[Tethers] A Likely Story

[dracoqueen22]

Title: A Likely Story
Universe: Tethers, Pre-Canon
Characters: Celeste Stiel, Rathi of the Cinders, Tyrael Ashborne, Dakota Sorrel, Tempest Teapot
Rated: K+
Warnings: Fantasy Typical Violence
Description: A single pilfered purse introduces Tyrael and his crew to Dakota and Tempest, inspiring a team up none of them could have expected.

It isn’t the worst tavern they have ever visited, but it’s close.

Celeste, of course, is delighted. Every new town, every new business, is a source of adventure. She soaks up accents and personalities like a sponge, and the rest seems to roll off her back. She’s captured more ease since the journey began, the slit in her overrobe climbing up her thigh, and her cloak often thrown off her shoulders, rather than tucked tight around her body.

Rathi, too, enjoys herself. She consumes tankard after tankard of the thick, mealy ale and chomps noisily on a large turkey legs. She’s balanced precariously on the two back legs of the chair, one foot braced against the table edge to keep her upright.

Tyrael, back to the wall, frowns over a mug of cheap wine, having picked through his own meal to find the bits least offensive to him. There isn’t much. He will probably have trail rations for dinner later.

Only where Celeste can’t see him. She has a habit of teasing him about being high-maintenance.

Then again, they all have a habit of teasing each other.

“I like this town,” Rathi declares with a wide grin, swiping the back of her hand over her mouth before taking another huge bite of the turkey leg.

“Too bad we can’t stay here long.” Celeste swirls a finger through her ale before shrugging and taking a long drink of it. Her face colors, and there’s a long moment before she actually swallows. “Tyrael will starve to death if we do.”

Tyrael glares at his cousin. “I have a quest,” he reminds her, in a tight tone with a hint of peevishness to it. “We can’t loiter anywhere we please.”

“We’ve already gotten you the bath you wanted. I thought you’d be in a better mood by now.” Celeste slides a new mug of ale in Tyrael’s direction, a bit of the liquid splashing over the rim to darken the table, already stained by years upon years of similar spills.

The whole tavern has an aroma of years upon years of the same. Old grease spatters the tables and the floors. The walls are scarred with torchfire flickers and ash. The wood floor is pitted and scraped from countless chairs and perhaps a sword or two from the occasional barfight.

Even the barkeep themself looks worn and constant, every line in their face another year they’d kept their business afloat with recurring patrons and curious travelers. They pour drinks and serve customers with frightening ease, a small never far from their lips.

“I’m not in a bad mood,” Tyrael snaps, and his tone belies his words. At least he seems to realize it, for he sighs and scrubs at his temple with two fingers. His armor looks a bit scuffed and dull, telling tales of their long journey, and the little time he’s had to polish it. “Please, finish your meals so we can find a suitable place to stay.”

Rathi sucks meat from the bone and licks her lips. “They have rooms here.” She gestures with her one hand, bone still clasped between her fingers, to the inn at large.

“Not here,” Tyrael says.

“What’s wrong with here?” Celeste asks, blinking as she straightens to look around her, tucking dark curls back behind her ears, though they immediately swing free and into her face again.

Tyrael gives her a long, narrowed look.

On the other side of the room, uproarious laughter echoes outward as a table of working-class individuals cheer some fortunate event, clanking their mugs together and digging into a pile of food laid out before them. They are dirt-smeared and sun-burnt, and the occasional burst of wind through the window carries the smell of sweat and musk in the direction of Tyrael’s table.

“I don’t like the ambiance,” Tyrael says. His stern expression slips toward pouting before he firms it up again.

Rathi laughs and chugs half her tankard in a single gulp. Her black, spiked hair flares briefly into a flicker of orange flame before dousing once more. “Seems perfect to me,” she says, and lets loose a resounding belch which prompts cheers from the distant table.

Rathi stands and takes a bow, a grin on her lips.

Tyrael sighs.

Celeste laughs and pokes her cousin in the shoulder. “Relax, Ty. Cyrillus isn’t going to mind if you spend an hour or two unwinding. He hasn’t said a thing about urgency, has he?”

“No,” Tyrael admits with sinking shoulders and dissatisfaction brewing across his brow. There’s been a lack of communication from his deity as of late, with every new direction drip-fed to them as if Cyrillus is unsure the path Tyrael needs to take.

It unsettles Tyrael.

It unsettles all of them.

Rathi drops into her chair, making it screech back a few inches with a noisy rapport. “Fine. If we’re not going to stay here, then where are we going to go?”

“The guard mentioned another place,” Tyrael says. He rolls his shoulders, readjusting the fall of his cloak – once an immaculate white, now stained with long weeks of travel.

“An expensive place,” Celeste says around a mouthful of stewed potatoes, one nearly escaping before she tucks it back between her lips. “But I guess Auntie gave you a pretty hefty pouch judging by the way you’ve been spending it.”

Tyrael gives his cousin a challenging look. “Some of the coin was my own, I’ll have you know.” He sniffs, nose lifted as if he’s well on his way to a snit. He reaches for his coin pouch, only to freeze. “Son of a--”

“What’s wrong?” Celeste asks. She sits up straighter, and brown eyes narrow with concern.

Tyrael’s eyes widen. He starts to search his person with a franticness he doesn’t usually display, hands patting over his armor, his underclothes, and into his belt-pouches.

“What’s the matter?” Rathi asks, dropping the empty bones onto the platter in front of her.

“My pouch. It’s gone.” Tyrael stands and yanks out his chair, scanning the floor around his seat, and peering under the table. “I didn’t drop it.” He slams his travel pack onto the table and starts rifling through it. “I can’t find it.”

Rathi wipes her hand on her pants. “I told you not to carry that thing in the open the way you do. I’ll bet you anything someone snagged it, you arrogant idiot.”

Celeste sweeps her hands through her hair and checks her own bags and pockets. “I still have mine,” she says after giving it a shake.

“So do I. Because I keep it out of sight like a smart person would do,” Rathi says. She stands, plants her hand on the edge of the table, and narrows her eyes, pointedly scanning the other patrons in the tavern. “Which one of these losers took it, do you think?”

“He probably dropped it. He’s always losing things,” Celeste says, and pats her own pouch. It remains in a pocket she’d carefully sewn on the inside of her robes, the first night they camped under the stars and she’d taken first watch. “Don’t worry. I can cover a night’s stay in a fancy inn, cousin. You’ll just owe me.”

“And then we’ll have to mercenary ourselves out in order to make enough money to keep traveling.” Rathi rolls her eyes and pounds her fist on the table, rattling the tableware. “No. We find Tyrael’s money and teach him a lesson at the same time.”

Tyrael sighs and scrubs his forehead, stress lines wrinkling his usually smooth, acorn-brown skin. “I am sitting right here. Do I not get a vote?”

Celeste stands, beginning to gather up her own belongings with quick actions while surreptitiously checking to make sure she has everything. “And how are we going to find it, do you think? I doubt it was anyone in here. I’m sure they’re long gone.”

Rathi spots an individual she decides is shifty enough. “I’m really good at asking questions. Back me up, and I’ll bet we can get answers quickly.” She grins, and there’s something predatory in the curve of her lips, as though their travel has been far too peaceful, and she’s aching for a fight.

“Or you can let me cast a spell,” Celeste points out. “I prepared it today thinking we might need it for the quest, and lo and behold, we do need it. Just not for the quest.”

