Author's Preface
Merkra: Welcome back, beautiful people, to Hidden Narratives, the podcast where we tell you stories that slip through the cracks. My name is Merkra.
Solana: And my name is Solana. This week we are going to touch on something that might seem abnormal, but rest assured, due to the nature of this particular story, we have done even more research than we would normally have to.
Merkra: As with all of our content, this is going to be totally uncensored. This story…well, it’s a little darker than we usually cover. Also, hardfast facts were a struggle to find for some of it. Like always, we’ll leave our citations in the description of each episode, but when you see some wild shit like “Personal Journal of Virinax Strom, King’s Alchemist” don’t be too surprised.
Solana: That should be a sufficient enough preamble. This week, and possibly for the next several weeks, we are going to be talking about a scary story some of our parents told us about to make us eat our vegetables.
Merkra: Obviously me, Earthmother knows you’ve never had to be scared into doing what you’re told.
Solana: huff Some of us realize when people are trying to help us and don’t reject the wisdom of their elders.
Merkra: Anyway, this is the story of Deviltouched. Turns out, they weren’t boogiemen at all. Just folks that were a little different. The main character in our tale, however, is not one himself. My boy Fletch is a suave lute plucking bard with his own set of secrets.
Fletcher learned to project over the roar of drunks and shattered tankards; the gentle buzz of nobles swirling glasses of glorified grape juice instead of mead or ale was almost a joke. Tattooed fingers plucked at his weathered lute while his eyes scanned the crowded banquet hall. This was not his first party in high society, though things in Ashoria were not quite so prim and proper as Etos.
“ I’ve slept in the stables of cities long gone
Shared fire with rebels and nobles and cons
I’ve wooed a few barmaids, escaped a few jails
Even sang for a horse, that’s a hell of a tale”
Since he was a young man, his music could make people talk. When he got older, he found he could sometimes see it. Like a frolicking flame, bouncing between conversations beneath the resonant beat. Small talk bored him to death, but he understood its place. Even the most inane of interactions could reveal an entire world of information. Business dealings with merchants in the eastern desert, a collection of mystical beasts being assembled in the Riverlands, even the whisper of a possible scandalous affair between the King and one of his advisors.
“I’m nobody’s hero, but I clean up alright
Especially when dressed at a King’s invite
I’ll sing for your table, then vanish at dawn
A whisper, a tune, then all but gone”
Aside from the noticeable lack of halfling representation, Fletcher found another pattern deeply concerning about his current crowd. In his homeland, the Gifted were far more prevalent among the nobility. The only ones in the room now were in full military garb, and if he wasn’t mistaken, stationed throughout the room as guards. Not a single reveler had the telltale scleraless eyes.
“Don’t ask me of kingdoms, or bloodlines, or war
I’ve heard enough oaths to make a priest snore
Just pour me a drink, I’ll play you a lie
The kind that still lingers as memories die.”
He repeated the verse a few more times before cutting the band to take a few minutes. The obvious lack of small folk in the community made him happy he was light on his feet. Making his way over to the bar was far more arduous than he would have liked, ducking and weaving and all but keeping himself from being squished by a particularly large Titanblood man who’d gone far too deep on the wine.
“Anything special for the talent?” Fletcher said, plucking a gold piece from his leather purse and sliding it across to the thin, young orcish man with a handlebar mustache.
“Drinks’r free.” He eyed the coin even as he cocked his head to the side.
“Consider it a tip. Can’t imagine these folks are paying you what you’re worth.” Fletcher caught a smile form at the corners of the bartender’s mouth, exposing tusks that seemed filed down. Somehow he doubted something as painful as that must have been was a fashion statement.
Pocketing the coin, he gave Fletch a quick nod. “I’ve got something for you, hope you can hold your liquor.”
“Oh, I’m a pro, young man. Don’t worry about me.” Fletcher spun around on the stool while the orc worked and took in the mass of people. The crowd parted slightly, letting an elven man through with flawless dark skin and silvery white hair up in ornate braids.
