Author's Preface
Merkra: So yeah. Devil in the basement. We’ll talk about that next week with Professor Grimjaw from Aether Nexus, so tune in for that. I don’t wanna linger too much on it without someone that knows what they are talking about but…what the fuck?
Solana: It is certainly a strange situation, but my knowledge base is fairly thin when it comes to the religious texts. I found the way Atania described the “gift” Father gave her particularly disturbing, though. She describes it as a second heartbeat and a constant thrumming in her chest that isn’t hers.
Merkra: Yeah, it’s creepy shit. Exactly what you’d expect from a devil.
Solana: Perhaps, but we shouldn’t speculate. What we know is that Atania’s power has grown, and according to several accounts, an entity in the bowels of the castle grants them.
Merkra: Fine, I’ll wait for Grimjaw.
Solana: Well, Atania had a moment to herself at least. Should we check back in on Fletcher?
Merkra: Sure…wait a minute. That means you want to end the episode on Penelope?
Solana: I think it’s only fitting, considering.
Merkra: sighs Fine, I was hoping to end this week’s episode on a high note, but nuts is just as good, I guess. Last we saw my boy, he’d gotten popped in the back of the noggin’ and bagged up. I’m sure I’m not the only one whose first thought was, “Oh great, Fletcher hasn’t even actually done anything yet and the goon squad is already bringing him in.” Well, there is good news on the horizon.
Solana: I feel like I missed something. You are far too pleased with yourself.
Merkra: I’m afraid before she can move on I “mustache” you a question. You remember when Penelope was torturing that guy? Asking about Melrhos?
It felt like he was spinning, though he could see constant points of light that crept through the burlap sack on his head. Fletcher blinked a few times, trying to orient himself, but his stomach turned. He retched and felt his sick pool around his neck.
“Not on my boots, you shit!” The voice was low and raw.
The smell hit him next. Not only his own upchuck, but the stench of long stagnant water caused his stomach to empty again. On cue, something thick smashed into his face. His neck snapped back, ears ringing.
“Idiot..” Another voice. The second captor dragging him by his left arm. “You kill him, the boss will have me ring your neck.”
Well, that’s good. Whoever these people were working for wanted him alive. The ringing began to fade, allowing him to regain a bit of focus. The ground beneath his toes squeaked occasionally as they dragged him. A smooth metal? Add that to the stagnant odor. Some kind of old well? Or an unused sewage system?
They came to a stop. Two keys turned simultaneously. Lifted him over a lip, and then the air changed. It was thick, charged. Like he was breathing electrified gelatin. His skin prickled, every hair standing on end. If his stomach contained anything else to turn out, it would have. Instead, he lurched and felt the smoker to his right flinch, waiting for more vomit.
Another door. No keys this time, but the moment it opened, a cacophony of noise hit him all at once and caused the sharp pain in his head to lash out again.
Voices. It was as if he’d just entered an overcrowded theater. All of them shouting at once, but no one using the same words. Somewhere behind the shouting, he could make out rhythmic hand drums. The ground beneath his toes turned from metal to stone. They hadn’t stopped, but he did hear the door close behind them. This place had either guards or hosts, whatever this place was.
The wild chorus grew closer. They were just going to walk him through a crowd with a bag over his head? No one was going to say anything about this? Before Fletch knew it, the voices swallowed him.
Arguing, bartering, advertising.
Drinking, laughing, singing.
Had he been here of his own volition, it may have been just his kind of place. He could almost taste the stale ale in the air and hear his lute over the drumming.
Someone jostled the smoker, and his grip loosened. Now was his shot. He pulled his feet forward and dug his heels into the floor, trying to rip from their grip. The man to his right flailed as he shot from his grip, but the other captor was not so easily slipped.
The giantess lifted Fletcher off his feet. Higher. Higher. Two calloused hands now wrapped around his arms as if he were a child until they were eye level with each other.
“Try it again, I’ll let Hern put you back to sleep. Got me?” a deep, sultry, feminine voice filled his ears.