“What is it?” Rathi asks.

“It helps me find a lost object, so long as we’re within a thousand feet of it,” Celeste says, and finally, she looks at her cousin directly. “I can’t look for the coin or the purse because they’re pretty standard, but is there something else in it, maybe?”

Tyrael nibbles on his bottom lip, and he stares at the table, perhaps fascinated by the stains in the wood. “I kept the diamond in a smaller pouch. You know the one.”

Celeste blinks before her eyes light with realization. “The one Elias made you years ago, right? I do remember this one.” She smiles and snaps her fingers. “Yes, I’m pretty sure I can find that.”

She closes her eyes and starts to concentrate, touching the symbol of Berenthas she wears as a clasp to her gray claok. She murmurs a few unintelligible words as a pale blue light crackles under her fingertips.

“Well?” Rathi prompts.

“It’s not here.” Celeste frowns and opens her eyes, a bit of blue flashing across the brown of her irises. “In this tavern, I mean.”

“No, it wouldn’t be.” Tyrael sighs and gathers up his belongings, sweeping his twisted hair over another shoulder. “I believe I know who may have taken it. How long does the spell last, Celeste?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Then we’d best hurry.”

Tyrael swings his satchel over his shoulder and strides for the door, an air of authority to his pace. Other patrons scurry out of his way, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of respect, perhaps because he’s wearing shiny armor and a scowl.

Rathi sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There are days I want to strangle him.”

“You get used to it,” Celeste sighs.

The two ladies gather the rest of their belongings and follow their irritated paladin out, leaving curious looks and whispers in their wake. Especially when Celeste pops back in at a rapid pace, leaves a handful of silver on the table, and vanishes out the door once more. A server sweeps by with impressive speed, scooping the silver before any of the patrons can take it for themselves.

Outside, Tyrael has started in a vaguely southward direction, pushing through the late afternoon crowd of citizens on their way home, or rushing to finish last-minute shopping. It’s a hazy afternoon, the air thick with humidity, the setting sun casting sharp rays of heat down on the populace. The sky turns shades of orange, and hints of cloud on the horizon suggest a late-season storm is about to strike.

“Care to share your little epiphany?” Rathi asks as she jogs up to Tyrael, easily dancing out of the way of a farmer carrying a crate of unsold cabbages.

"I think I know when it was taken," Tyrael says as Celeste catches up with them last, her head swinging left and right in an attempt to see if she can register the smallest ping of the item. "Do you remember the orc we encountered as we entered the bathhouse?"

"The rude one?" Celeste asks, wrinkling her nose.

"The one who almost knocked you over?" Rathi adds with a little laugh. "Aye, I remember."

"I'm sure he's the one who did it." Tyrael's hand clenches into a fist, before he audibly exhales and unfurls it. "It would have been the perfect opportunity for a pickpocket."

"Because you make the perfect target, honestly." Rathi rolls her eyes, but it's a good-natured teasing that runs up against Tyrael's irritation and hits a brick wall. It doesn't manage to earn her so much as a smile.

Celeste frowns, her brow furrowing. "You don't think he's still hanging around there, do you?"

"Why not? I would. Seems like a good place to make some ready coin." Rathi taps her chin as she contemplates. "Think about it. People come out of the bathhouse nice and relaxed, they're resettling their clothes, probably checking to make sure they have their possessions. Perfectly distracted. Perfectly obvious about where they keep their valuables."

"Were you a criminal in a past life?" Celeste asks.

Rathi laughs and nudges Celeste with an elbow. "No. Just a practical person."

"He either is or he isn't there. Either way, it's the best place to start looking." Tyrael huffs, and his face creases in an expression both women have learned meant business. "And there's a time limit on your spell."

"I can always cast it again tomorrow, cousin," Celeste reminds him, trying to rest a gentling hand on his shoulder, but anger rippling far too fierce around him. A bit of shame, too.

Tyrael has his pride. But then, they all do.

"He'll have spent it by then. Probably tossed the bag, too," Tyrael mutters, and the sharp ache of longing in his voice is not missed by either woman.

They both know it's not about the coin.

"We'll find him," Celeste says.

"I'm in the mood for a good fight," Rathi agrees. "Lead the way, TJ." She pauses and amends with a little nudge to Celeste. "With her help, I mean."

Tyrael would have rolled his eyes, if his anger and agitation had not been so absolute.

They plunge into the late afternoon, cloaked in humidity and the stench of unwashed bodies, wandering animals, and drying mud rising into the air. It's a slog, venturing from the northern side of the town to the other.

Tyrael leads the way, until Celeste stops mid-stride, her head cocked as if listening. It takes a moment for Rathi to realize Celeste has fallen behind, and she grabs Tyrael’s arm, yanking him back toward his cousin.

Strangers mill around Celeste, tossing her annoyed glances. Arcane energy flashes across her symbol to Berenthas. She tilts her head a different direction and smiles.

"What is it?" Rathi whispers as if too much noise might break Celeste’s concentration.

"I think I found it," Celeste says, and her eyes pop open, a brilliant blue ring gleaming around her brown irises. Her head turns slowly to the left, down a narrow alley between two wood structures. "This way."

"You're sure?" Rathi asks.

"Of course she's sure." Tyrael pushes past them, not rudely, but with purpose, his cape flapping with his long strides. "Celeste is always sure."

They follow him into the alley, which reeks of refuse and urine and excrement. It deposits them on the other side of the thoroughfare. Celeste's head swings again as if following some invisible thread, and she turns them to the left.

"We're getting closer," she says, a spring in her step and her lips curved into a wide grin.

Tyrael's nose wrinkles. "Yes, I can tell." He pauses as they emerge from the alley, casting a quick glance around.

They've found a poorer section of the city. The structures here are less stable, crumbling and rotting in their foundations. They're squat, single-storey buildings, with few windows and faded wood doors with latches rather than handles. Chickens wander, though staying to the shadows, and the trio swears hungry canines watch from beneath dilapidated crates and water barrels.

"If I was a criminal, I'd hide here," Rathi says. "With all the other criminals."

"We don't know for sure everyone who lives here is a criminal," Celeste says. She leans to the left, where the crooked row of homes continue. "Just the one we're chasing."

"We're not here for a philosophical debate," Tyrael says.

He plunges into the people swarming the narrow road, the crowds much thicker than they'd been a few streets over. The space is made worse by the pop-up stalls choking the sides of the street with vendors shouting their wares, desperate to make some sales before the end of the day.

For now, they are ignored, though Rathi and Celeste both spy a few vendors who may need further investigation later.

Celeste takes the lead, the pulse of the object getting stronger and louder as they grow closer, until she finds herself outside a shack. The door is shut, and there's a single window out front.

"It's in there," she says as her medallion gives a short flash before darkening. She draws in a little gasp of air and shakes her head. "I'm sure of it."

"Then so is our quarry." Tyrael frowns, surveying the shack in a quick glance. It’s unimpressive. It’s a hovel, really. "We can either go in violently or quietly."

Celeste lays a hand on Tyrael's arm, giving him a gentle squeeze. "Perhaps quietly. If he lives in such an area, his thievery might not be a matter of greed."

"That and we really don't want to raise a stink. This isn't our town." Rathi scratches the side of her nose, both eyebrows lifted pointedly. "Niceness works better than force sometimes."

