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Jero had seen Diver communities before, while he hunted for experiences to fuel his artifice. The buildings of the Divers are scale-laden, domed tents formed from the bones of dead leviathans- temporary, if sturdy housing. They set up across the many islands of the tropics as they follow the migrations of kelplings and other sea monsters. The grandest tents would belch white smoke and shimmer with a heat-like wave of externalized magic, as their nameless elders slowly processed the horrors of the deep into potions and magical objects. The smallest tents would hold families, shops, and the more mundane fishers- warriors, all- set out in an organized semicircle around the coast. The colonies were always predictable, sturdy, and militaristic. Their monstrous quarries demanded nothing less than a wall of tradition and steel.
This one’s wall had been broken. Green and gray tents lay in scattered ruin, and the central alchemist’s hut was nowhere to be seen. Instead, where it should rest as the center of the colony, a great sinkhole plunged into darkness, where city guards were setting up a railing, testing the crumbling sandstone and mudbrick of its perimeter, and sending down small groups to search for survivors. The shadow of the city wall, which loomed over the colony’s edges, obscured most of the dust-filled pit.
Around the sinkhole, the entire colony was split into groups, acting in tandem under the eye of their bent-backed elders. Some were dragging away the carcasses of dragon servants, while others rounded up what supplies weren’t swallowed alongside the alchemist’s hut, and took to the arduous task of rationing them. Several messengers rushed past Jero, Han, and Twicateel- a curious trio, even among all the chaos- carrying what Jero could only imagine were pleas for aid.
Twicateel was silent as soon as they left the small, one-person gate that filed into the colony through the city walls. “Gods preserve us.” They murmured, their gaze fixed on the sinkhole. Their hands trembled. They didn’t move in further.
Jero stepped forward instead- he was used to disaster. The nearest elder was a broad man with white hair falling in tangled locs across his face and neck. The pewter charms were woven through silver bands that clutched to abraid running down the back of his skull. They glowed faintly with purple magic. His face was hard and marked with scars and unhealing bruises, and he spoke in heavily accented Zanrush to a group of teenage and younger couriers. “Jorr, go to the Veins, recall all the fishermen out in town. We need blades.” A boy ran off. “Aeca, take your brothers and haul back those slabs of calcite we sent to the construction site. We can use them to reinforce the walls of the pit.” Three teens bolted to the north. “Uro, you-” The old man stopped, finally looking up to see the gold-haired artificer. “Colony’s closed, tourist. Be on your way.”
“No, no.” Jero tapped on the Signifier quill on his chest. “I’m an artificer.”
“Pah! We’ve no time for you, warlock, can’t you bloody well see that?” He threw his arms out, gesturing to the giant hole where the colony’s wealth would normally be stored. “If you’re looking for some quest or another, you’ll find we’ve neither the coin nor alchemy to pay you.”
“Perhaps some more mundane supplies?.” Jero asked as Han and Twicateel walked sheepishly behind him. “We were just looking for some red scythe extract. We have some wounded back in Eastport Row, and it’d help greatly to have a supply.”
“Wounded?” The man blinked slowly, his dark eyes looking up to see Han’s bald head and pale features. Realization slowly dawned on him. “You’re the sellswords, from Larissa’s Rage. The group that survived against those Sons of Ra’ Luth?”
Jero noted something like hope in his voice. He took a swing. “We’re looking for others who may wish to… oppose them.” He suggested. “Allies, as we do our business in the city.”
The elder squinted, then slowly nodded. “I suppose you don’t know much about this region.” He said quietly. He shooed away the other couriers, beckoning for the trio to follow him further away from the commotion. “The Sons of Ra Luth are little more than thugs. They control everything outside of the city- weapons, trade, and magic alike. Used to be fine, until they started charging ‘protection’ fees. It was about the time the old Justic heirarch finally keeled over.” He sighed. “Now, we’re stuck in more debt than we could hope to repay. I think this sinkhole is their fault, somehow.”
“How? Even a dozen mages couldn’t do… that.”
“A Nightmare could.” Twicateel interjected.
“Enough of this, Twi!” The elder turned on the armored fisherman. “There are no Nightmares here- it is not like the Coral Pact. You need to grow up and face real problems.”
“What else could have done this?” Twicateel gestured to the ruined camp and the sinkhole. “You all have been having the same visions- the signs are clear, Elder. We need to organize a hunt before it grows in power.”
