Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Arts and Crafts

Chapter 10- Arts and Crafts

“The first Homunculi were stitched together Corpses, crude attempts by Necromancers to create new life. A natural progression of Necromancy and its techniques involving chimeric corpses. Early successes in this art were catatonic or insane. Falling apart in a few hours as the “salvaged parts” rejected each other and the animating magic burned out. Eventually, certain amoral Alchemists became involved with these projects, and more stable creations became possible.” - Excerpt from the text “ Alchemical Abominations ” authored by Aureolus Bombastus, Master Alchemist of the Salted Citadel.

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The central spire of Castle Glockmire reached dizzying heights, Its gothic mass jutting out of the main structure like a jagged lance into the heavens. Surrounded by a nest of stone keeps and smaller towers which made up the rest of the Castle. Despite being the largest and most ornate of the Castle’s structures, the central spire had the least inhabitants, reserved only for the Lord and his most trusted servants.

Lord Johan Glockmire, ruler of the town bearing his name, rarely left his spire. Spending most of his nights hidden in its opulent heights. A habit that never failed to irritate Dietrich. While the importance of a good lair could never be underestimated. Dietrich found such reclusive behavior distasteful and worrying. Ancient Vampires like Lord Glockmire faced little danger from the outside world. Their magical and political power protects them from all but the most devastating threats. Yet all that power could do little to prevent them from going mad. A fact that troubled Dietrich every time he visited the Spire.

This night was no different, as Dietrich was ushered inside the spire by a spindly-looking manservant. Designed to be closed off from the rest of the Castle, the spire was a fortress within a fortress, itself larger than some Castles Dietrich had seen. Sealed doors and guarded corridors prevented Dietrich from entering without permission. But, he could get permission easily enough considering his position as Castellan and Executioner. So that led to Dietrich climbing the grand staircase of the spire, a colossal stone thing that snaked around the inner-edge of the Spire’s outerwall. Following behind a manservant whose practiced steps betrayed decades of taking this path. Who easily led Dietrich past shut doors and dark hallways as they passed by each landing.

Dietrich had visited many of the spire’s rooms, but still, many more remained a mystery to him. Though the floor they finally stopped at was not unknown to Dietrich. “The Studio,” as Lord Glockmire called it, was an entire floor of his spire dedicated to hobbies and crafts. Most Vampires picked up an Art or similar distraction as a mechanism to maintain their sanity, with some of the most mechanically talented musicians and craftsmen being Vampires. Lord Glockmire followed this paradigm but with a small exception. He never stayed with a hobby for more than a decade. Dropping it once it bored him or he became content with his skill.

This is why the Studio came into being. The floor was divided into perhaps half a dozen rooms, each a workshop of different specialty and focus. There were centuries worth of clutter strewn in and around these rooms, the products and byproducts of projects that once captivated the Lord’s attention, but were never finished. Dietrich knew for a fact the servants who cleaned the Spire did little more than dust these piles of junk. Rightfully fearing their Master's ire if they were to disturb something, he’d “soon get back to” even if it hadn’t been touched in thirty years.

Upon entering the Stuido, Dietrich was confronted with a horrible smell. It hit him like a physical blow, a wave of acrid chemicals, rot, and what he suspected was urine. Dietrich covered his face with an armored hand and felt incredibly grateful he didn’t need to breathe. The smell was worse than the Hibernaculum or even a rotting corpse. It was bad enough to make even a Vampire gag, which should be virtually impossible. Growling slightly in disgust, Dietrich turned to the servant who’d guided him here. The wiry man seemed undisturbed by the scent, and Dietrich wondered if exposure had inured him to it or simply burned out his sense of smell.

“Servant. What is the Lord's current distraction?” growled Dietrich, his mouth still covered by his gauntlet.

The manservant paused in his steps and rasped, “The Lord is experimenting with Leatherworking in all its aspects. Including tanning hides.”

‘Well, that certainly explained the smell.’ thought Dietrich as he delved into the Studio’s depths.

Dimly lit and cluttered, the Studio was also incredibly lavish in its accouterments. Plush velvet chairs, ornately carved tables, and gold-framed paintings filled the space. A ridiculous display of ostentatious wealth, especially for a private workshop. The furnishings matched the rest of the Spire and much of the larger Castle in opulence. Lord Glockmire boasted assets and connections many Dukes would be envious of. Despite ruling over a small territory and being practically negligent in his duties. The source of this wealth Dietrich had never been able to properly identify.