Tyrael sighs. He eyes the door -- rickety, won’t take more than a good kick to break -- and creeps up to the window instead.

“Be lookout,” he mutters.

The two women immediately turn and scan the area. They’ve gained more than a few curious looks. They are too finely dressed and too well-armed to belong in this section of Datum.

Tyrael gathers himself and peers in the window. Though window is a strong word, it better resembles a hole in the wall. Attempts have been made to seal it, with tanned leathers tacked into place and rags stuffed into the smaller holes around it, but the patch isn't perfect, granting Tyrael a narrow view of the interior.

Small. Single room. A haphazard pile of crates and barrels against the far wall, but no other exits.Two hay-stuffed mattresses on the floor probably serve as beds. One pack sat open on the floor, its contents falling out in a messy spill. There’s a cooking area with a nearby chair, and he immediately spies the orc standing over a woodfire stove. Behind him is a halfling, perched in a chair, legs tucked up beneath them.

Perhaps there’s something to Celeste’s mutter about poverty being an impetus rather than greed.

It takes a moment, but Tyrael picks up some of the conversation while blocking out the ambient noise in his other ear.

"--new boots. I can't keep patching up the ones you're wearing. They're past the point of saving," the orc says in a patient tone Tyrael has never heard from one of their ilk. Especially not when speaking to a being smaller and potentially weaker than itself. Of course, this orc’s skin tone is a gradiated blue, while Tyrael has only ever heard of those with green or amber skin.

"But I've had these boots since I left home. I don't want to get rid of them," the halfling grumbles in a tone a wise person would probably call a whine, if they are being generous.

The orc cuts through a piece of fruit as if it were butter, making perfectly even slices. "There are more patches in the soles than material, Tempest. You need new boots."

Tempest, apparently, huffs but settles down in her chair with the sort of lazy sprawl of a child, though it's obvious she's an adult. “We don’t have to spend the coin. We can steal new boots.”

“No. You’re getting a pair made for you,” Dakota says, and something about his tone gives the implication that an argument will no longer be accepted.

Tempest rocks in the chair and rolls her eyes. “Fine. What’s for dinner?”

Tyrael steps back from the window, missing Dakota’s reply. He’s unsettled, and he knows it must show on his face because Celeste leans in toward him.

“Well?” she prompts.

“There are two. The orc and a halfling,” Tyrael whispers, finding his great sword and brushing the hilt of it.

Celeste narrows her eyes, and the look she gives her cousin is incisive, down to the marrow. “A halfling,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the word. She looks over her shoulder,where Rathi has taken to chatting up one of the nearby vendors. Otherwise, it doesn’t seem like anyone has called the guard on their loitering. “What’s the plan then?”

“We get my money pouch back. Hopefully without bloodshed,” Tyrael says. “There are only two of them.”

“Hmm.” Celeste leans back, her expression troubled.

Rathi returns, clutching a small, wrapped cloth, which she offers both of them. “Want some? It was the end of the day, so I got a good deal.” The smell of cinnamon and sugar float to their noses, and Tyrael’s stomach grumbles appreciatively.

“You sure know the way to a woman’s heart.” Celeste grabs a handful of the roast almonds, shoving at least three in her mouth and talking around them. “TJ says there are only two of them. He thinks we should just barge in and demand the coin back.”

Rathi rolls her shoulders. “Sounds good to me.” She offers the wrapped nuts to Tyrael. “I don’t share often. Last chance,” she warns.

Tyrael sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we focus, please?”

"I'm focused. I'm waiting on your cue," Celeste says around another mouthful of roasted almonds, some of the cinnamon clinging to the corner of her lips.

Rathi stifles a laugh behind her hand and dumps the rest of the nuts into a side pouch, dusting her palm off on her pants. "Right. Let's go." She gestures toward the door and bows. "After you, sir."

Tyrael squares his shoulders, sweeps his cape over one shoulder, and strides right up to the door, pounding on it with a fist.

"Yeah. That's subtle," Celeste says out of the corner of her mouth.

Rathi steps up to the window, peering through the same hole Tyrael had used earlier. It takes her a moment, but she soon finds the orc near the stove. The halfling isn't in sight. The orc looks tense, glaring toward the door, one hand gripping a knife. He points toward a corner Rathi can't see.

"I don't think they're going to--"

Wham!

Tyrael kicks the door, snapping through the weak latch with a single, powerful kick. It bursts open, splintering noisily, and Rathi jerks back from the window.

"Was that really necessary?" Celeste asks as Tyrael storms into the home, leaving Celeste and Rathi to crowd in after him, Rathi casting a glance over her shoulder.

Surprisingly, they haven't drawn much attention besides a few sidelong glances. No one screams or runs or stands around and stares.

"All I want are my belongings," Tyrael declares, brandishing his great sword with evident menace. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want anything but what you took from me."

"Tempest, stand down," the orc hisses, and from a corner, the halfling growls, her hands wrapped around an axe-bladed polearm, a glaive, which is nearly as long as she is tall. Her eyes glitter with restrained anger.

"They broke down our door!" Tempest snaps.

"You stole from my cousin," Celeste retorts as she takes a quick glance around the room, but finds no one else inside, and rather paltry living conditions. "And it's clear you could use the coin, but that's still no excuse."

“It’s not actually our door,” Tempest says after a moment. “I mean, we’re renting this place, but I guess that means we’re not getting our deposit back.”

The orc hisses. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve stolen from a lot of people. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“A leather pouch,” Tyrael growls, his grip tightening on the pommel of his sword. “There was over thirty platinum in it and a smaller pouch inside. It’s embroidered with green thread and Sylvan writing.”

Tempest squeaks. “What kind of idiot are you?”

“I’ve been telling him that for weeks,” Rathi drawls from the doorway. She looks bored as she leans against the open frame, the door hanging crooked nearby. “So be a dear and give it back before things have to turn violent.” She closes her hand into a fist, audibly cracking her knuckles.

"I remember that pouch," says the halfling, her grip loosening on her weapon, the tension in her body visibly easing. "That's our best haul yet."

The orc sighs again. "You're not helping."

Tempest huffs. "Am I supposed to lie, Dakota?"

"Obviously!"

Tyrael takes another step into the room, his heavy boots clomping noisily and an unsettling creak of old wood rising beneath him. He shifts to the left, where the floor seems more stable. "Return the pouch, and we'll leave without notifying the local law enforcement."

"Those idiots don't care," Tempest says with a snort.

Celeste grins, her hand dropping from her maul and tension vanishing from her stance as well. "I like you, halfling. It's a shame we met in such circumstances."

"I'm easy to love." Tempest winks.

Dakota growls and slams the knife into the cutting board, point first. "I ought to keep this coin, since you were fool enough to advertise it." He rifles under the table and produces a pack, which he slams on the counter, beginning to dig through it.

Tyrael's face goes through a myriad of expressions before he settles on haughty. "You are a thief. You have no right to my property."

"How'd you find it anyway?" Tempest asks, climbing up onto a nearby crate and turning it into a makeshift chair. "And find us?"

"None of your--"

"Magic," Rathi says from the doorway, over Tyrael's angry retort. She pushes off, venturing further into the room, poking at one of the empty, rotting barrels.

Celeste lifts a hand and wriggles her fingers. "Was easy once I knew Tyrael had kept it in his special pouch, one handsewn with so much love."

"Shut up," Tyrael hisses, and the tips of his ears burn.