“You’re making a dragon of a minnow, child.” The elder shook his head. “These ‘visions’ are just night terrors. Since Tierre, we’ve all seen enough to haunt us forever, no Nightmare needed.” He turned to Jero. “The Sons of Ra Luth are dangerous enough without an imaginary monster on their side, warlock. I imagine they set to sabotaging the salt tunnels beneath the city. They were once a series of cisterns and natural, lentic reservoirs, but the curse of the desert has driven all water from them. More than a few monsters we’ve been hired to hunt lurk there.”
“That’s where your alchemist’s tent has fallen?”
“It isn’t just a tent, it’s a temple, the center of our community. Took the Master Alchemist and all our stockpiled equipment with it, too.” The elder looked over the two Neists, then nodded to himself. “If you want to help, go to the Third elder- that spiteful hag over by the sinkhole-” somehow, despite their distance and the din of the colony, the broad-shouldered woman flashed a single, sharp eye all the way back to him. He flinched. “Ach, witch-woman.” The old man spat, then looked to Twicateel. “Twi, bring the herbalist to the Saint’s Pint, “ he gestured to one of the few stone buildings- a tavern, by the looks of it, though probably once a guardhouse. Now, it overflowed with people carrying what was left of their homes on their back. “If we’ve any red scythe, it will be somewhere there.”
“Understood, elder.” Twicateel laid a hand on Han’s shoulder, explaining the conversation as they led him to the overfull guardhouse.
“Kao!” The old man snapped his fingers, and a courier seemed to materialize out of the crowd.
The young girl seemed to move further than her short gait would allow, and she clutched a leather satchel in both hands. “Yes, boss?”
“I’ve a task for you.” The elder spoke fast. “First, it is time to recall the exile. You haven’t pawned the Master’s potions yet, have you, girl?”
She crossed her arms, pouting. “Nah. For some reason, nobody wants to buy from me.”
“That is because they think us all cheats here, girl. For once, their racism is our advantage.” He gestured to Jero. “We have a warlock who is willing to help explore the deep tunnels, but we need hire someone who has experience protecting them. The Daikun, I’ve heard she went to great lengths to rescue and protect her brother- he’s the blood warlock I’ve told you about before-” he explained, seeing the younger girl’s confusion, “Her experience as a bodyguard should prove ample protection for our friend here. Pay her with those potions.” He shook his head. “Zandai nobles are nothing if not greedy.”
Blood warlock? Jero blinked in recognition. “Are you talking about the Archwood Cleric?”
The elder looked back to Jero in surprise. “You know him?”
“Only in passing, really. Two adventurers in a small city.” Jero prayed to Neia that Sel Maishan had forgiven him by now. When Jero beat him to the brink of death, he had hoped he would advance the Commandment and never have to meet his rather infamous protectors. “We’ve only really met once.”
Kao narrowed her eyes and she made to speak, but the elder’s next commands distracted her from interrogating the artificer. “Enough, Kao. You are to also send the message to this one’s allies, in Eastport Row. Get the details from the bald one. Go!”
“Settling in alright?”
Liera’ze looked back up from her meal, embarrassedly wiping the grains of rice from her mouth. “Y-yes. Thank you for your hospitality.” She spoke back in formal Saraeri.
“Those sisters always find the most curious folk to bring home.” Kamaji ra Vitzallah smiled as he filled her glass with tea and an admixture of red, fangling water and some kind of citrus. “What’s your story?”
“Hardly anything special.” She tried to wave away his curiosity. “They robbed the people who stole me from my village. I imagine it happens quite a lot, with those two.”
“Hah! Don’t you know it.” The man set down the two carafes on a tray strapped to his chest, freeing up his hand to clear a couple dishes left by Mi before she stepped back onto the street. “Each time, she came back with more insane people. First- oh, maybe a year ago, now- Ren stumbled in here, red with blood and none of it her own. Her vaikal was off, and I thought I was going to die.” He laughed. “She demanded a room and a bath, and I was so scared I didn’t start charging her for nearly a week.”
Liera’ze leaned forward attentively, sipping the strange drink. She hadn’t gotten to ask the young fighter her life story, but couldn’t say she wasn’t curious.
