear us,” Krezul says. “We are becoming their kin.”

An albino possum, one of the Carnival’s night scavengers, watches from the branches. Morag offers it a bit of dried eye-fruit. It chitters and leads him to a moonrot mushroom patch, where a few fallen lanternfly pupae have begun to fester into soup-thickening slime.

We scrape this off the caps and into a gourd.

“This’ll give it that silky kick,” we mutter. The possum nods, as if in agreement.

As the glade pulses with quiet blue fire, Morag stands in the center, sack full of flies, skin speckled with glow-dust. We take a breath and close our eyes. The land breathes with us.

"You don’t just cook them," Krezul murmurs. "You preserve their memory. Their final light. That’s what flavors the soup."

Morag nods.

“Tomorrow,” we say aloud. “We boil the sky.”

The broth smells of copper and sap. There is something that catches the attention of one of the performers in the circus. We share the soup, soon others arrive for a taste and for the visions. Darkvision of the imbiber is improved causing their eyes to emit a faint green for a few hours. We now know the recipe: The Lanternfly Soup.

In a windswept vale known to The Tepesti folk as the Livada de Oase or Bone Orchard in common, the same place Morag killed the Carrion Maw, we stalk freshly buried corpses from the weekly offerings left by the locals.

We use a moss-draped pickaxe to silently open shallow graves. Krezul guides him by scent - moist, recent death.

One grave, freshly closed, yields a gnome-sized skeleton still humming with spiritual residue. Morag speaks a quick prayer to something that might be a god - or might just be the stew itself. We smash the femurs and drink a sip of marrow raw, grunting approval. The rest we scrape into a soot-black vial.

“It’s still warm,” we mutter. “Good. Screams stay fresh.”

Morag hunts a corpse-bat roost and finds a cave, a few hours walk from the carnival,  where one shouldn’t be. He finds bats by the hundreds, their breathless wings fluttering against the walls like meat-curtains. We coat ourselves in rotting honey-moss to mask our scent.

One bulb bursts early, spraying Morag in hallucinogenic spores—we see ourselves reflected in the wings of a hundred bats, all shrieking in our voice. Krezul laughs, amused. We leave the cave scraping the spores off into a bag.

Several days had passed and Morag had decided he was well past time to visit Granny, the old hag who hated everyone fey and carnival folk alike…. But Morag slightly less. As Morag stepped into Granny's wagon with the weight of tarokka truths still in his bones, anxious to share the tales of all his travels, a gnarled hand snagged the hem of his fur cloak. Sit visit boy. Tell Granny of all you’ve seen, of what you believe I haven’t.

Morag spent the better part of the morning into late afternoon recalling his travels, Lamordia, Kartakass and even Yeulestadt with its strange creatures and customs. When the stories had been told and there was little more to say Morag stood to leave.

Granny grumbled, “Don’t you walk off like some rootless twig. We’re not done. You owe me, boy.”

Morag blinked, “Owe you what?”

“A good stew. That foul nonsense you made last time—leech-broth and hound marrow, pah! Had more personality in my chamber pot. You’re cookin’ tonight. And you’re doing it right.”

Morag’s lips tugged upward into a rare, amused smirk. He gave a simple nod and turned toward the market proper. Granny hobbled after him, her cane made from a knotted goblin femur, carved with infernal runes.

The Litwick Market writhed with enchantment, twilight, and terrible deals. Smoke rose from tents stitched with shadows. Goblin barkers yelled over one another in twenty dialects. Fey beasts in cages eyed passersby like unpaid debts.

Granny led the way like a queen through her cursed court.

Granny passed a small booth with an even smaller proprietor. She sneered at a pixie vendor “Put those sugarberries away, thimble-brain. You’ve been soaking them in pisswater since the War of Broken Colors.”

Pixie Vendor appeared offended. “How dare y—”

Granny hissed. “I remember your mother, Flib. She tried to trade me a cursed walnut for my cauldron. Next time I see you flying, I’ll clip your wings and ferment you for tonic.”

The pixie vanished with a squeak.

“Now what was it you needed boy?

“Oooh. That. Morag said pointing at a carcass in a pull wagon.

“You’ve a fine eye friend! I found this one near a bog known as Crookgut Hollow, I was able to set a trap baited with a rotting goat fetus.”

Granny smiled. A swamp bear, bloated and leaking from the eyes, but already dying. Diseased. Scared. Perfect. “Wait until its eyes fix on yours, then slit its throat.” She cackled.