Fletcher nodded and was promptly tossed over a thick, muscled shoulder.
They passed through the heavily populated area into another tunnel, judging by the echoes of their steps. He tried to remember the turns they were taking, but could make little sense out of them from his hoisted position. After three locked doors, moving onto a wooden floor, and the stagnant smell replaced by the quite pleasant scent of baking pastries, his wildly tall captor set him on his feet and nudged him forward.
“In ya go.” She said as a handle turned and hinges squeaked in front of him.
Fletcher stepped carefully, using his toes to search for any steps.
“It’s flat, I assure you.” A third voice sounded from deeper in the room, smooth and sweet. The massive woman took his arm and escorted him forward to a chair, where she picked him up again and sat him in a chair. “Remove his hood. Thank you, Selene.” The hood loosened and came off, vomit that had collected falling down his shirt and onto his pants.
“These things are never gonna come clean.” Fletcher complained as he swiped at the cloth pants.
“Get Mr. Lightfoot a new set of clothes. Something befitting a famous musician, please.”
Fletch looked up at the woman speaking. Fair skinned, brilliant auburn sclera-less eyes, hair so silver it was almost white, braided to look like a crown around her head, held up by the elongated Elven ears. A Gifted.
“Thank you.” Fletcher immediately started looking around. The only gifted he’d found in Etos so far were the King’s soldiers, but this place didn’t scream royalty to him. The larger of his captors, an incredibly tall Titanblood woman with a shaved head and tattoos that ran from her temples down her neck stepped around him and leaned down to whisper to the woman. She glanced at Fletcher, then marched back to lean against the wall behind the Elf.
“I’m sure you’re very confused. All will be revealed shortly. Can we get you something to drink, Mr. Lightfoot?” The Gifted woman smiled across at him.
“Water would be great.” Aside from the door they’d entered, there were two other doors in the room, and the table and chairs that they sat at. Maybe this was some kind of offsite interrogation room, and he was about to be tortured. “Can you tell me why I’m here?”
“No, sadly.” She lifted a bag from under the table to her lap and pulled a long, thin stone tablet from it. She placed it in the center of the table. “That is not my place. If you wouldn’t mind setting your hands on the tablet, please.”
“What is it?” Fletcher raised an eyebrow.
“Its an artifact that will allow me to read your essence.”
“My what?”
“You have my word it will not harm you in any way. Before we go any further, I need to know you better.” She placed her own hands on the tablet. “And in turn, you will know me.”
“What do you mean, know me?” Fletcher’s brow furrowed. This sounded less like torture and more like a weird religion he was getting sucked into.
“Its difficult to explain before you’ve experienced it.” She pursed her lips and gestured to the tablet with her chin. “Please.”
Fletcher cocked an eyebrow and sucked on his teeth. Curiosity had gotten the better of him in so many situations…and yet. Hesitantly, he scooted forward in his chair and reached for the center of the table. His hands hovered over the tablet while he searched her eyes for signs of ill intent. They said you could tell when a Gifted is lying by watching their eyes. It was horseshit, obviously, but Fletcher was a good judge of character.
Hands met stone, and panic ensued. A waved of emotion crashed into him and he tried to pull away, but he was no longer there. No table. No chairs. He thrashed wildly in an ocean of inky blackness until her voice sounded again.
Our minds are linked. Relax and look up.
Relax. Right. Fletcher took a grounding breath and did as she said. Voluminous pink and gray clouds floated overhead. Nothing like you would see in real life, more like in a serene painting. Two of the clouds pressed together, their colors bleeding into each other until an image bloomed across them.
A dusty old library, small groups of children studying at the feet of a centaur, an older elf throwing his fist out toward him. Was he reliving her memories? Is that what she’d meant? That meant she was experiencing his.
A chill shot through his body as panic took over again. He finally pulled free of the tablet, the force of his attempts sending him flying back against the chair. Selene darted around the table, one large hand snatching him up by his shirt before he could hit the ground. She picked up the chair and gently sat him back in it as his lungs heaved in air.
