The hours pass invisibly and it is only when I keep finding myself struggling to see what I am doing that I peel myself back from the intensely focused work and discover that I am sitting in my darkened room without a lamp lit, concentrating to the point of headache to try to see each brush stroke.
I am nearly finished but, now that my bodily signals are being given purchase in my mind once again, I can’t possibly continue without addressing them. My bladder is painfully full and my mouth is parched from being neglected so long.
I find the chamberpot and take care of the first order of business. I ascertain that I did not have the wherewithal to have brought fresh water into my room, as I usually do, so I quickly go to fetch some, but only after warding my room against intruders. I am leaving most of my equipment for such a short trip, and I want to be immediately alerted if someone or something attempts to steal any of it. I still affix my reagent pouch and spellbook to my belt, but leave my satchel—which includes the additional spellbook I bought—, camping supplies, staff, and writing materials.
I zip down to the common room and grab a pitcher of water from the water barrel along with a cup to drink from. Upon my return, I quietly mutter the password that allows me to enter the warded space without triggering the alarm, so I can keep the spell up. It can last an entire day if I don’t dismiss it, so I might as well keep it activated until morning.
It’s likely too late to catch Corporal Level on duty, and he may still be attending to the aftermath of the accident, so I take a long, refreshing drink of water and go back to completing the scroll. It takes thirty more minutes to encode the last part but, as I do, the ink on the page bonds into the paper with a visible transition that is akin to stepping out from shade into the noonday sun. The material components sitting on the surface of the paper also meld into its fibers, becoming indistinguishable on the page. Since I am tapped into the arcanum when it finishes, I also hear the pseudosound of it locking into place on the page. Satisfied, I slide the completed scroll into my pouch and replace my scribing tools in their pockets.
I gather all of my things, take another drink of water, and head out to find dinner and entertainment. The dinner ends up coming from downstairs, and the entertainment winds up being a dance troupe performing at the inn. I sit in the back and watch the crowd as much as the dancers. They’re all so engrossed it would be easy to pick their pockets. I am not the only one with that idea and I watch two kids wander through the aisles and help themselves to the contents of several pouches and bags. They don’t even attempt to swing close to me and, even though they don’t know it, are better off for it.
Eventually the show ends and I toss a few silver in the jar. I return to my room, do my nightly routine, and go to sleep.
I do not dream.
Morning comes and I waste no time getting ready for the day. I need to resolve my placement at the Adventurer’s Corps. With any luck there will not be any decapitations this time.
I find Corporal Level in his office once again, fussing over a stack of paperwork and chewing on the end of his reed pen. I knock. He looks up and takes a deep breath, waving me in.
“I apologize about yesterday,” he begins earnestly. “By the time the dust settled with that…those…poor boys, I’d quite forgotten that we were in the middle of a conversation. If I recall, you were telling me you didn’t feel safe with your party members, is that right?”
I’m impressed he remembers at all, considering the dramatic circumstances which followed.
I nod and add, “My talents are being wasted.”
Level sets down his pen and says, “I must admit, I’m surprised to hear this. Both reports of your team’s activities led me to believe that your group was working well together. In fact, the rumor about the cursed farm and subsequent follow-up, confirming it was the site of targeted sabotage by the Hordian bushfighters, has led to some updates to our patrolling tactics.”
Has it now?
I don’t interrupt, and Level continues, “Starting this week, patrols are expected to check in at each farmville and abode in their sector before making any further rounds. I think we’re starting to get the shape of the enemy’s plans and we’re responding by targeting the farms ourselves, but with protection instead of poison.”
“Was the information about the orchestrator conveyed to you?” I ask, wondering just what Vong told Level in his report. No doubt another sugar-coated distortion of actual events.
“Vong mentioned something about a ringleader. Why? Have you uncovered something else?” Level picks up his pen again and grabs a piece of paper to take notes.
I nod. “It seems the name of the one coordinating in the field is called Bearbreath. I don’t know if he is orc or goblin or something else.”
I watch Corporal Level quickly scribble down some words on the page with a trained hand. He’s clearly jotted down a lot of notes in his life.
“Good, good,” he croons, his eyes on the page as he writes. “Anything else?”
“There is rumor of a particular locale known to their forces. To what end, I can’t say. It roughly translates to the Killing Spot.”
“Hmm, interesting. Care to take a guess?” invites Level.
I don’t like making guesses and tell him, “No.”
“Fair enough,” he looks up at me, his pen at the ready.
If the Adventurer’s Corps is making effective plans off of the warped intelligence from Vong’s reports, I can only imagine what they could do with my more meticulous sensibilities. It should be no difficult thing to demonstrate my acumen to Level, even with the small amount of true observations I’ve been able to make.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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