Despite decades of investigation, the only information Dietrich had gained was vague claims that Lord Glockmire had earned Duke Drakovich’s eternal favor centuries ago. Something Dietirch’s master had not mentioned before assigning him to this task. In fact, Dietrich had been told remarkably little about his assignment beforehand. Instead he was forced to learn through experience discovering many irregularities that he’d reported to his superiors. Including the fact the Lord seemed to pay virtually nothing in taxes and that he didn’t tithe any of his Risen to the Eternal Legions. Dietrich's reports had been met with laconic responses. Which boiled down to “We are aware, and are not concerned. Continue your duty.”

These oddities swam through Dietrich's mind as he walked between tottering shelves, following the manservant. The lack of information itched at him like an annoying rash. Feeding the paranoia innate to his kind. Trying to force back these thoughts, Dietrich centered himself. Just in time for the manservant to reach an oddly worn-looking door and knock. A clatter of movement behind the door followed by its opening revealed Lord Johan Glockmire.

Short and thin, with large ears, a short beard, and close-cropped silver hair. The Lord did not look like the classical image of Vampire nobility. The dirty robes he wore and the wild look to his eyes made him look more like a mad prophet than an ancient Child of the Night. While his appearance was deceiving, the sheer pressure of his presence could not be mistaken. Dietrich could physically feel the elder undead’s magical power push against him. Not as an attack or even challenge, but a side effect of simple potency. Age brought power to Vampires, and Johan Glockmire was a millennium and a half old.

Looking at Dietrich, Lord Glockmire smiled a manic grin and beckoned the Scarlet Knight to follow him into the room he’d been occupying. Dietrich followed, listening to the Lord speak in his thick Old Imperial accent. “Ah! Dietrich, it is good to see you. Come here, let me show you something.” Despite speaking the modern western tongue, Glockmire had never lost the clipped tone of Old Imperial. His accent was a memento of his birth tongue, a language he’d managed to outlive.

Dietrich did as instructed and entered the dimly lit workshop. Here the smell was at its worse, soaked into the room like some olfactory stain. Glockmire paid it no mind and bustled over to a central table. Atop the table was the incongruous form of a vase filled with flowers. The Lord gestured at the vase and said. “My latest creation! I know you are no man of the arts, Dietrich, but you must admire the technique required.”

Slightly confused, Dietrich approached the flowers at his Lord's command. He’d never heard of a Vampire enjoying gardening, but anything was possible. The flowers were crisp roses, unusual only in their coloration. Unlike normal Roses, these were a dull brown. Looking closer, Dietrich wondered if the fumes of this room had withered the plant. The texture of the petals was also wrong, with a slightly bumpy cracked look to it. Dietrich was about to ask if Lord Glockmire was enjoying horticulture when he noticed something else. The flower petals had vein marks. These weren’t roses of root and stem, but roses of flesh and bone; the flowers of the bouquet were made from leather.

Just as that realization set in, another smell caught Dietrich's attention. The smell of dried blood, human blood. One that had been smothered under the stink of tanning hides. Dietrich looked to his left, following the smell, and found its source. Hanging from the nearby wall was a flayed human corpse. Its ruined body, a mess of red, kept upright thanks to the meat hook sticking through its throat. Shocked, Dietrich took a step back from the “flowers” and turned to face the smiling Lord Glockmire.

“For a first attempt, I think it turned out rather nice! I call this work ‘Bloodborn Bloom.’ What do you think?” said the excited Vampire Lord. The eagerness of the artist discordant with the gruesome artistry.

Picking his words carefully, Dietrich said. “It is an impressive accomplishment, my Lord. I thought they were normal roses at first. But… If I may ask, why use human skin?”

Glockmire seemed to take Dietrich’s words as a compliment. An excited smile split his face as he answered. “It adds a level of gravitas that pig or cow leather could never attain. It’s a funeral bouquet made of the deceased. That's certainly striking, don’t you think?”

“It…is,” replied Dietrich, the Knight at a loss for words. “Where did you acquire the materials, my Lord?”

Glockmire gestured to the flayed body, his voice taking on a harder tone. “One of our town guards was caught asleep at his post. It was not his first offense, and he had proved himself incompetent. So a message needed to be sent to his colleagues. He and his ilk are this town's first line of defense. My subjects are better off without him.”

That surprised Dietrich. Glockmire usually never showed more than passing interest in his subjects. The gruesome act of turning a criminal into artwork was worryingly less surprising. In the fifty years Dietrich had been in the Castle, the Lord's hobbies had tended to be on the morbid side. Anatomical drawings, scrimshaw, and ballet were recent examples. But this latest hobby seemed to cross some sort of line, and Dietrich found himself disconcerted. Except he couldn’t exactly understand why it bothered him. The execution of a negligent servant was not unusual, and the use of their remains as the Lord saw fit was standard practice. Yet the use in something as silly art? That irked Dietrich and left him feeling unnerved.