“Curious.” The corners of her lips had turned up just a little further. “No need to be afraid, Mr. Lightfoot. We all have things we would rather not show people.”
“I didn’t…” Fletcher gasped for air and shook his head. “I didn’t see anything bad in your head.”
“That means you didn’t get far enough.” She took the tablet off the table, and the dwarven man returned with a glass of water and a change of clothes. “Hern, please tell Melrhos we’re ready for him.”
“Melrhos?” Fletcher asked before gulping down half the water.
“Melrhos is our leader. He’ll explain everything to you.” She stood and bowed her head to him. “I thank you for letting me know you, Mr. Lightfoot.”
He wasn’t sure if that was a comfort or a threat, but either way he needed to roll with it. “Yeah, I didn’t get your name.”
“Apologies. I am Freya.” She stared down at him and patted the stone table against her midsection. “And don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me. Melrhos doesn’t ask for specifics. He just wants to know the mettle of a person before he meets them. We’ll leave you alone to change.” She turned, intertwined her fingers with the Titanblood woman’s, and they exited the room.
Fletcher contemplated making a break for it, but figured he’d be lost almost instantly and there would certainly be guards everywhere. Reserved in his situation, he slipped into the brown tunic with gold trim and a pair of pantaloons that were a bit too big.
Before long, the door opened again. In stepped a human that couldn’t be more than a couple inches taller than Fletcher. His hairline had all but abandoned him, leaving a few wispy grays in the center of his head to flop around, and his belly peaked out the bottom of his shirt. And yet, when Fletcher couldn’t manage to pull his eyes away from the space between nose and lip.
It wasn’t just a mustache. It was a work of art. A monument. It was two glorious waxed wings spun in silver and onyx. They swept out from under his nose with the confident grace of a roc snatching up prey and soaring back up to the heavens to end in an impossibly elegant point. His own unkempt stubble suddenly made his cheeks and neck heat up.
“Fletcher Sterling Lightfoot.” There was something playful about the deep gravel of his voice that made him smile, despite the strange circumstances he found himself in.
“Melrhos, I’m assuming.” Fletcher hopped off his chair as the man waddled around to shake his hand. “You’ve certainly gone through a lot to get me here. Where ever here is.”
“That I did, that I did.” He gestured back to his chair and fumbled around to sit across from him. “Its a delight to meet you. I found myself in Ashoria a few decades back and saw one of your shows. A once in a lifetime talent, I’ll tell ya kid.”
Fletch tilted his head slightly, brows furrowed. “I hope you didn’t have me dragged down here just to meet me. There are easier ways to get an autograph.”
“Oh no, oh no.” Melrhos adjusted himself in his chair and pulled a cigar from…somewhere, stuffed it below that magnificent stache and started to chew. “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Lightfoot.”
“What kind of proposition?”
“Well, there are a hundred ways to sell it to you, but I’m just going to give you the honest to the Five’s pitch and hope Freya is right about you.” Melrhos shifted a little in the chair and set his hands on the table. “I want you to join our rebellion.”
A stillness came to the room that was only broken when Selene stepped back in and lifted the chair Melrhos was in and eased him closer to the table.
“Is this some kind of weird joke?” Fletcher finally said, unable to see past the gorgeous face decoration.
Melrhos lifted his arms in a shrug, a bit more of his belly slipping from the bottom of the shirt. “You’re a smart guy. You’ve been around. What do you see out there? Does everything seem copacetic to you?”
“No, but I’m Ashorian. Why would I be interested in Etosian politics?” Fletcher scratched absently at his scruffy travel beard.
“Freya tells me you’re a good man.” Melrhos rolled the cigar between his lip before pulling it out. “Someone who’s interested in helping folks, even at personal cost. A man who would carry a Gifted through the crowded streets of Raven’s Crest to make sure they get the care they need. Man like that doesn’t sound like he would abandon anyone.”