“Good,” we growl. “You saw us first.” Krezul agreed. As Morage ran a taloned finger across the beast’s throat.”

We’ll render the spinal fat in a black iron pot, Morag muttered to Krezul. As the oil congeals. It will smell like rancid butter and sweetgrass.

“Delightful.” Granny grinned.

Granny dragged Morag to a crooked stall run by a one-eyed troll wearing an apron soaked in brine.

“You got knuckle garlic?”

“No. Got wrist onions.”

Granny snaps her fingers with irritation. “Wrist onions rot too fast. Get the garlic or I’ll spit in your brine barrel.”

Morag stepped forward, massive arms crossed. Intimidating. His voice is a low rumble. “We’ll take a handful. Still warm if you can manage.”

The troll sighed and handed over a burlap bundle, still steaming faintly with pungent earthy heat. Granny grinned, nearly toothless.

They wound deeper through the stalls. The air changed—now smelling of damp fur and fresh moss. A gnome with mirrored eyes and stitched lips gestured toward a crate of spotted mushrooms pulsing softly.

Granny approached with an approving nod. “Toadmilk. The best ones sing before they die. Grab three, and don’t let them scream.”

Morag carefully cupped the mushrooms—warm, soft, slightly sentient—and dropped them in his pouch. One gave a low croon like a lullaby sung underwater. “This’ll make the bloodgravy right proper.”

Granny smirked. “If you don’t curdle it like last time. Don’t forget to whisper a curse while it simmers. Makes the marrow run smooth.”

I’ll carry that Granny.

She speaks in a voice that is soft for once, nearly tender. “Good boy.”

Back at Granny’s wagon…

At a firepit behind Granny’s stall, Morag prepared the stew. He crushed the garlic with a rock, flayed the mushrooms while they hummed miserably, and stirred in the salt with slow reverence.

Granny watched from her carved bone chair, sipping her tea and muttering hexes under her breath. “You cook like a storm waking up. That’s good. The world needs teeth in its soup.”

“Will you eat it this time?”

Granny (sighing, a rare fondness creeping in): “Only because you made it. You’re the only one I ever taught who didn’t flinch when the roots bled.”

They ate under a waxing moon. The stew tasted of sorrow and violence—and just enough love to be dangerous.

The Carnival arrives in Darkon and Morag finds a gallows pole, where criminals and traitors swing from the neck until they have paid Azalin-Rex back for their crimes. At night, their bodies sway in the wind like wind chimes. We climb one and scrape the crusted salt from the arms and brows of the corpse.

One corpse speaks: “Don’t forget me.” Morag licks its forehead. “You’re in the stew now.”

Shiverleaf is next on the menu and only opens under the gibbous moon and must be harvested while shivering from cold or fear. Morag plunges into the Moon Field barefoot, shirtless, soaked in corpse-wet cloth. We stand until our body begins to shake. The plants bloom. We cut them fast, spitting blood from a bitten tongue. The new recipe is called: The Marrow-Crack Stew

“You see now, my bloom? The stew is not a meal. It is a rite. Every spoonful unseals the soul.”

“Next time… we try it on someone else. See what it reveals.”

“The flesh dies. The bloom begins. That is the moment of flavor.”

—Krezul, upon the first drying of corpseflower meat

A few short days after their arrival in their newest destination, Morag heard tale of a not so distant quarry, outside the Carnival, where rumors suggest the bodies of dead locals rot in a pit. He left early morning and walked for several hours before his feet hit ground that was soft, honeycombed with fungal roots. Morag arrives just as the sun reaches zenith. Dozens of corpses lie half-buried - some moaning, some silent - each one erupting with corpsebloom growths: pale, veiny stalks with blossoms like bleeding lilies.

“Take from the thigh,” whispers Krezul. “Muscle that still remembers labor tastes best.”

Morag saws a slab of meat from a former gravedigger’s leg, whose mouth still twitches in a silent prayer. The meat pulses faintly. He then harvests a bouquet of corpsebloom petals, careful not to rupture the spore sacs at their bases. Each blossom has tiny teeth.

Morag paused surveying the former dig site now turned mass grave. Bone-worms - transparent, finger-length parasites - wriggle through the chests of unburied dead, feasting on emotional residue. Morag must speak the regrets of each corpse aloud, in order to make the worms secrete their glaze. He kneels beside a corpse wearing a broken locket, places a hand on the chest, and intones:

“You should have told her you were afraid. You weren’t a coward. Just a father.”

A glistening worm writhes to the surface, excreting a molasses-like resin from its jaw slits. Morag collects enough to fill a jar. We are weeping when it’s done, but don’t know why.