Dietrich spoke up, hoping to steer the conversation in a more productive direction. “My Lord, on the topic of security in the town. I need to bring a matter to your attention. It pains me to say this, but a threat has slipped by my notice until now. It seems one of your vassals has taken worrying steps to gain power. They are binding dangerous Undead as thralls for an unknown purpose.”

Glockmire cocked an eyebrow and gave Dietrich a stern glare. A look packed with all the imperiousness of a great lord and the predatory focus of a Vampire. It caught Dietrich slightly off-guard. It was the type of expression he’d expect from his Master or another Duke, not the eccentric Lord Glockmire.

“Tell me, Dietrich, which of my vassals is engaged in such foolishness? It’s been decades since I’ve had a proper challenge to my authority.” asked the Lord.

Wincing slightly, Dietrich answered plainly. “I do not know yet, Lord Glockmire. They have hidden their tracks, but I am hunting them.”

No scathing rebuke or punishment came as Dietrich expected. Only clipped words. “I trust you will find answers soon? But before you resume the hunt, inform me of what you’ve learned.”

Nodding, Dietrich did as ordered. Explaining the encounter with the Rest-Bringer and his subsequent investigations. He didn’t spare any details, including those about his recent encounter at the Hibernaculum. When Dietrich finished, Lord Glockmire simply stared at his morbid bouquet, processing Dietrich's information. After a long moment of contemplation, Glockmire spoke softly.

“Have someone watch this Rest-Bringer in case he causes more trouble. And continue your investigation. You’ve done well to bring this to my attention Dietrich.” after another moment of deliberation Glockmire added. “Most of the Nobles entitled to a Knightly bodyguard are Dukes and Counts. A lowly Lord in control of a single town and its surrounding region does not merit such a privilege. So why do you think you were assigned to me Sir Dietrich??”

Dietrich had dwelled on this topic many times and never reached a reasonable conclusion. Glockmire was also incorrect about Lords never earning a Knightly bodyguard. Some of the more important minor nobles had this privilege as well. Like the Marcher Lords in the northern Blood Duchies or some of the Baron's ruling port cities on the Atreidian coast. So it stood to reason Lord Glockmire was similarly important. His fortune and its source put him in the same echelon as nobles defending key regions or overseeing maritime trade.

“No, my Lord. I’ve had some ideas, but no clear answer has been given to me, nor have I found one,” answered Dietrich. Of all the Vampires in the Castle, the only one he was required to be forthright and honest with was Lord Glockmire. One of the stipulations of a Scarlet Knights' service and something that suited Dietrich just fine.

Glockmire nodded at his bodyguard's words and cupped one of the leather flowers in hand. Stroking the treated skin gently as he spoke. “Centuries ago, I dealt with a problem that threatened my liege. A threat to Archduke Drakovich’s vision and the lands he rules over. In ending that threat, I acquired an asset of considerable power. Which I have never used against the Archduke despite many opportunities to. For this act of loyalty and the subsequent centuries of consistent service I have been rewarded handsomely.”

“Archduke”. The old Imperial title for the heir to the throne. A title Duke Drakovich purposely eschewed, but one used by Vampires old enough to remember the old Empire. By using the title, a Vampire recognized Drakovich as the rightful restorer of the Empire, and pledged their absolute loyalty to him. For prideful beings like Vampires, such an act of submission and subservience is not easy. Glockmire did it without any hesitation.

Continuing his words, Glockmire said: “The problem is this asset is still a threat. If it were to leave my control or should I go mad, the consequences would be dire. So the Archduke assigns me a newly minted Scarlet Knight every century; to watch me and watch over me.”

Pondering this, Dietrich asked the obvious question. “If this asset is so powerful, what value is my presence here? If someone is capable of taking it from you, or you decide to use it, even I would fare poorly.”

Snorting slightly, an unusual sound for a creature who doesn’t need to breathe. Glockmire replied. “You, my good Knight, are the Songbird in the Shaft. Whose chirps, or lack of them, will alert the Archduke. You’re here to watch, warn, and potentially die in a heroic final stand delaying whoever is foolish enough to unleash what I keep sealed.” Dietrich started to ask the next obvious question, but Glockmire saved him. “You also were never informed of this duty to prevent temptation. It would be easy for a steadfast Knight to decide they were better suited to holding this power.. Justifying usurping me through claims of greater loyalty and service.”