The storm on Dakota's face calms. His gaze softens, and he searches the bag with less violence now, flipping open a side flap to produce the leather pouch.

"If it's so important, you should keep it somewhere safer," Dakota grunts as he tosses the pouch in Tyrael's direction.

Tyrael catches it with ease, his thumb scrubbing over the stitching on the outside, recognizing it as his pouch. It feels lighter, however, and he frowns. "There seems to be some missing."

Celeste rolls her eyes. "Come on, cousin. You can spare a few platinum." She claps Tyrael on the shoulder, but directs her next comment to the two thieves. "Keep whatever you nicked. We got what was important."

"The coin is important," Tyrael mutters as he draws open the string and peers inside, doing a quick count. Only about twenty-five platinum remains. Still a large sum in its own right, but not what he'd had left. The other pouch nestles in the bottom, and he gives it a poke.

The diamond, also, is still present.

"We can sleep in an inn that's slightly less reputable. It's no big deal." Rathi toes at one of the mattresses on the floor and a bug comes skittering out. She recoils. "At least we're not sleeping here."

"Actually, it's the vermin you can't see that you really gotta worry about," Tempest says with a grin.

Tyrael squeezes his pouch, indecision writ across his face before he sighs. "Fine." He shoves the pouch into his pocket, into the deepest part of it he can manage. "Let's get out of here."

He turns toward the door with a dramatic twirl of his cloak while Celeste and Rathi exchanged amused glances behind him before Celeste falls in step behind her cousin.

"Well, this was fun," Rathi says, backing away from the questionable mattress. "We should do it again sometime."

Dakota's eyes narrow. "Get out."

"If you're still in town, we should have a drink later," Tempest offers, the barrel creaking ominously beneath her.

"You're my kind of lady." Rathi winks. "Sounds good." She backs toward the door, only to back up straight into Celeste, who'd come to a stop because Tyrael had. "Hey, what gives?"

Shapes darken the doorway ahead of Tyrael, stepping in through the broken frame, dressed in dark browns and blacks, hooded cloaks with masks over their lower faces. Their hands are gloved, their feet enclosed in supple leathers, making their steps whisper-soft.

Only the woman in front, a scar running jagged across her face, puckering her bottom lip, has her face visible. Her hair is close cropped to her head, a swathe of auburn to match the russet of her skin. She seems human, but only at first glance.

"Well," she says as she strides inside, her brown eyes sweeping through the room. "What do we have here?"

Tyrael forces his companions a few steps back into the hovel, but goes no further. "Move aside, please," he says. "We have business outside of this shack."

The woman's gaze slides his way. "Good for you." Her grin widens, head tilting as her own companions slip in behind her, half-dozen cloaked figures of indeterminable age, gender, and race. "Unfortunately, you'll have to deal with our business first."

"We have no business with you," Celeste says, her eyes narrowing. "We don't know who you are."

Rathi squeezes Celeste's arm and leans in to whisper, "We're not meant to know them. They're the Guild."

"What Guild?" Celeste asks, too loud to qualify as a whisper.

"The Thieves Guild," Dakota answers before Rathi can. "And these people have no quarrel with you, Saorse. They aren't with me either. So let them out."

Saorse clicks her tongue and sidles around Tyrael, looking him up and down. "Oh, we have quarrel all right. That shiny armor. Those lovely boots. These gleaming gems. They came to the wrong place, dressed like this." She smiles, though it doesn't lift the scarred lip. "They'll have to pay a toll if they want to pass unharmed."

Tyrael sneers. "I've paid enough to thieves today. If you want my toll, take it from your kind." He jerks his head in Dakota's direction. "He's got ten platinum off me at least."

"Damn it," Dakota mutters.

Saorse's eyebrows raise. "Dakota." She draws out the syllables and steps closer to the orc. "Is that true? Have you thieved from these poor travelers?"

Dakota steps back behind the table, hands bracing on the counter, near to the knife. "Well, you know how it is, lovely. I just can't help myself sometimes."

"Oh, sweetheart. We talked about this," Saorse's tone can best be described as a simper. She stands before the table, reaching across it to pull the knife free without an ounce of effort. "You want to thieve on my turf, you have to join my crew. And did you?"

"No." Dakota's lips thin.

Saorse's smile isn't genuine. "No, you didn't." She flicks the knife up, the tip of it pressing to the underside of his jaw. "Now, I've given you one warning. This time, I think I'll need something more than the paltry fine you paid last time."

"There. Your quarrel is with them," Tyrael says into the growing tension. "Let us pass."

Saorse's gaze flicks over her shoulder. "Our business isn't concluded, paladin. There's still a toll to discuss."

"We're not paying any fee." Rathi squares her shoulders, her hand pulling into a fist. Her hair flickers to that of orange fire, her eyes flashing with arcane energy. "So move out of the way."

"Why do we always resort to violence?" Celeste sighs as she reaches for her maul, wrapping her fingers around the shaft but not drawing it yet. "Can't we ever just talk things out?"

"Diplomacy is no tactic of the guild," Dakota says, and he glares despite the dagger tip pressed to his jugular.

Saorse chuckles. "Because we have no need of it." The knife bites into the bottom of Dakota's jaw, drawing blood. "I'll have my fee now. And I won't take 'no' for an answer."

"Tch. Saorse, we don't need him," one of the robed figures says in a low hiss, the voice vaguely masculine and filled with disgust. "Halfers like him are no use to us."

Tempest bristles like a cat, her glaive flying to her grip. "What did you call him?" She growls, and her hazel eyes darken with stormy intent.

"Tempest, let it go," Dakota says.

“No.” She glares at the individual who’d spoken, and rage rises around her in a seemingly tangible wave of physical threat. “No one talks about you like that.”

“Try and stop me, half-pint,” the individual challenges.

Dakota sighs and his brow wrinkles. “Shit.”

Tempest growls and charges, her glaive swinging through the air, and while her target tries to scramble out of the way, he trips on his own robes, stalling his retreat. Tempest slashes him across the chest, the sharp odor of blood filling the air as it spills from the deep cut.

“Don’t you ever talk about Dakota that way,” Tempest hisses and bares her teeth, eyes flashing with rage.

The individual’s hood flicks back, revealing a human male with slitted eyes -- part Lamina perhaps, who clutches at his chest, blood pooling over his fingers.

“You cut me!” His mouth opens in surprise.

“I’ll do more if you don’t shut your trap,” Tempest snaps.

“That was uncalled for!” Saorse’s dagger bites into Dakota’s bottom lip. “We could have ended this peacefully, but I see that’s not in the cards tonight. A pity.”

Dakota snatches her wrist, shoving her hand and the dagger away, though it leaves a thin scrape behind. “Get the fuck out of my shack.”

There’s a moment where violence might have been avoided. Where Tyrael could have invoked his diplomatic tendencies, could have handed over coin, or where Dakota could have possibly smoothed things over, albeit surrendering himself in a way he didn’t desire.

However, that moment is quickly shattered when the half-lamina individual withdraws two daggers from his robes and flings both at Tempest, determined to have his revenge. One misses and lands with a thud in the wall behind Dakota. The other cuts across Tempest’s cheek, right as she leaps at him again, glaive swinging in a wide arc.

He goes down beneath her weight, blood filling the air.

After that, it’s anarchy.