The Carnival occasionally burns offerings at the Blight Fires - a ring of perpetual flame to light the Carnivals way. Morag throws in several cracked holy symbols - to Ezra, to the Morninglord, even one carved from bone with no known god. The flames turn violet, spitting out thick ash. We mix it with bog salt from Crookgut Hollow, forming black, glassy crystals.

“This is salt that knows shame,” says Krezul. “It preserves sin.”

To get Sour Woad, Morag visits the Litwick Market once again. Newer stalls that have only just sprung into being offering unusual ingredients that the savage chef covets. A satyr motions to a shelf with several jars and pots. These plants are rare indeed, haunted by the echoes of a massacre. The herb grows from the mouths of skulls that still weep nightly. At midnight, the field moans. Morag uproots several of the woad plants, their roots tangled around teeth. He chews one leaf - it is sour, metallic, and causes a brief vision of choking on mud.

“That’s how you know it’s ripe,” Krezul chuckles.

Morag finds another stall where a pale, almost sickly looking fey offers an assortment of discolored organs. He lifts a large wax sealed jar and eyes the contents. 

“A stomach from a feral ghoul,” The fey explains. Inside, you’ll find thick mushroom caps pulsing like organs. We carve them carefully, keeping the roots intact. We sautés them in grave-butter until they hiss and bleed. Each burst smells like wet fur and copper. We mutter, “Still breathing,” with a grin.

Morag returns to the tent and prepares his next meal. 

“The jerky must not be cooked—it must be dried by sorrow, cured by time, and chewed by flame-born teeth.” Krezul explains. “Let it rot just enough to remember the soul—but not enough to forget the pain.”

A fibrous strip of dried death-bloomed meat, glazed in worm-sap, crusted in ash and salt, and wrapped in shiverleaf. Eating a strip might cause one to suffer a dream-memory from the body it came from, possibly a haunting vision or emotional bleed. New Recipe: The Corpsebloom Jerky

“The heart must be tender, not from mercy, but from surrender. Feed them what they fear to become.”  - Krezul, whispering in Morag’s teeth

Morag hunts a Shadow Elk in the dead forest. The elk is maddened, half-fungal, with glowing red eyes and antlers laced with mold. It charges without hesitation. Morag brings it down with claw and maw, whispering apologies. The heart is still beating as we remove it. Krezul hums. We submerge the heart in mycelial brine: a slurry of saltwater, crushed glowshrooms, and whispering spores. It soaks for 6 hours under moonlight.

Collected from dried corpsebloom stalks, the Sporespice is a hallucinogenic, bitter powder that must be toasted carefully over low flame. Morag mixes it with crushed dried centipede husks, rubbing the spice into the brined heart with our bare hands.

“Let the spice teach the heart what it forgot,” Krezul coos.

Morag impales the heart on an ironwood spit and roasts it over coals made from blighted tree roots, which hiss with fungal smoke. We baste it in rotwine reduction—a black-red glaze that smells of vinegar and mulled despair. As it roasts, the heart blooms—fungal tendrils push from the ventricles, and one side of the meat opens like a rotten fruit, revealing internal spore nodules. Morag doesn’t remove them. We let them burst.

Once cooked, we surround the heart with the sautéed Fleshcap mushrooms, brush the meat with leftover rotwine, and finally sprinkle a final dusting of Sporespice. We carve it with our clawed fingers, offering the first piece to Krezul by pressing it to the ground and burying it in ash. New Recipe: The Fungus-Hearted Roast.

“Eat this to commune with nature, but We won’t be able to speak with others during that time.

“Enough cooking for now, time for some other projects”

Morag’s fortune-telling is wild, brutal, and more like gut-divination than elegance. Still, the cards speak. Our first client comes.

Morag reads for a fire-breather whose flame keeps turning black. The draw: The Executioner, The Broken One, and The Mists.

Our hands shake as we read. “You’ve already died once. That fire isn’t yours anymore. It belongs to something that followed you out.”

Krezul murmurs afterward:

"Even cards bleed truth, if you cut them right."

Morag’s next reading comes as we collect more ingredients for our cooking and we read for a young runaway who wants to become a beast trainer. The draw: The Beast, The Tempter, and The Seer.

We growl, “Don’t tame the beasts. Learn to listen. One of them already sees you as pack.” (The girl later bonds with a half-mad owlbear cub.)

These changes, they are evolutions, symptoms of becoming something more than man.