“Fletcher Sterling Lightfoot.” He brought his hands up to the lapels of the emerald jacket and straightened it. “A real life celebrity. I never thought I would see the day I was face to face with you.” A woman appeared at his side, doing her best to take his arm and lead him away.
“Please don’t make a spectacle of this, Galdir.” She said in a hushed tone.
“Huh.” Fletcher’s eyebrows rose. “Didn’t think I was popular on Etos. Always happy to meet a fan, though.” He said as he extended his hand.
“I am no fan of yours.” The young elf’s lip curled at his offering. “You’re nothing but a lecherous charlatan.” He pulled one of the many rings from his fingers and threw it to the floor at Fletcher’s feet. “You’ve insulted my blood, I demand a reckoning.”
Fletcher grimaced slightly, eyes flicking between the ring sitting between the legs of the stool and the young man. He wasn’t sure what a reckoning was, but it sounded like he wanted to fight him. He was almost certain he’d never slept with the woman tugging at his arm, so that likely wasn’t the reason behind it.
“I apologize if I’ve offended you.” Fletcher bowed his head slightly. “I know my songs aren’t for everyone.”
“Your songs!” Galdir pulled his arm from the woman’s grasp and took a quick jerking step toward him. “You tore apart my family. No one gives a shit about your songs.”
“I think that’s about enough, Galdir.” The tall, slender form stood in front of Fletcher, vibrant purple skirts still swaying from the quick movement. “We don’t want to cause a scene at the New Year’s Gala, do we?”
Galdir. He definitely knew that name from somewhere, but he couldn’t place it.
“This is not your business, Ms. Mulbrook.” Galdir glared past them at Fletcher.
“Mx. Mulbrook.” They corrected. “Insulting a foreign bard is one thing. There are those that may question your intelligence if you start insulting the King’s nobility.” They bent down and collected the ring, flashing a quick smile at Fletcher before turning back to Galdir and offering the ring back. “Withdraw your call for a reckoning and follow your wife’s lead.”
Galdir shook with fury. His face twisted as he snatched the ring from their hand and shoved it back on his finger. “This is not over, Fletcher.”
“Off you go, dear.” The elf waved off Galdir who snarled at Fletcher one last time before turning with a huff. His savior turned to face him with a smile that rivaled his own. “You make quite the impression, don’t you? I believe your drink is ready.” They gave a nod to the bar.
“Oh.” Fletcher turned and grabbed the drink, giving a nod to the bartender before looking back at the elf and lifting his glass to them. “Thank you. I think he was actually going to hit me.”
“Galdir is a gentle soul.” They moved to his side and leaned against the bar, a drink already held in a purple gloved hand. “You must have done something pretty heinous to get him to the point of violence.”
Fletcher shrugged. “I can’t say I remember what that would have been.” He said, holding his hand out to shake theirs.
“Leonie Mulbrook.” They took his hand.
“A delight to meet you, Mx. Mulbrook.”
“Just Leonie, Mr. Lightfoot.”
“Fletch, please.” He let go of their hand and took the shot the Orc had poured for him. “I owe you one. I’m not a big fan of getting punched in the face.”
“Happen to you a lot, does it?” Leonie eyed him over their glass as they sipped.
“More frequently than I’d be proud to say.” He gave a shrug.
“I’m sure a handsome bard like yourself can find some way to make it up to me.” They winked at him, deep green eyeshadow leaving him in a brief trance. “After your set, I’ll sneak you out of here and show you the real Raven’s Crest.”
Fletcher winked back. “I’ll see you later, then.” He said as he hopped off the stool and kissed their hand before taking the treacherous journey through the crowd back to the stage.
As promised, Leonie had hardly moved for the last half of his set. After several more songs, Fletcher ended the night with ‘A Wayward Star’. It was always a crowd-pleaser, so it became a habit to keep it for the closer.
Leonie clapped as he approached the bar. “Very impressive, Fletch.”
Fletcher bowed with a flourish. “Thank you, I live to please.”
“We’ll see about that.” They grinned at him and offered him a sweet smelling green drink. “Are you ready to hit the town?”
Fletcher sniffed at the glass for a moment before downing its contents and setting it on the bar. “After you.”