Tyrael makes a break for the door, but two robed individuals step in his way, forcing him to draw his sword as Rathi and Celeste press against him, back to back to back.

“So, we’re fighting?” Rathi asks as magic crackles on her fingertips and her hair flashes gold-orange, lips pulled back in a feral grin.

“Once again, diplomacy has failed,” Celeste says, but she’s gripping her maul, eyes narrowed in determination, facing down against the largest of the robed figures. He must be some flavor of orc beneath that dark clothing.

She’s faced larger.

"This isn't going to end well for you, Dakota," Saorse snarls with narrowed eyes.

"It rarely does," Dakota sighs and steps back, out of the range of her dagger, aiming for the relative safety of the table.

The quarters are tight, the shack barely large enough to hold five fully grown persons, much less a dozen people of various shapes and sizes, all wielding weapons or flinging magic.

"Kill them all!" Saorse shouts. "We'll take the toll from their corpses!"

Dakota picks up a chair, flinging it at Saorse, forcing her to duck and backpedal. In her distraction, he flips up the table, using it as a shield. "Tempest! Get back here!"

"Busy!" the halfling shouts back, spinning her glaive in a wide, deadly arc, catching the shoulder of one enemy and slicing the back of another.

"We have no quarrel with you," Tyrael says as he parries one thrust of a short sword and drives his opponent back, slamming them into a wall with a sickening thud. "Let us through!"

Crackling orange flame lights up the interior, imploding into the chest of a robed figure before it can stab Tyrael from behind. "Don't think they're listening," Rathi says, and flings herself backward, avoiding the wild swing of a dagger with a jagged blade, poisoning glistening on the tip.

Celeste blocks a meaty fist with her shield, though the force of the blow drives her back, into one of the rickety barrels. She grits her teeth and swings her mace directly at the arm, bone shattering beneath the force of the blow.

Her opponent howls and rears back, gripping their arm, and Celeste presses her advantage, cracking her mace against their left knee, forcing them down.

She leaps over their prone form and barrels into the back of a robed individual who's aiming for Tempest's unprotected side, using her momentum and shield to take them both down to the ground in a messy heap.

"Tempest!" Dakota roars as he twists to avoid a flung dagger, but is too slow to avoid the second, which slices through his side. He pulls out a short sword, swinging wildly at the robed person advancing on him, Saorse creeping around the other side with a sword in hand.

"Head for the door!" Tyrael bellows as he tosses an opponent over his shoulder and makes a rush for the splintered wood which had once functioned as a door.

Fire erupts in the doorway, blocking off their escape. One of the robed figures casts her hood back and grins at them with crooked teeth to match her crooked nose, and a smattering of freckles across her pale cheeks.

"No one's leavin' unless the master says so!" she declares, hands spread outward, a physical block as well as the arcane fire crackling behind her.

Tyrael swings at her, and his sword clangs against an arcane shield, spitting sparks. He growls, eyes narrowing. "I'll go through you if I must."

"Try it!"

Tyrael turns, but is too slow to avoid the shoulder slamming into his side, driving him off balance and into the wall. His other shoulder pops, sliding out of joint, and he grits his teeth, growling through the pain.

"Tyrael!"

Energy crackles through the air, slamming into Tyrael's foe, and the stench of burnt hair and fabric rises, filling the tiny interior of the shack. Rathi bounds into view, pouncing on the robed figure, a vicious backhand sending the individual skidding across the floor.

"You all right?" she asks, backing against him, slipping into a defensive stance.

"My shoulder," Tyrael grunts, and takes his sword with one hand, the tip dragging on the floor. "It's dislocated."

"We'll fix it later," Rathi says as two enemies crowd toward them. "We've got company."

Across the room, Dakota picks up a wobbly chair and flings it at one of his assailants, parrying Saorse's attack with his other hand. He backs toward the wall, near a wobbly stack of crates and barrels in various states of dilapidation.

"I'm less useful dead," Dakota says, as if trying for reason as the air fills thick with smoke from the fire.

"You're no use alive!" Saorse snaps and she dives at him, dagger whipping in an arc too fast to avoid, the tip catching Dakota around the clavicle.

He hisses as the blade bites deep, immediately drawing blood, and something dark and unearthly pulses in the wound. Dakota staggers, hits the stack of barrels with his shoulder, and Saorse smirks.

"Venus' Kiss," she says as she runs her finger along the flat of the blade. "My own special blend. The harder you fight, the faster you fall."

Dakota groans and paws at the crates, the barrels, yanking them down to shatter upon the floor. "Tempest, we have to go!" he shouts. He reels as his vision spins.

"In a minute!" the halfling retorts, but she steals a glance at Dakota, sees him cornered and stumbling, and her eyes flash. She whips her glaive around, blunt end smacking into the forehead of an opponent as she bends to scoop up her pack.

"Fuck," Tempest breathes, and spins her glaive again, tripping one of the Guild advancing on Celeste, knocking them to the ground. "You're welcome. Now follow me if you want to live."

Celeste blinks, her robes stained with soot. "What?"

"You heard me!" Tempest snaps and leaps over her downed foe, twisting to avoid the slice of a sword as she makes a beeline for Dakota, sword dipping in one hand, fingers of the other wrapped around a curtain of fabric hanging behind the barrel stack.

Celeste coughs, her lungs burning, her eyes tearing from the smoke. She stumbles after Tempest, and collides with Rathi, lugging Tyrael's sword as she shoves him in Dakota's direction, his face creased with pain.

"Door's a no go," Rathi says before she spins to avoid an attack, kicking out at the guildmember assaulting her. "We gotta get out of here before we suffocate."

Tempest's cry of rage rings through the small shack. She throws herself at Saorse, who dodges at the last minute, jerking away from Dakota to avoid the plunging attack of Tempest's glaive.

"You can't save him," Saorse says, her eyes glittering with menace. "He's already felt my sting."

"Then there's no reason to keep you alive, is there?" Tempest spits and launches herself at Saorse again, teeth bared in a feral rage.

Dakota paws at the barrels and crates again, shoving them aside until a full-length curtain comes into view. This he yanks down, and a shabby door is revealed. He bangs his shoulder against it, and the door flies open, dust billowing up around it.

“Time to go!” he snaps at Tempest.

“Aww, come on, I’m just getting started,” Tempest says as Saorse bears her backward, and she absorbs an elbow to the cheekbone with a sharp snap. Blood smears her lips, and she licks it away.

“Now!” Dakota surges forward, grabs Tempest’s arm, and yanks. She stumbles against him, tripping on an errant piece of battered barrel, and the clumsy motion is all that saves her from a dagger to the eye, as it whistles harmlessly past her head.

“Stop them!” Saorse shouts only to dissolve in a fit of coughing, forced to pull cloth over her mouth as smoke fills the air. “Anya, cut those flames now!”

“Got it!”

Celeste shoves Tyrael ahead of her, after Dakota disappearing out the door, Tempest tucked under one arm. “Follow them. Go. I’ll fix your arm later. Rathi--”

“Don’t worry about me.” Rathi grins as she fires two blasts of arcane energy into the approaching robed figures, gathering themselves together despite the trouncing they’ve already received. “I’ll take the rear.”

They flee into the evening, Dakota leading the way with a much-protesting Tempest tucked under his arm. The back door has dumped them into a wide alley, and Dakota heads in an eastward direction.