“Then,” Kamaji continued, leaning his considerable bulk against the round table. “She started to range out on her little quests. She’d track down venys kra who knew even the smallest morsel about pirate activities, she’d tear her way through flesh merchants’ showhouses and Pyromancer towers, even took on a monster or two out in the dunes. Each time, she’d come back with lost folk like yourself- damn near half my clientele, now. Couldn’t quash her big heart, even if she wanted to. Left scarcely any foes dead, even the monsters. Plenty of concussions and busted limbs, though.” An unattended table raised their voice, and Kamaji broke the story to yell at his short son behind the bar, speaking far too fast Dunespeech for Liera’ze to track. He turned back to the tar sage and continued. “Then, that’s when she brought back Mi. Gods, that was a day. I’d already had my hand full with one sister, and now there were two of ‘em. And a troublemaker, too. Mi would steal and manipulate, far more than Ren ever could. And- though you didn’t hear it from me- Mi has herself a colder heart. Whatever happened during their separated, it changed the poor girl.”
“What do you mean?” Liera’ze was entranced. The bartender’s voice and presence were broad, demanding attention, and his deep purple hair swayed like a witchlight atop his head. He would have made a wonderful skald, she thought.
“Mi doesn’t just like to survive- she wants to thrive. She may not fight with blades, not like her sister, but she does fight. Sabotages her enemies, deals with trolls and pirates, poisons and cheap tricks. And if things do get bloody, she’ll always take it to the death if no one’s looking.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to say anything else about a friend. She’s good folk, just a bit scary. Oh, but the next one Ren brought home- that was true insanity.” He smiled, his presence demanding the change in subject. “Not only Sel- a good adventurer, insomuch as there is such a thing- but a bloody queen. Yura Damihi.”
The name struck like a hammer. The ceremonial- and some would say political- leader of the northern Free States of Estria. Killed by the Council of Pyromancers in a dispute over the Red Scar river, last that Liera’ze heard. “The North Queen is dead.”
“Oh, and that’s what they think, too. But she was just captured, same as you. Those northmen’ll be in for a surprise in a weeks’ time, when she finally rounds the mountains back into the States. Assuming her caravan hasn’t gotten held up.” Kamaji’s hand fished out a necklace from his loose shirt. Its simple string threaded through a diamond-like crystal, held in a tin clasp. “It’s ice, you know. But it never melts- the creation of which is a secret only held by the Free States’ royal family.” He quickly put it back away. “I’d charged her ten times my rate as a joke, but she got the last laugh- paid me with a crystal so priceless that I can’t bloody sell it.”
Liera’ze was about to ask more, the hatch-door into the tavern swung open, and Mi’s soft footsteps led her into the room. She was wearing hard leather armor that hung from her frame poorly, and her vaikal was wrapped loosely around her head. Despite that, she moved like a ghost, swiftly and without sound, quickly sidling next to the two, leaning on the table. “Don’t ask.” Her glare at Kamaji translated even through the opaque shroud. “Where’s Sel?” She spoke in quick Dunespeech.
“He’d just left. One of his plans.” Kamaji said.
“Damnit. Must have missed him. Ren?”
Kamaji jabbed his thumb to the stairs leading down into the lower floors. “Bath, I think.”
“Okay. Okay.” She rapped her fingers across the wood of the table. “Okay. This is what we’re going to do. I need to get to Sel. I’ve kicked the Justic hive, and he needs backup on the best days. Kamaji, tell Ren to go to the Diver Colony. The Master Alchemist needs her, and sent her these.” She set the satchel down onto the table, then turned her head to Liera’ze. “You. My sister likes you, you know that?”
Liera’ze had noticed. It was flattering. She nodded.
“Good. Go with her.” Mi made to leave.
“Wait,” Liera’ze stepped up, tugging on Mi’s loose sleeve. “Go with? I cannot fight. I will be… pain- burden. I will be burdening her.”
“Exactly.” The tar sage could practically hear Mi rolling her eyes as she replied. “You’ll keep her from making any mistakes. If nobody’s there to hold her back, she’ll get in over her head. If she’s about to anyways, just… I dunno. Look scared. Trip over your feet, or something. Pretend if you have to. Make her save you to save her.” Mi pushed off Liera’ze’s hand, and took a few steps, then stopped. She turned. “Don’t think I’m asking this as a favor- I don’t want that debt. I’ll pay you after.”
With that, Mi sped out of the tavern, leaving Liera’ze and Kamaji with some mystery flasks, a package of letters, and more questions than answers.