Part of Dietrich wanted to rise to the subtle insult in those words. But instead he ignored it and made an educated guess.

“Telling me this means you think the asset is in danger. You think the events I’ve uncovered suggest someone seeks to steal it from you.”

Glockmire’s face didn’t change, but he did grip the flower he was caressing with sudden, brutal strength. Reducing the carefully folded leather to a crumpled scrap of skin. “Exactly. This usurper is smart enough not to challenge me in the typical means. If they attempted to dominate or devour me, it would end poorly for them. I may not unleash the asset, but I’ve learned to use it in some ways. I am immune to the usual methods a Vampire would use to defeat me. And no thief can claim their prize before I am ash. Leaving an army as the best method to wrest the asset from my grip. This “Feeder” knows this and is building their strength to take what is mine.”

Glockmire dropped the ruined flower to the ground and turned back to Dietrich. “You have proven yourself competent and capable, Sir Dietrich. Do not make me reevaluate that assessment. Continue your hunt for which of my disloyal vassals seeks to dethrone me.”

Bowing deeply, Dietrich felt a strange sense of pride at Glockmire’s words. He’d never thought much of Lord Glockmire. His normally negligent attitude irritated Dietrich. But seeing this more commanding regal side to the Lord forced Dietrich to reconsider that attitude. He also was surprised by how intelligent the old monster was. Quickly deducing the presence of a threat and moving to face it. Still this new display of intelligence and will didn’t fully placate Dietrich, and he asked an impertinent question.

“My Lord, while I hunt your enemy, what will you be doing to resolve this matter?”

The question was layered with unspoken accusation and doubt. It bordered on insubordination. Asking a superior to divulge details he’d chosen to keep secret. While at the same time questioning his actions. Dietrich knew the old Vampire understood the implications, but Glockmire showed no anger, nor did he push back at his disrespectful servant. Instead, he spoke very quietly, with a hint of exhaustion to his words.

“I will be busy keeping the asset contained. We face more dangers than a simple usurper. My treasure wants to be free and will use any opportunity it can.”

Those words made Dietrich pause in momentary surprise. Whatever power Glockmire kept for himself was not a simple artifact or treasure. It could think, and act. Abilities which made it infinitely more difficult to deal with.

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The rest of the trip back to town proved uneventful. Cole had returned to his usual self, and Natalie was glad to see him doing better. They passed back through the forest and quickly reached the southern gate of Glockmire. This time there was no need to call the guard, unlike their previous expedition. As they approached, they saw a troop of town guards standing in the gateway. Cole stopped mid-stride, seeing the ten or so guards in poorly fitting armor start to approach them. Natalie didn’t stop walking. She’d expected this and had a few plans.

As she got closer one of the Guards yelled “What’s your business Ms. Striga?”

Natalie didn’t stop walking, nor did she answer immediately. Instead she whispered “Give me the skull,” to Cole. Gesturing to him with an outstretched hand.

Momentarily confused, Cole’s mouth opened in slight befuddlement and worry. Before he could say anything, Natalie clarified. “The Dwarf skull.” she had to fight to not roll her eyes at Cole’s moment of worry. The level of stress and paranoia the man had around his lover’s skull was unreal. But, as Natalie considered what she now knew, perhaps that paranoia was warranted.

Obliging Natalie’s request, Cole dug Buri’s skull from his pack and handed it to her. Natalie didn’t even wince as she touched the charred bone, something that brought her a bit of confidence. Maybe she could adapt to the blood-drenched madness Cole existed in after all? Holding the skull up so the guards could see it, Natalie walked closer to the guards while half-shouting:

“This is the skull of an Undead that was nesting in Lungu. Rest-Maker Cole destroyed the monster as Master Time commanded. We’re going to take the skull to the Temple. Then Cole’s going to continue staying at the Silly Goat, where he’s renting a room. Any questions?”

Working in a tavern her entire life, and having a talented Merchant for an adopted Uncle had taught Natalie a thing or two about the art of manipulation. She knew full well the town guards were a ragtag bunch used to collecting tolls and occasionally arbitrating the rare dispute. Not exactly a stalwart fighting force capable of cool collected planning. So she needed to seem authoritative if polite to get through to the jumpy pseudo-soldiers. Natalie knew it was harder for people to countermand something phrased as a fact, not a question. While no one in their right mind wanted to interfere with the God of Death and his servants. Master Time was a nice enough deity, just not one you wanted to catch the attention of. Or at least that was the common folk wisdom. Facts she gladly used to her advantage.