“Let me get an escort, don’t sneak off.” They got up from the stool and hurried off, purple skirts swaying behind them.
Fletcher hadn’t noticed while he was on stage, but now that they’d put words to it, it was glaringly obvious. For each group of nobles that left the banquet hall, they had at least one Gifted escort. It didn’t seem likely that it was for safety, surely this was the safest location on the continent. So privacy then? Which meant there was something here to hide.
Leonie came back, a young Gifted dwarf at their side looking less than pleased he had to make another trip out to the docks. The flirting was overt throughout the walk and on the boat ride across the Emerald Strait. Once they set foot on solid ground in Raven’s Crest, Fletcher noted how much more comfortable Leonie appeared to be. That comfort came off both physically, in how they seemed to take a more relaxed pace, which his smaller stature was thankful for, but also in the questions they asked.
“I wish I were more familiar with Ashorian customs. I’ve never been myself, but I’ve heard you all are a far more accepting culture. Especially to those that can feel…different.” Leonie said, guiding him in the opposite direction the other nobles veered off on.
Fletcher shrugged. “Well, assholes are not unique to Etos, but I’d say we’re a pretty accepting folk overall.”
“Yes, assholes are everywhere.” They nodded and walked him off the docks and down a wide market square. “This is the heart of Raven’s Crest. During the day, these streets fill with her populous. Barking merchants, street foods…” A wide grin crossed their lips. “Its truly beautiful.”
“Do you live in this area?” Fletcher asked, taking in the state of the buildings. They weren’t run down, but it definitely wasn’t the definition of wealth. The majority of them were the same dull beige color, and almost completely uniform in shape and size.
“I don’t. I live in Uppercrest. It’s the designated area for nobles.”
“Mx. Mulbrook, wonderful to see you.” A passerby walked over and shook their hand.
“It’s Leonie, please.” They shook the elder man’s hand and smiled. “And it’s always a pleasure, Gerard.” The two of them had a brief conversation about his recent fish sales before he dismissed himself.
Fletcher watched them curiously. As different as this place was from his homeland, it was rare to see someone of true wealth stop to talk to a street vendor regardless of culture. There was something special about Leonie Mulbrook. They had a way with the common folk that most high-society types didn’t care to cultivate. The reason for that eluded him, but he imagined that would come with time.
“Sorry about that,” they said, gesturing forward.
“Nothing to be sorry for.” Fletcher shook his head. “Don’t often see nobility walk the streets with the people.”
“True.” Leonie nodded. “A lesson I’ve failed to teach the others is that we are also just people. Perhaps a bit more well off, but people all the same. Ah, here we are.” They pointed at the sole unique building he’d seen in the market quarter so far.
The sign over the door read ‘Jinty McGinty’s Tavern’. It glowed a soft yellow from the everburn torches that were lit below it. Enchanted torches were all over the place in Ashoria, and even across the strait in the castle, but it was the first place in the market quarter he’d seen lit up with them.
“The McGinty brothers are good friends of mine, and to be transparent, I’m also an investor in the establishment. It is the best of the best as far as taverns are concerned, though I’m eager to hear your opinion.” Leonie took his hand and led him forward.
Fletch attempted to greet the two Gifted stationed at the entrance, but they ignored him outright. The attempt drew what he thought was amusement from his companion, but Leonie dragged him into the tavern without a word.
This was far more to his liking. Yelling patrons, the scent of honey in the air mixed with roasting meats, and in the corner a raised platform with enough space for one very charismatic bard. A roar of cheers came in waves as they slipped between tables toward the back, stopping a few times for Leonie to have brief conversations with what seemed to be random citizens.
Fletcher hopped into the private booth and slid over so they could climb in beside him. “You seem pretty popular around here.”
Leonie shrugged, grinning over at him. “They just like me for my booze. Any time I come in, I pay for a round for everyone.”
“Why?” Fletch cocked his head.
“A number of reasons.” Leonie admitted freely. “If I told you it was purely charitable, it would be a lie. Perhaps that’s something we can discuss another time, though. Now I want to know more about you. What is a famous bard from across the sea doing on our backward continent?”
