Relief flooded through Morwyn as Trux pushed Gildur aside and hobbled forward. The smith started to protest then threw his hands up in consternation. Trux limped over next to Morwyn and leaned heavily on her shoulder with a big grin. The weight the dwarf put on her let Morwyn know that despite her grand entrance, Trux was still quite weak. Eronir moved as quickly as he could from the other side of the fire, bringing with him two chairs and an entourage of excited children. He shooed them away with promises of a grand tale the next night, then helped Trux into a seat and took the other one beside her. Gildur, a constant stream of dwarven curses flying from beneath his blonde beard, set a large parcel on the ground and wandered off, returning with several drinks.
“Ah, good man. Knew you were good for more than clangin' on metal!” Trux said with an exaggerated wink. The other dwarf thrust a mug into her hand and gently handed one to Eronir, keeping the third for himself. Trux went bottoms up and began to drink. Most of it even got in her mouth.
“Lucky to be alive, you are, and here ye be wanderin' off from yer bed to find a drink. They dunnae make 'em like you anymore, lass, and fer a good reason! Ye'll be the death of me, I swear it.”
“Oh, Gildur, if you weren't sweet on that elven maiden I'd think you were flirtin' with me!”
Eronir choked on his ale and nearly spit it out, giving Morwyn a sly smile as he wiped his chin.
“You get used to it. Probably. Still haven't myself.”
Morwyn grinned back and tapped her mug against his. The elf's entire demeanor toward her was so significantly changed, she couldn't help but wonder if he'd taken a blow to the head in the fight.
“Now!” Trux barked, regaining some of her composure as she settled into her chair. “Gildur, I believe you have somethin' for my friend here?”
The smith grumbled and retrieved the cloth bundle from the ground behind the semicircle of chairs. He made his way around and stood before Morwyn, either scowling or smiling she couldn't tell. He opened the bundle with a flourish and produced her sword, which was a difficult feat in that it was longer than he was tall. She set down her mug and took the scabbard in both hands.
“All cleaned up, fixed up, and sharpened fer ye,” he said with a bow.
“Thank you- wait, fixed? It wasn't broken in the fight, was it?” Morwyn frowned. Gildur scoffed, placing a hand to his chest as if offended.
“I cannae believe ye went into battle with yer weapon in such a state! Blade nah true, cross-guard all loose, dull as the back of a bread knife, and dunnae even get me started on the pommel. Shameful construction's what that were, but dunnae worry! Ah have fixed it fer ye, and honed it to perfection on mah finest whetstones.”
Morwyn pushed the blade from the scabbard with her thumb and inspected the hilt as best she could between the booze and inconsistent firelight. She didn't notice any apparent differences, and when she looked over to Argoth and Eronir, they simply shrugged.
“Thank you kindly, Gildur. I feel better knowing it's been repaired by your hand.”
Gildur bowed deeply in gratitude and used the opportunity to produce the next object from the bundle. The links of the chain-mail clinked together softly as he did so.
“Tis every smith's honor to have his workmanship save ah life in deadly combat. As such, ah am proud to gift ye this fine mail that ah loaned ye. Ye have earned it, lass.”
Trux and Argoth roared their approval while Rennock and Eronir were more reserved and simply nodded their agreement. The commotion drew attention from those lingering by the campfire and the flock of children began to cheer as well, though they likely didn't know for what. Morwyn bowed her head and accepted the armor graciously, laying it across her lap and placing her sword on top. Gildur tossed the mail gloves on top of her growing pile as well. She struggled to bend down and retrieve her drink and Rennock grabbed it for her.
“I think this is as much a gesture of gratitude as it is an opportunity for our master smith to show off his work,” the old man chuckled. “Good night, Miss Shrike, and rest well. The road ahead is long.” He squeezed her shoulder and excused himself, striding to his wagon at the front of the caravan and disappearing into the back.
“And finally-” Gildur announced as Trux cut him off abruptly.
“Get on with it, man! Hurry up so you can get drunk and cuddle your anvil!”
Gildur scowled venomously at the other dwarf as he reached into his pocket and retrieved a small leather pouch. From it he withdrew a cloak pin of intricately twisted silver and bronze and handed it to Morwyn, along with the final item in the parcel- a beautiful cloak of gray cloth that shimmered slightly in the firelight.
“Ah did nah craft these mahself, sorry to say. That honor belongs to the fairest, most lovely lady ah have ever laid mine eyes upon!” He gestured to an elven woman that Morwyn recognized as Gildara, who smiled and bowed her head gracefully. Her sister, the one she'd seen Eronir reading poetry to, whispered something in Gildara's ear and the two women began to laugh. Morwyn was overcome by the generosity and was nearly at a loss for words. She was pleased, yet at the same time wished for nothing more than a quiet corner in which to hide.
“Thank you both. I will treasure these gifts.”