Tyrael pauses, thinking to break away from the thieves, but robed figures appear at the other end of the alley, and Tyrael spins on a heel to follow Dakota instead, Celeste and Rathi right behind him.

“By Fumus, how many of them are there?” Rathi asks, twisting to avoid a thrown dagger, and spinning to catch another, tucking it into her belt. She points her upraised middle finger at the thieves giving them chase.

“Too many,” Dakota says and sprints between another set of buildings, only to take a hard right at the last second, the other three struggling to keep up.

“Put me down!” Tempest demands.

“No,” Dakota says, and keeps running, plunging through late evening crowds, following some internal path no one else can fathom.

Dakota dives into a cluster of buildings with narrow alleys and dead-ends, a maze the likes of which would confuse anyone. "It's around here somewhere," he mutters.

"What are you looking for?" Tyrael demands, exasperated.

Tempest kicks her dangling feet. "There! Turn there!" she points wildly, and Dakota heeds her directions, careening into a southeast alley, sloping downward.

It splits in a vee, and Dakota takes the leftmost path, then an immediate right, which deadends. Or at least, it seems to. Dakota drops Tempest and immediately starts palming the door.

Tempest lands on her feet with cat-like reflexes and starts searching as well.

Rathi and Tyrael and Celeste catch up to them. "A dead end? Really? This is your plan?" Tyrael demands, his face creased with pain, clutching his dislocated shoulder.

"Found it!" Tempest says and presses one of the jutting stones, no more noticeable than the rest.

The wall shimmers, revealing a narrow passage into a dark unknown. Tempest darts into it, and Dakota throws a look over his shoulder.

"You got ten seconds," he growls before diving into the dark.

"Might as well," Rathi says before she charges in behind them, and the two cousins exchange a glance and follow suit.

Behind them, ten seconds after it first appeared, the wall shimmers and vanishes. It is now hidden from eyes of their pursuers. It plunges all five of them into darkness, Tyrael immediately stumbling at the lack of light, until Rathi grabs his arm to guide him.

“He always gets clumsy in the dark,” Celeste says, her voice rich with amusement.

“Because I can’t see,” Tyrael hisses. “And you shouldn’t be able to either, you weird half-cat.”

Celeste chuckles .

“Quiet!” Dakota snaps at them, scooping Tempest over his shoulder as she does not have dark-vision. “They can still hear through the wall.”

Five sets of jaws clamp shut. The hall slopes downward at an even gradient, until it dead ends at another door. Dakota sets Tempest on her feet and pulls a lockpick set from his sleeve, crouching to work the three locks built into the door.

Sounds float down to where they crowd against the door. Shouts, distant and angry, too far to be clear, but audible all the same.

“Hurry,” Tempest urges.

The tiniest of clicks echoes before the door swings inward, revealing another pitch-black room. Dakota enters first, hand clasped around Tempest’s. He holds the door open, gesturing for the other three to join him.

“Sure, we’ll go into your super-dark murder room,” Rathi mutters, but she hefts Tyrael up with her one hand and guides his feet inside, Celeste bringing up the rear.

Dakota closes the door behind them, throwing the deadbolts and slinging a heavy wooden bar into place.

“So we’re trapped in the dark. That really doesn’t sound like much of an improvement,” Tyrael says, his voice thick with pain.

“You’re welcome to go back out there and deal with it yourself,” Dakota mutters as he locates the lantern hanging by the door and lights the wick, spilling a weak, orange light.

It illuminates a small space, perhaps ten by fifteen feet, with boxes and crates and barrels lining the walls and bags left in haphazard stacks, further reducing the amount of floor space. There is all manner of things laying about as it is less a storehouse and more of a place for item to be concealed or to hide until the heat dies down.

Tyrael stands on his own, glares in Dakota’s direction. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you. I think I have right to complain.”

“Hey, keep your voice down.” Tempest pats herself down as though ensuring she hasn’t lost anything in their mad dash for freedom.

“We were hiding perfectly fine until you barged through my door,” Dakota snaps, stomping toward Tyrael with all the subtlety of a rampaging mastodon.

Tyrael lifts his chin, defiant in the face of an orc nearly two heads taller than him, though half again as broad. “I knocked. You didn’t answer. It’s not my fault you’re wanted by your own kind.” A look of distaste flickers across his face. “No honor amongst thieves, is that it?”

"This is your fault," Dakota growls, poking Tyrael's injured shoulder with a thick finger. "You strolled into the Narrows like an easy mark, broke down my door and made a ruckus. You drew their attention, not us!"

"Honestly, laying blame isn't going to help anyone," Rathi says as she examines her knuckles with a frown. "Though, he's got a point."

Tyrael's eyes narrow. "You stole from me. I wouldn't have been in the Narrows if I wasn't seeking what was rightfully mine."

"Who cares whose fault it is?" Tempest demands as she flops back onto the flour sacks, stirring a plume of dust. "The end result is the same. We're stuck here until they stop looking."

Celeste smacks Dakota's hand and tugs Tyrael away from him. "I still need to heal that. Stop making it harder for me.”

"You two may have earned their anger, but we haven't," Tyrael says as Celeste plants him on a barrel and starts prodding at the shoulder. "We're leaving as soon as I can grip a sword."

Dakota rolls his eyes and throws his hands into the air. "Ishar save me from the wealthy," he grumbles before he points at them again. "Saorse owns half of Datum. By now, the whole city is crawling with her people, and you're marked as sure as we are."

"How are you so sure we're safe here then?" Rathi asks as she scrubs some dirt from her knuckles onto her pants.

"Paion is a friend," Dakota says while Tempest giggles and rubs the back of her hand over her mouth, wiping away some of the drying blood. "She also hates Saorse. They have something of a rivalry."

"Great. We're in the middle of a turf war," Celeste says as warm bluish energy spills from her fingers into Tyrael's shoulder. "Paion owns the other half of Datum, I assume."

"What were you doing in the Narrows if they're Saorse's territory?" Tyrael asks. "That sounds suspicious to me. And if you're aligned with Paion, why does Saorse want you so badly?"

Dakota drags a piece of burlap over and sits down on it, curling his legs beneath him. "You ask a lot of questions, paladin. I don't have to answer them."

"Because Paion is a smuggler, and that's not what we do," Tempest says as she digs in her bag and produces a handful of trail rations, popping some into her mouth. "So we gotta sneak around Saorse's territory instead."

"Tempest!" Dakota snaps.

She shrugs. "It's not like it's a secret. What's the use hiding?"

Dakota glares in her direction and plops his travel sack down in front of him, starting to rummage through it. There’s a slump to his shoulders, despite his aggravation, and in the small space, his breathing echoes abnormally loud.

Rathi grins and drops down next to Tempest. "I like you," she says. "What'cha got there and are you willing to share?"

"It’s pretty old, but if you don't mind it stale, have at it." Tempest offers the pouch, and Rathi digs in.

"I'm not picky." Rathi talks around a mouthful of the trail rations and produces a wrinkled paper from her pocket. "I have some cinnamon nuts."

"Oooo. I love those!" Tempest's eyes light up.

Dakota sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "We should leave before dawn. Paion's got underground routes all throughout the city. Once everything has died down, I’ll get us out of here."

"Us?" Tyrael echoes, wincing as a sharp pop indicates Celeste shoving his shoulder back into socket, following it up with a soothing wave of blue energy.