Fletcher rapped his knuckles against the table. “I’ve come to spread the music, obviously!” He said, drawing a refined but hearty chortle from his companion. “No, I’ve actually been trying to get access to the country for a while. It’s harder than it should be.”
“Mmm.” Leonie nodded. “The closed border is a tumultuous issue right now.”
“I’m here to visit an old friend. He recently lost his wife. The Gala job was just a happy coincidence.” Fletcher shrugged.
“Happy indeed.” They smiled over at him. “So, you must tell me the inspiration behind A Wayward Star.”
He shook his head and let out a breathy laugh. “Is it egotistical to say myself?”
Leonie frowned. “More sad, I think.”
“Sad?” Fletcher shook his head, giving a crooked half smile. “I happen to think it’s quite beautiful.”
“Oh, it is. Make no mistake. It’s also quite sad, though. A lonely drifter searching for a place to call home? Finding beauty everywhere, but never a place to belong? That’s tragic. Beautiful, but still tragic.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Fletcher looked up as a remarkably thin Titanblood man approached them. He wore an apron around his waist and carried a pint in each hand. “A man from Elysium itself.” Fletcher took the tankard he offered.
“Mx. Mulbrook.” The man bowed his head. “Anything I can get you and your guest?”
“Fletcher Lightfoot, this is Conrad McGinty.” Leonie took their own pint and took a sip.
“A pleasure, Mr. McGinty.” Fletcher offered his hand as he saw the man’s large gray eyes light up.
“Fletcher Sterling Lightfoot?”
“That’s me.” Fletcher struggled not to wince as the man’s excitement took over. He may have been small for a Titanblood, but Fletch was certain if he gripped any tighter, his plucking fingers would be dust.
“Oh, sorry.” Conrad mercifully let go of his hand. He placed a fist to his stomach and bowed, a customary greeting of respect in Ashoria, but he hadn’t seen anyone on Etos do it. “I’ve heard stories about you, Mr. Lightfoot. It’s my honor to have you in our tavern.”
“Are you Ashorian, Mr. McGinty?” Fletcher asked.
“Oh, no.” He removed his fist from his midsection and wiped his palms on the apron. “My travels extensively, so my brother and I picked up a few things.”
“You mentioned stories?” Leonie chimed in. “You know I love a good story, Conrad.”
“Do you mind?” Conrad asked, looking over at Fletcher.
“By all means, try not to embarrass me too much though.” Fletcher took a long drink from his tankard.
“Of course.” Conrad nodded and slid into the booth on the other side of them. “I’m actually curious if there is any truth to this one, and who better to ask than the man himself. My father told us when you graduated from that Ashorian bard school, you wandered drunkenly into the Mistwood and accidentally freed a fire spirit from its prison.”
Leonie cocked a perfectly groomed eyebrow and glanced over at him. “An actual spirit?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.” Fletcher did his best to hide behind his tankard as he took another drink.
“But it is true?” Leonie let out a sharp laugh. “Nonsense. You’re bleeding the moon.”
Fletcher shrugged. “I hadn’t graduated yet, and I wouldn’t so much say it was an accident. I was incredibly drunk, though.”
“I knew it was true.” Conrad pounded his fist on the trouble. “My brother always gave me shit for believing Dad’s stories. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go rub it in his face.”
Fletcher watched him walk back over to the bar, trying his damnedest not to meet Leonie’s gaze again. He hadn’t expected the story of The Briogan. There were really only a handful of people who knew it. Apparently, this Papa McGinty found out from someone. When he finally looked back over at them, the admiration on their face was far from what he’d expected.
“A liberator of spirits, right here in Jinty McGinty’s tavern.” Leonie said under their breath, but just loud enough for him to hear. “Gods be damned.”
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
They let out another sharp laugh and took a drink. “If divine treason isn’t a big deal, I’m not sure what is, Fletcher.”
His stomach turned as a nervousness he wasn’t used to washed over him. Generations had passed since overt piety was political fashion in Ashoria, but he wasn’t at home anymore. He probably should have denied it, let the rumor die in the air between them, but he was never one to lie.
“Relax.” They’d obviously noticed his discomfort and reached over to set a hand on his. “I happen to find a rebel really sexy.”