Gildara swept in to take Gildur's hand and lead him away just as he drew a breath to continue, much to Trux's delight. She heckled him and laughed as the woman dragged the smith away from the fire and out of sight. With the fanfare over, the camp settled into a quiet hum, more jovial than before though still somewhat muted. Morwyn breathed a sigh of relief that the small crowd's attention was directed anywhere but toward her. With Gildur's exit, many of the others went about their business.
“By the Beard, that man can talk, aye?” Trux laughed, then emptied her mug in one long pull. She wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve and put a hand on Morwyn's knee, rattling the mail and sword. “Now, I can thank you proper. You saved my life, Morwyn. I won't forget that.”
Morwyn stared down at her mug for a moment in quiet contemplation before giving Trux a nod and a tense smile. She'd acted on instinct and, when activating the magic of a scroll under pressure for the first time, she had failed. It had almost cost Trux her life.
“You have Eronir to thank as much as me,” she gestured to the elf on Trux's other side. “Without his assistance we'd be mourning you instead of celebrating your survival.” She half expected the man to scoff or jest, but instead Eronir simply gave her an appraising look and leaned closer.
“Any one of us is capable enough in our own right. It's what we can do together that makes us more than who we are alone.” The elf ran a hand through his short, dark hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “I can't recall if we have faced worse odds than that fight before you came along. It took all of us giving it everything to survive. That includes you. Now, shut up and accept our gratitude.”
Morwyn nodded and did just that. Rather than dwell on her discomfort with the praise, she ran the material of her new cloak between her fingers and admired its silken softness. The rest of the camp went back to their muted hum of activity as she nursed her mug and reveled in the warmth of the fire. Some time later Eronir stood to help Trux back to her cot, leaving Morwyn alone with Argoth. After a long moment of companionable silence she shifted in her chair to angle towards the large orc.
“Argoth, I have to ask. What exactly is that weapon you wield?” She stroked one thumb along the leather-bound hilt of her own sword as she recalled the gruesome sight of Argoth's shimmering black blade cleaving flesh as if it were soft butter. A shiver ran up her spine at the thought.
“I was wonderin' how long it would take you to ask,” he chuckled, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he stared into the fire. Morwyn couldn't read the expression on his face, though she thought she caught a tinge of regret in his contemplation. The man cleared his throat and rubbed his chin with one hand. “It's both a blessin' and a curse, in a manner of speakin'.”
He held out an open palm and curled his fingers as if gripping the hilt of a weapon. Morwyn's eyes grew wide as she watched the shadows cast by the fire coalesce into the form of a void-black dagger with a long, slender blade. He flicked it up and caught it by the tip, offering it out to her. She reached forward hesitantly and when he nodded, she touched the hilt with two fingers. For the first time since she'd last experienced the depths of winter on Skeldrûn, Morwyn felt a chill in her flesh. The dagger hummed with a quiet anger as the inky blackness threatened to steal all the warmth from her fingers. She withdrew her hand and rubbed it against her thigh to dispel the sensation as curiosity and fear battled for dominance in her mind. Argoth sat up straight and flicked the dagger toward a nearby barrel where it sank deeply, seeming to vibrate for a moment before disappearing into a wisp of black smoke. He flexed his hand once more and was suddenly gripping the haft of a broad bladed axe. He absently tested the edge with his thumb before dropping it to the ground. It sank deeply into the damp earth before it too disappeared.
“I've never seen anything like that,” Morwyn murmured, enthralled by the display.
“Neither has anyone else,” grunted Argoth. He rubbed his hands together in a self-soothing gesture and paused for a time, staring into the fire as he continued in a low tone. Morwyn set her equipment on the chair beside her and picked at a splinter on her mug as she listened. “The shadow magic came to me after Rennock took me on, after I made it to the east for the first time. The particulars don't matter right now, but suffice it to say that it came at a great sacrifice. And no matter how useful it might be, the benefits will never outweigh the cost. At least not to me. So to use it is a monument to what I once had, but also a reminder of what I can never get back.”
Morwyn felt a pang of sympathy for the man. She was taken aback by how vulnerable he sounded, at the depth of loss in his voice. Clearly some topics were off limits. She cleared her throat and tried to change the subject to something more casual.
“I see. So what did you do before joining the caravan?”
From the way Argoth's expression darkened even further, Morwyn realized that subject was not more casual in any sense, but he didn't shy away from answering.
“I don't remember much from before I met Rennock, perhaps a year or so at most is clear. I get glimpses of my life before that sometimes. They feel more like dreams than memories. Fractured, indistinct... I know I wandered far to the north, a pariah among my own kind. I'm not exactly sure what happened. All I know is they hunted me, and so I killed them- a great many of them. And others too, not just orcs, and not just in self-defense. There are still whispers of the Gray Orc among certain towns that Rennock has me avoid when the caravan passes through. The things I must've done before...” Argoth scowled and lowered his head, pressing his thumbs to his temples for a moment. “But with the caravan, and with those to the east, none of that matters. My service to them is my penance for my long-forgotten sins, in a sense, though they don't see it that way. What we all agree on is that who I am now is more important than who I was before.”