"Well, you can do whatever the fuck you want," Dakota snaps. He yanks a roll of bandages out of his pack, gesturing with them. "Stay here for all I care. Leave now and face Saorse. But Tempest and I are getting out of here."

"It's better to stick with us. We've been getting in and out of Datum for months," Tempest says around a mouthful of masticated tree nuts.

Celeste pats Tyrael on his undamaged shoulder and rises, picking her way across the dim floor to Rathi's side. "What my cousin means to say is 'thank you' for helping us," she says as she kneels next to Rathi. "Come on. Show me the wound. I know they nicked you."

"Pah. It's a scratch," Rathi says.

"Dakota's hurt," Tempest points out, and she stares in her companion's direction. "Saorse got him with her poison."

"I'm fine," Dakota grunts but his sallow skin and shallow breathing suggests otherwise. He’s not looking at them, instead prodding at his side with barely concealed winces. It’s too dim to see anything but the dampness of his tunic, though blood is the likely culprit.

Celeste frowns and approaches Dakota, albeit like one might approach a wild animal. "I didn't bring that today. I didn't think we'd be getting in a fight." She nibbles on her bottom lip and crouches next to him. "Do you know what kind of poison it is?"

"The deadly kind, I wager." Dakota's gaze flickers to the clasp of her cloak, and the symbol glittering when it catches the dim torch light. "Who do you serve?"

"Berenthas." Celeste reaches for him, but Dakota flinches back. "Can I see?"

Dakota sighs and lifts his tunic, showing the thin slice sluggishly seeping blood, and the spidery lines of black radiating out from it. "Poisons are Saorse's specialty. I probably don't have long."

"Tyrael, can you--"

Tyrael hauls himself to his feet and stands over Dakota. "Think you can bear my touch long enough to get that poison out? I can only do this once a day, so don't let it be a waste."

Dakota shifts with a grunt, dropping his tunic back down. "Who do you serve?"

"Cyrillus." Tyrael draws a necklace from behind his chestplate, the swirling symbol of Cyrillus etched in the silver metal.

"I don't know him," Dakota says.

"Few do." Tyrael holds out a hand, waits for Dakota to reach back. "He's an old god."

"I can stomach old." Dakota clasps his hand with Tyrael's, and purplish arcane energy swells between them, crawling out from Tyrael's hand and into Dakota's.

The orc shudders, eyelids fluttering, and he lets go of Tyrael with a relieved sigh. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Tyrael steps back, finds the crate which has served as his seat before, and sinks back down into it. "How long do you think we need to wait?"

"As long as it takes." Dakota lifts his tunic, fingers palpating the wound. He’s still bleeding, but the spidery lines of black have vanished. “Saorse can be tenacious when there's something she wants, but she's not keen on crossing Paion either. They have history."

Tyrael's brow furrows. "History?"

"They’re lesbians, Tyrael," Tempest says with a grin.

Dakota sighs. It seems to be usual for him.

"Ahh, the classic tale of a lover scorned." Rathi leans back, making herself comfortable on the pallet of flour sacks. "Guess I'll take a nap then. Wake me if there's a ruckus."

Tempest shoves the last handful of candied nuts into her mouth, wiping away the crumbs with the back of her hand. "I'm always down for a nap. Mind if we share?"

"Hey, my flour sack is your flour sack." Rathi pops open one eye as she folds her arm behind her head. "You're not going to stab me in my sleep, are you?"

"No, but I might kick you," Tempest says. "Totally unintentionally. I wander in my sleep according to Dakota. I broke his nose once." She giggles.

Celeste rests a hand on Dakota’s shoulder. “I can help with the rest,” she says, and it’s both offer and question.

Dakota nods. “I have no quarrel with Berenthas.”

“Is there someone you do have a quarrel with?” Celeste asks as blue light spills from her fingers and flows over Dakota’s body, focusing mostly on the cut in his side, but filling him everywhere.

Dakota frowns. “That’s my business.” He cuts her a look, softening the blow with, “I appreciate the help.”

“It’s what I do.” Celeste smiles and stands, the blue light fading away. “You should get some rest. If that poison is as terrible as you say, you’ll need to recover your strength.”

“Hey, Tempest,” Rathi says, though her eyes are closed and her face is slack with the prelude to sleep. “What was all that about? You know, the halfie comment.”

Tempest’s face scrunches in a sneer. “Small-minded people who ain’t got no business runnin’ their mouths deserve to get stabbed.”

Rathi’s eyes pop open. “Wow. Really?”

Dakota scrubs at his forehead. “It was in reference to me,” he says and drops his tunic, gesturing to himself, his visible tusks, his obvious features. “I’m not full-orc, not that I’m half-orc either. Doesn’t matter. They were insulting me.”

“And I’m not about that,” Tempest says, her eyes flashing with anger. “No one insults Dakota.”

“You got a fierce protector here,” Rathi says with a grin. “I’m kind of jealous.”

“You should be.” Tempest laughs and wriggles around on their makeshift sleeping pad, kneeing Rathi in the hip as she did so. “Oops. Sorry.”

“No worries, Pest.”

“Ooo. A nickname. I like it. Dakota, why haven’t you given me a nickname yet?”

Rathi chuckles.

Tyrael rolls his eyes at their antics and moves stiffly as he rummages around in his pack, pulling out a sheaf of paper and some ink. He unrolls a half-finished letter to Elias, though the light is very poor, and he has to squint to see what he’s written so far.

“Writing to Elly?” Celeste asks as she sits next to him and peers over his shoulder.

Tyrael shifts to block her view of the paper. “We have a long wait ahead of us apparently. Why don’t you try and find something to do that doesn’t involve bothering me?”

Celeste rolls her eyes. “Well, aren’t you in a pissy mood.” She turns away from her cousin and rifles in her bag, pulling out one of the few books she’d thought to bring with her -- a collection of fairy tales. “I’ll just read then.”

“That’s for the best.” Tyrael turns further away from her and hunches over his paper.

He’s been working on this for weeks, but as always, he finds the words difficult. The things he wants to say, they aren’t appropriate in a letter, and how much he misses Elias feels like a betrayal to the promise he gave Cyrillus.

“So why are you guys in Datum anyway?” Tempest asks, wriggling around again, nearly kneeing Rathi in the back this time.

Rathi hums. “You’ll have to ask Tyrael for the details, but best I can say, it’s because his god told us to be here. He’s just waiting for the next sign.”

"Wait." Tempest sits up and crosses her legs beneath her, propping her elbow on one knee and her chin on her palm. "You’re on a quest you know nothing about?"

"Pretty much."

Tempest blinks and looks over at Tyrael, though he seems quite focused on the paper balanced carefully on his lap. "What’s up with your quest, man?" she asks, but gets no answer.

"He really doesn't know," Rathi says, but she doesn't sound bothered by it. "Meanwhile, I'm out here looking for adventure, and if I'm really lucky, I'll run into my brother, too. What about you?"

"I'm a wanderer. It's what I do." Tempest grins, her eyes glittering. "No worries. No responsibilities. Just fun and adventure that's far, far from home."

"What's wrong with home?" Celeste asks, looking up from her book. She finds conversation far more interesting than a story she’s read a dozen times.

She’s had enough of spending her life with her nose in a book.

"Nothing!" Tempest says, and her voice squeaks a little as the tips of her ears burn. "I love home. Home is great. I just, you know, don't want to stay there for the rest of my life."