While bathing in a moss-filled tub, Morag is startled by a scream - his own chest rippling. A mouth tries to form. It doesn't finish, Krezul: "*Do not suppress it. That scream is your truest breath."

Morag has known this to happen before but only in beast form never while still himself. Is he himself anymore, we are now together, is Krezul trying to come forth?

After slaying a bandit sneaking through the Carnival’s edge, Morag instinctively kneels and presses the corpse’s blood into the ground. Vines sprout from his back, absorbing the decay. “Yes, take his power, he tried to steal from us, take from him.”

Are they vines or are they tendrils? “They are us and we will have what was taken.”

During a full moon, Morag wild shapes - but something goes wrong. A third eye opens on his shoulder, not necessarily unusual but it is blinking independently. We now see things not meant to be seen and Krezul grins.

After a nightmare where We strangle ourselves with vines, Morag awakens with tiny green antlers growing from his skull. When enraged, they burst into thorny growths. The others will definitely notice this. 

Morag died in that avalanche, the WE that stand in his place is reborn. Morag accepted us and for that we are one. Together we will find our way.

Raven’s back bore fresh wounds — precise, spiraling brands carved with sacred purpose, ritual rescarification done by Bex’s hand. It was magic born of pain, devotion, and old oaths sworn to infernal powers. His body could bear it, but not without cost. His strength had bled into the cotton sheets. His voice had quieted. He was healing, but only just.

And then he was gone.

No flash. No scream. No warning.

One moment he was there, the next — he wasn’t.

The candle went out.

Rainer’s patrol took him past the stalls of the Litwick Market just after the seventh bell. He hated this place, it reeked of wax, wet moss, and bargains that never ended well. But he came often, walking the edges with purpose. Outside his gleaming breastplate he displayed his holy symbol with conviction. A reminder to the vendors that not all prey wandered blind.

The fey merchants watched him with languid amusement, their too-long fingers toying with strings of bone or caged whispers. He ignored them.

Then he saw her.

Bex.

The imp was a red streak in the night, wings buzzing erratically, eyes wild with panic and fury. Her usual smugness was gone, replaced by something raw and vicious. She dove between stalls, tail lashing behind her, clawed fingers sparking infernal energy in warning.

She looked like she was ready to burn the Market down.

Rainer stiffened, instinct flaring. If Bex was here, something was wrong.

But she didn’t call to him. Didn’t even look at him.

That was more suspicious than any scream.

He crossed the boundary into the Market proper and made his way toward her, passing merchants who whispered with gleeful anticipation. Something was happening.

She didn’t see him until he was almost beside her.

“Bex!” he said sharply.

She whirled midair, fangs bared, fire already dancing in her hands. When she recognized him, the fire died — but the fury in her eyes did not.

“What do you want?” she snapped.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” he said, crossing his arms. “You’re hunting something. Or someone.”

She hesitated for a moment, then finally, her shoulders slumped.

“They took him.” she muttered.

“Took who?”

“Raven.”

That stopped him.

He blinked. “What?”

“He was asleep. Recovering. Vulnerable. And now he’s gone. No signs, no scent, nothing. Just a cold candle and a whisper in the tent.” Her voice broke, but she swallowed it fast. “It was them. The fey.

Rainer frowned. “You’re sure?”

“I don’t have time to convince you,” she snapped. “I’m finding him, with or without you.”

She turned.

“Wait.”

She stopped, midair, back tense.

“I’ll help.”

She turned halfway toward him, suspicious. “Why?”

“Because he’s my friend. And if the fey took him, he’s in danger. And so is anyone who goes after him alone.” He met her eyes. “Even you.”

For a long moment, Bex didn’t speak. She was trembling, barely hiding it, but her wings did not falter.

“…Fine,” she muttered. “But don’t start preaching.”

Rainer allowed himself a grim smile. “Wouldn’t dare.”

The Litwick Market was a maze of crooked stalls that shifted slightly when unobserved. Lanterns flickered with colors that had no names. The forest floor beneath Rainer’s boots was thick with moss and scattered leaves, springy and silent as a held breath. Occasionally, something just beneath the surface stirred — like a sleeper shifting beneath a skin of dreams.

Rainer’s holy symbol shone faintly in the lantern light. The divine did not belong here. Not entirely.

Bex flitted just ahead, her eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. “These bastards love collecting things they shouldn’t have. Don’t ask what’s in the bottles unless you want to know what your scream sounds like distilled.”

Rainer said nothing, only pressed forward.

The crowd of fey vendors had taken note of them now. They whispered with smiles stitched from mirth and malice, calling out wares in singsong riddles.