Fletcher eyed Melrhos for a moment, taking note of his chosen vocabulary. Calling them Gifted rather than what any Ashorian would consider a slur was either a well-placed strategy or something they genuinely had in common.
“Okay, let’s say for a second I didn’t think you were out of your mind. What would you want from me?” Fletcher leaned back in the chair, folding his hands in his lap.
“An inside man.” Melrhos plucked the chewed cigar end from his mouth again, wet tobacco slipping from his bottom lip. “Somebody who can get in the castle and not draw any suspicion.”
“And you think that’s me? A foreign bard?”
“Assuming we get you the right cover story. Sure.” Melrhos shrugged. “Who better honestly? You already played there once. Maybe we try to get you set up with regular royal gigs?”
“Mhmm.” Fletcher gave him an incredulous look. “And in this hypothetical situation where I get regular gigs in a hostile castle…what then?”
“Then you scope the place out. Layouts, artifact storage, guard details. You get the gist.”
“And then?” Fletcher asked, growing more amused by the moment.
“And then we break in, using your expert distraction skills, obviously, and swipe a bunch of powerful shit. Keep up, kid.”
“This sounds like a suicide mission. I’m not in the business of getting myself killed, Melrhos,” Fletcher said bluntly.
“It may be.” Melrhos tapped the unchewed end of his cigar on the oak table a couple of times before lighting it. “Without the intel we’ll never know, and as long as the Crown holds all the artifacts, we stand no chance.”
“I assume you’ve tried this plan before?” Fletcher tapped his fingers on the table. “What happened to those people?”
“Well…” Melrhos cleared his throat. “They never came back, but they didn’t have solid covers.”
Fletcher let out a silent chuckle. “You’re bleeding the moon.”
“What are you looking to get out of this life, Mr. Lightfoot?” The playfulness in his tone dropped without warning, cheery cheeks fell, and his eyes narrowed. “You’re well off. You can get on a boat tomorrow and leave this place, my people, behind to suffer. I don’t see you doing that, though.”
“Oh?”
Melrhos shook his head, pointed at him, and struggled up from his seated position. One foot on the chair, the other on the table, like some crazed ship captain, he regarded him again. “You, Fletcher Sterling Lightfoot, are a hero. You maybe just haven’t recognized it yet.”
Fletcher had always been a bit of a sucker for the melodrama, but this was absolutely insane. “Why is this so important to you? What do you get out of it?”
Melrhos paused, examining him as if judging if he was ready to hear some profound truth, then nodded. He tilted backward with the confidence of a man who knew an enormous Titanblood woman was about to catch him, and Selene sat him gently back in his chair.
“These are my people.” The boisterous charisma faded into something more heartfelt. “They need help, and there is only so much I can do alone. There are people up there who have never known the freedom you’ve seen, Mr. Lightfoot. They are given just enough to keep them sated, but never enough to thrive. Just enough to keep paying their taxes, while the King and his selected few grow fat on the spoils.”
Melrhos threw a thumb over his shoulder. “All thats not even mentioning the atrocities with the Gifted. You know Freya can’t leave these tunnels except a few specific places.” He let out a deep sigh, dipped his head, and tapped the end of his cigar on the table again to ash it. “If you need me to tell you why this is important…maybe I kidnapped the wrong Halfling.”
Fletcher watched him silently. There was no doubt Melrhos was as charismatic as he was caring, and his confidence was far higher than someone in his position, politically or otherwise, had any right to be. It helped, but that wasn’t the deciding factor. Fletcher’s mind flashed again to memories that weren’t his. The violet eyes of a newborn stared up at him, a knowing look that spread chill bumps across his skin.
“Alright, Melrhos.” Fletch nodded. “What do we do?”
“Yes!” Melrhos pumped his fist and floundered his way off the chair over to shake his hand. “You won’t regret this, Mr. Lightfoot.”
“Just call me Fletch.”