Dakota snorts and pulls a tunic from his bag. He examines a rip in the seam, and doesn’t look up at Tempest. "Don't want to or can't?” he asks as a needle and thread join the swirl of fabric in his lap.

"Well..." Tempest trails off and starts poking at her boot, worming her finger into the visible hole. "Little bit of both maybe. But it's not my fault Mr. Grierson keeps storing his cabbages in the wrong places. Honestly. You’d think he wants them to be crushed."

Rathi laughs. "This is a story I have to hear." She peers at Tempest, and both eyebrows lift. "If you keep poking at it, the hole is only going to get bigger."

"Because she needs new ones," Dakota says with an audible sigh. He mends the tunic with ease, hands practiced and sure. "We'll work on it Rumsfell."

"These are fine," Tempest insists, indignant. "They're still on my feet, and really, it's only a problem when it rains, or just rained, or we have to wade through a river or--"

"It's a problem," Dakota says, his tone flat. He cuts the thread on a tusk and ties it off, holding up the tunic to examine it. There's another tear on a sleeve, so he gets back to work. "You're getting new boots."

Tempest twists her jaw. "I like these boots," she grumbles. "Cloud made them for me."

"Who's Cloud?" Celeste asks.

"One of my sisters. My favorite one probably." Tempest grins and keeps poking at the hole in her boot. "She gave me these boots when I turned sixteen, and I've had them ever since."

Dakota pauses in the midst of threading his needle. "You didn't tell me that."

"Well, I mean, who brings up their footwear in casual conversation?" Tempest asks with a massive shrug.

Dakota's shoulders hunch, and he curves back over the tunic. "We'll get them fixed. I'm sure someone in Rumsfell can do it."

"You could always take them back home. To your sister," Rathi points out.

"Nah. I'm a free spirit," Tempest says, and Rathi's forehead crinkles with confusion, but Tempest barrels right into a new topic. "So Mr. Paladin, what's your god want from you anyway?"

Tyrael glances up from his letter, blinking owlishly in the dim light from the lantern. "At the moment, I’m not sure. He needs me to retrieve something, but what it is and why, he has yet to share."

Dakota makes a derisive noise. "Yeah, that sounds like the gods all right. Never a straight answer, but they're happy to pull our strings when they see fit."

"I'll bet it's important," Tempest says. "Quests usually are. Maybe there's something bad coming. Or maybe there's someone you need to save." Her eyes light up. "Maybe you need to save the whole world."

Tyrael shakes his head. "Oh, no. I don't think it's that dire."

"But it could be," Tempest says.

"It's not outside the realm of possibility," Celeste adds with a thoughtful look, one hand pressed between the pages of her book, saving her place. "Berenthus says there's a lot of whispering and stirring amongst the gods right now."

Tempest's eyes widen. "Your god talks to you?"

"When he feels like it." Celeste shifts as if uncomfortable. "He's chattier than most, from what I hear, though mysterious, too."

"Most gods are," Dakota mutters.

"I want to go on a quest," Tempest sighs, her eyes alight with curiosity. She drums her fingers on her cheek. "I'll bet you'll fight all sorts of monsters and find all kinds of treasure and the stories you'll come home with! They would make Storm so jealous."

Rathi taps her arm where it ends in a puckered, dark scar. "Quests don't always end well, kiddo. Sometimes, ya gotta pay a price."

"That's the point. Quests aren't supposed to be safe." Tempest rolls her eyes and frowns at Rathi. "Also, not a kid. I'm a halfling, which means I'm short, not young."

"You're right. I'm sorry. 'Pest' still okay?"

Tempest grins. "Kind of nostalgic actually. My eldest sister, Blizzara, used to call me that all the time. Says I was always underfoot."

"Pest it is then." Rathi holds out her hand, and the two shake on it. "Nice to meet you despite the circumstances."

"I had fun. I don't know about the rest of you." Tempest licks at the corner of her mouth, where a cut lingers from the fight.

"That was not fun," Tyrael says.

"It was a little bit," Rathi counters. "Learn to unclench, TJ, sheesh. It's amazing Elias ever got anywhere with you. Did you manage to relax at all?"

Tyrael's eyes widen. Celeste breaks into giggles, hiding her face behind her book.

"That's-- that's none of your business!" Tyrael splutters.

Tempest laughs. "You guys are hilarious. I'll bet you make travel fun." She blinks and tilts her head. "Hey, why don't Dakota and I travel with you? It's not like we have anything to do, and bigger groups are safer."

Dakota stands and brings the tunic over to Tempest, dropping it on her head. "That's a ridiculous idea, Tempest. We're fine on our own."

"Yeah, we're fine, but they have a quest. A real quest!" Tempest fumbles with the tunic, balling it up to a fist in her lap, her jaw twisting with determination. "Doesn't that sound way more fun?"

"He doesn't even know what his quest is," Dakota retorts, rolling his eyes. He stomps back to his crate and drops down onto it. "And I don't play fetch for gods."

Tyrael snorts. "You aren't invited anyway. I don't need your help, or your lack of faith."

"See? It's settled." Dakota waves his hand in a flick at Tyrael. "They don't want us, and as soon as it's clear, we're all going our separate ways."

Tempest's lower lip juts out. "It's not settled just because you say it is."

"Dakota your boss?" Rathi asks.

Tempest rolls her eyes. "Absolutely not. No one is my boss. I'm a free spirit."

"Then you can come with us if you want. Don't let him stop you." Rathi grins and tilts her head at Tyrael. "He only thinks he's the boss. He doesn't get a say either."

Tempest twists her jaw and looks at Dakota, who's taken out his knitting and started to focus on the never-ending scarf. "He's not my boss, but he is my friend, and I'm pretty sure I'm his only friend. He'd be lost without me."

"If you want to go, don't let me stop you," Dakota mutters, but he doesn't lift his head, and gives no other sign he's listening in on their conversation.

Secrecy is impossible in the small quarters.

Tempest frowns, and hurt flickers through her eyes.

"How about this," Celeste offers into the tense quiet. "We're heading to Rumsfell next, and since that's your destination, too, we stick together that far. If it doesn't work, we part ways. If it does, then we know."

"I think that's a very reasonable suggestion," Rathi says and flashes a bright grin at everyone. "Tempest, you agree, right? Because if you do, that means the stubborn two over there are outvoted and have no choice but to go with us."

Tempest's expression softens, leaning more toward relief and a smile. "I agree." She unfolds and flops down onto the dusty sacks next to Rathi. "Besides, we'll have to go through the Selwyn to get to Rumsfell, and everyone knows they're supposed to be haunted."

"I wonder if I can punch a ghost," Rathi hums before shrugging and tucking her arm behind her head. "Guess we'll find out."

"Wonderful. How about we try some quiet time, hm?" Tyrael asks, his eyebrow starting to twitch in a way that suggests he's reaching the end of his rope. "Let's just rest and figure out what we're going to do later."

"You had me at nap," Rathi says, and closes her eyes, nestling to get comfortable in the pallet of goods she's made. “Don’t kick me, Pest.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Tyrael sighs and scrubs his forehead. The paper crinkles in his grip, and he smooths it over, staring at it as if he wishes the words would come.

Celeste goes back to her back.

The quiet click of Dakota’s knitting needles fills the otherwise quiet space, shared but not comfortable, in a truce for now.

Whether it lasts beyond Rumsfell, only fate will tell.

****