Argoth glanced sideways at her, noting her rapt attention. A small smile tugging at the corner of his broad mouth and the melancholy seemed to lift slightly at the sight of her intrigued expression.
“I know you're eager, but that's all you're gettin' out of me for now,” he chuckled, lighting up again and offering one to her.
“Those will kill you, you know,” Morwyn said with a wry smile as she turned it down. Her head already spun from the mixture of herbs, booze, and the earlier smoke. She was certain that Hazel wouldn't see the latter two as medicinal.
“They can try,” Argoth grunted. “Nothing else has managed it yet.”
Morwyn leaned back in her chair and stretched out her legs, savoring the warmth of the fire. The camp was quiet now as most of the others tucked themselves in for the night. A few caravaneers relaxed on the high seats of their wagons to keep the night watch and the buzzing of insects brought a quiet ambiance to the scene.
“Your turn,” Argoth grumbled with a glint in his eye. “You've gotten more out of me than most have in years. It's only fair you spill your guts too.”
Morwyn unconsciously placed a hand on her stomach at his last statement, soothing the bruised muscles with gentle pressure. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair for a moment as she considered how to respond to Argoth's request. She supposed it wouldn't hurt. She'd left old wounds behind as best she could, though some lingered on.
“I'm from Skeldrûn,” she began, picking nervously at her fingernails. “An island off the northwest coast. I'm the eldest of the eight Shrike children, and to my knowledge the only one that's left the island. The circumstances in our hometown were... adverse. Because of me. Because of how different I am from the rest of them.”
Argoth was still and silent as he listened, sipping from his mug. His raised eyebrow prompted her to continue. Morwyn sighed and folded her arms as she leaned heavily into the chair.
“I'd really rather not get into the details, but the townsfolk got it in their minds that I was cursed or something. Superstitious nonsense but they took it out on my family. Because of that and... other things, I left the island behind. I've been on the mainland for nearly nine years now, drifting from job to job. I've worked as a deckhand, a courier, and even an assistant librarian at a mage's college for a time. A few years ago I picked up some mercenary work and never looked back. Through it all I've been looking for answers as to why I'm... different. But I haven't found anything at all, and now here I am heading east with nothing but a hope and a dream that someday I'll be able to put the pieces together.”
Argoth was quiet for some time as he gave her an appraising look. His gaze seemed to bore into her very soul, not unlike Rennock's. It was disconcerting.
“What makes you so different from your kin?” he asked, taking a long drag from his smoke and letting the smoke escape between his tusks like a waterfall. Morwyn let out a halfhearted chuckle.
“Believe it or not, I've got something in common with you. Though I sincerely doubt that it's from the same source.”
“Well, you ain't nearly as tall or strong or beautiful as me, so what is it?” he said with a wink. At least, she thought it was a wink. It was hard to tell when he only had one good eye. Morwyn tucked her hair behind one ear and looked away, losing herself in the dancing flames of the central fire once more.
“I'm seventy-six years old,” she replied quietly.
Argoth sat up a little and cocked his head to one side, intrigued.
“Now that's interestin' indeed,” he said, giving her an appraising look. “I could've sworn you weren't a day over thirty.”
Morwyn's cheeks reddened slightly. She wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or not, but knowing Argoth it was merely a blunt observation.
“Yes, well... I don't know why, but I've aged far more slowly than the rest of my family. It felt like it took me forever to reach adulthood, and I've been as I am now for the past twenty years or so.”
She expected further questions, ones that she didn't have the answers to, but Argoth merely nodded to himself and sat back, gazing into the fire alongside her.
“Ain't that somethin'. And that's all?”
She hesitated, unsure of whether to continue, and saw in his expression that he noticed the pause as well. He waved his hand dismissively to spare her from further questioning.
“Never mind. I'll tell you what... If you can't find answers when we make it to the Vale, you won't find them anywhere.” He cracked his neck and stretched before placing his free hand on her shoulder, urging her unsteadily to her feet with a look that said not to pry. He scooped up her equipment with one hand and gestured for her to start walking.
“Come on now, off to bed. You ain't quite healed yet, and we're on the road again tomorrow.”
Knowing she'd get nothing more out of the man, Morwyn nodded and followed him back to Hazel's tent where he took his leave and disappeared into the shadows between the wagons. Hazel was already asleep when she entered and Morwyn took care to be quiet. Her sword and armor clinked gently as she set them at the foot of her cot and she held her breath, but the halfling didn't stir.
She slipped from her outer layers and lay down with a soft groan, favoring her stomach. As an afterthought she grabbed the silvery gray cloak from the top of her belongings and slipped it over herself like a blanket, relishing the feel of the material against her cheek as she tucked the hood under her head. As she closed her eyes, she couldn't help but smile as she mulled over her eclectic band of companions. In a caravan full of strange folk perhaps her own story wasn't so strange after all. One nagging thought kept her from sleep for a while, but that too faded as she slipped into unconsciousness.
What was the Vale?