“A kiss stolen under a hanging moon.”

“The name your mother almost gave you.”

“A shortcut through grief.”

One figure detached from a circle of dancing shadows and drifted lazily toward them. It was tall and androgynous, with silver hair that flowed upward like candle smoke. Dozens of eyes blinked across the fabric of their cloak, none where they should be.

It tilted its head, amused.

“Looking for something, priest?”

Rainer stopped dead. His jaw tightened.

“What did you say?” he growled.

The fey smiled, baring teeth too even, too white.

“I said, are you looking for something?” The voice was laced with play, but underneath it was the suggestion of teeth under silk. “Or someone? Your posture has all the subtlety of a storm, and your anger smells delicious.”

Rainer stepped forward, scales bristling, his free hand curling around the handle of his mace. “If you’ve harmed him—”

“Oh, dear,” the fey purred, pulling back slightly. “No need for threats. I haven’t touched your precious hell-scarred mortal. I wouldn’t. Too much damnation already etched into his skin.”

Bex darted between them, eyes narrowed. “Then what do you know?”

The fey gave a slow shrug, as if unbothered. “Only that someone with a taste for rare magic came through not long ago. They didn’t linger — just bartered for a map made of sinew and vanished through the southern veil. Took a candle I rather liked, too. Shame.”

Rainer took a slow breath. “Then you’re wasting our time.”

“Time is always wasted here,” the fey said brightly. “That’s part of the charm.”

It turned away in a swirl of shifting fabric and faded into the shadows.

Bex growled. “I hate them.”

Rainer nodded once. “Me too.”

Then, softer: “But it gave us a direction.”

She glanced at him.

“Southern veil,” he said, already turning. “Lets go.”

They weaved past stalls selling bottled names and jars filled with laughter. A vendor hawked shadow-draped mirrors that reflected not your face, but your death. Rainer stepped carefully, heart pounding with divine warning.

Then they found it.

A stall shrouded in smoke and black wax, where candles flickered with voices, some sobbing, some laughing, some whispering secrets too quiet to hear.

And in the largest candle, suspended in amber wax, was Raven.

Bex’s breath caught. “No.”

A voice purred from the shadows behind the stall. “A rare treasure. So hard to find unclaimed magic these days.”

The vendor slithered forward, a fey draped in shimmering veils, her face shifting between old and young, beautiful and crumbling.

“Would you like him back? I’m feeling generous today. I’ll take you in trade, little imp.”

Bex didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

“No!” Rainer said, stepping between them.

“How dare you, lizard! He matters more to me than you’ll ever  know!”

Rainer turned to her, voice low. “You matter to him.”

That made her flinch.

He looked at the fey. “Take something from me.”

The veiled one smiled. “A soul wrapped in scales. What do you offer?”

Rainer didn’t flinch. His voice was quiet, but firm. “What do you want?” 

The merchant smiled wide. “Only what is fair. A drop of virtue. A truth unspoken. A fragment of loyalty.

Bex hissed. “You’re not bartering with her! These bastards twist every word!”

“I know.”

Rainer drew his holy symbol. “A prayer. For Zybeksia.”

Bex blinked. “What?”

“Let that be the price. A truth. Spoken freely.”

The fey considered. “Acceptable. Begin.”

Rainer bowed his head.

“To the fire that forged her,

to the shadow that shaped her,

I see what you cast aside.

Not a servant. Not a curse.

A soul with fury, with loyalty, with worth.

If my words have weight — let Zybeksia be free.”

The candle flames around the stall pulsed. The amber wax cracked. Then shattered.

Raven fell to the ground, gasping for breath. Bex rushed to his side and held him tightly, fiercely, like a heart she had almost lost.

The veiled fey hissed. “Truth is costly, priest. Perhaps more than you know.”

Rainer met her gaze. “Then we’re even.”

Later, back in the communal tent, Raven slept in his bedroll. The Carnival had quieted.

Rainer sat nearby, sharpening his dagger. Bex floated beside him in silence.

“You prayed for me.” she said, eventually.

“Yes.”

“I thought you hated me.”

“I thought I did.”

She looked down at the sleeping Raven. “You still think I’m evil?”

He considered his words carefully. “You are what you were made to be. But you choose who you are. Today, you chose well.”

Bex was quiet. Then: “If you tell anyone I got misty-eyed, I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

He smiled faintly. “Noted.”

She landed gently on his shoulder. “We’re not friends,” he muttered.

“Of course not.” she agreed.

But neither of them moved.