***
Fletcher woke the next morning to a light knock at the door he hardly remembered going through and the feel of fresh facial hair nuzzling his bare chest. Leonie’s bare form curled against his body. His fingers traced the intricate turquoise tattoo that curved along their shoulders and collarbone before descending their chest.
The knock sounded again, this time a bit louder, causing Leonie to stir and grumble.
“Mx. Mulbrook.” A nasally voice sounded from the other side. “I do not mean to disturb. I need only remind you of your meeting at noon.”
“What time is it now?” They called out, not moving from his chest.
“Just passed ten.”
“I will be down shortly. Thank you, Bluworth.” Leonie rolled onto their back and stretched out with a tired groan. Apparently, his admiration didn’t go unnoticed. “See something you like?” Leonie raised an eyebrow at him.
“I definitely do.” Fletcher rolled onto his side and kissed them deep and long. He smiled against their lips before continuing. “Important business meeting?”
“If you don’t distract me from it, yes.” Leonie smacked his chest and hopped off the bed, wrapping themself in a silk robe. “A grain supplier from the Riverlands. Trying to renegotiate terms, no doubt.”
Their pale body disappeared into a closet, and he moved to pull on his trousers. “So what exactly do you do? Obviously something profitable.” He gestured around the opulent room.
Leonie’s head poked from the closet door, an eyebrow raised. “Are you looking for a meal ticket, Mr. Lightfoot?” They grinned before disappearing again. “There aren’t a lot of things that happen in Raven’s Crest I don’t have my fingers in.”
“A real entrepreneur then?” Fletcher said, buttoning up his shirt and moving to pull his boots on.
“Something like that.” Leonie emerged again, now wearing a burnt orange suit and pushing a comb through their hair. “I hope you’re not in a hurry to get back to Ashoria. It’s been a long time since I’ve had company like that.”
Fletcher chuckled and shook his head. “I’ve got a trip to take to see an old friend out in Kelenek. I should be back in town in a couple weeks. Not sure what the plan is from there. Maybe I stick around for a while.”
“I would like that, though I don’t want to keep you away from any obligations.” They set the comb down on a side table and spritzed on some perfume.
“Of course not. Probably going to scope out the town before I leave. Maybe drop by Jinty McGinty’s to do a set. A humble bard has to eat after all.”
“Oh, humble? Is that the adjective you’re going with?” Leonie teased. “I’m sure the McGinty brothers would be happy to get you on stage. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”
“Beautiful and well connected.” Fletch cocked an eyebrow. “You’re quite the catch. I shouldn’t be expecting your partner to burst in the room at any moment, should I?”
“Happily single, Mr. Lightfoot.” They strode over to him, pressing a polished nailed finger to his chest. “And I plan to stay that way, so no funny business.”
Leonie led him down a set of winding stairs, landscape painting adorning the walls. At the base, the source of the nasally voice from the door stood. A tall, balding, ashen skinned human stood rail straight with a tray in hand.
“Bluworth, you are a hero.” Leonie took two cups off the tray, handing one back to him. “Would you like breakfast, Fletcher?”
“I’m sorry, Mx. I don’t believe we have time for a proper meal.” Bluworth offered them a plate with a couple pieces of toast and some sort of green spread that smelled floral and minty. “Your…” He paused, eyes flicking to Fletcher then back to them, bushy eyebrows raising sharply. “Ahem…other guests will be arriving any moment.”
Leonie grimaced and looked over their shoulder at Fletch with an apologetic smile that seemed more mask than genuine expression. “I hate to kick you out, but some of my associates aren’t as open to strangers as others.”
Fletcher shook his head. “Completely understand. I’ll see you soon.”
“I genuinely can not wait.” They leaned down and kissed his tattooed fingers. “Safe travels, Fletcher.”
A strange scraping sound sounded behind him, like rocks grinding against each other, followed by a gruff voice that was certainly not from Leonie or their nasally manservant. He stepped into the marble foyer and adjusted his collar under his coat. Whatever worlds Leonie Mulbrook walked in, they seemed to have far more intrigue than an average noble.