The guards shuffled nervously, not responding. Sighing to herself, Natalie trotted up to the gaggle of tollkeepers and addressed one she knew by name. “Andrei! What's going on here?”

The guard, a squat man in his fifties with a belly betraying how often he visited the Silly Goat, jumped slightly at his words. The other guards leaned away from him slightly. After a moment of looking to his herd for help, Andrei saw he was on his own. Natalie had singled the man out and hoped to force an answer from the usually congenial man.

“It's Jean, Ms. Striga. The Nobles took him last night. Saying he was deri-derel-derelict in his duties.” sputtered the guard. He didn’t make eye contact with Natalie as he spoke. A jolt of worry passed through Natalie. Jean was the guard who helped her get an injured Cole back to the inn. Was that what this was about?

Natalie decided playing ignorant and conciliatory was a good option. “Damn, I’m sorry to hear that, Andrei. But does that have anything to do with Cole and me?”

The guards looked at each other, and eventually, another one spoke up. A skinny youth named Yakov. “It's this Cole fellow Ms. Striga. He’s trouble, the type that spreads it around. We can’t have him running about town bringing Pantheon knows what sort of mess to us.”

Natalie stuck Yakov with an imperious glare. The type she’d learned from her mother, the type reserved for customers trying to sneak free drinks. “Did you lose anyone in the Breach Yakov?”

Slightly taken aback, Yakov half-muttered. “My brother, he was by the north gate when the Troll broke through.”

Natalie digested that and asked, “The one the Knights destroyed?”

Yakov nodded and started to speak. Natalie cut him off. “I saw that thing in the burn pit. All that rotten and cancerous flesh, it had to be the size of two draft horses, a terrible sight, like everything else that night. But the Knights destroyed it, making sure it couldn’t hurt anyone again. That isn’t the case with all of those monsters. Some escaped. Like this one here.”

Natalie held up the burnt skull. Yakov glanced at the mottled bone and shivered. She made sure all the guards could see the grisly trophy as she spoke. “This thing killed some of our friends and neighbors. And Cole destroyed it. I saw him do it. He burned the monster to death and made sure it couldn’t ever hurt anyone again. Cole told the Nobles he intended to do this; he walked right into the castle and told them his intent. They let him go, and now he’s returned to make sure these bones are laid to rest.”

Looking around at the guards. Natalie saw a mix of fear, nervousness, and doubt in their eyes. While not ideal, she could work with those emotions. “Cole did his duty as a Rest-Bringer, avenging one of our fallen neighbors at the behest of another. He did so with the consent and permission of the Gods, the Nobles, and us common folks. Cole has a mandate to do what he’s doing, are you sure you want to get in the way of that?”

Those words got a stir out of the assembled guards. They slowly started to part, some of them mumbling apologies and Yakov saying he’d check in with his superiors. With the path clear, Natalie turned back to Cole, a cocky grin on her face. The bemused Paladin returned it with a deferential nod. She was certainly living up to her end of the agreement.

Cole and Natalie walked through the empty streets of Glockmire; her little performance with the guards had cleared the streets better than an oncoming storm. Leaving the pair to head to the Temple in privacy. As they did, Natalie gladly returned the Dwarf skull to Cole, and the large Paladin asked. “You talked with Yakov about a Troll. Was that what breached the gates?”

Natalie shook her head in affirmative but then paused and elaborated. “No one knew exactly what it was. All I really know is that it was strong enough to batter down the front gate before the Lord’s Knights could kill it. One of the Priests said it was an Undead Troll, and that stuck, but others claimed it was a Rawhead, and crazy old Mertal said it was a miscarried Giant brought back from the dead.”

Cole took that in. “It was probably an Undead Troll from what you describe. Another rare and dangerous form of Undead, but at least this one’s already destroyed.” He paused for a moment and decided to confirm what he hoped was true. “They burned it, right? They burned the Troll’s corpse.”

“Of course, it's what we did with all the Undead.” replied Natalie, “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with Trolls anyway? Burn the body, so they don’t heal from whatever killed them?”

“Yes,” replied Cole, “Nasty things, Trolls. They heal from virtually any wound and are unpredictable at the best of times. Killing them requires excessive force, usually enough to render the body useless for Necromancy. But if by some stroke of ill fortune they are successfully Raised from the dead… Well the resulting Ghoul would require an absurd amount of effort to destroy, like burning it to ash for example.”

Natalie listened and mused, “Can a Ghoul Troll exist naturally?”

“Almost certainly not. The number of factors involved makes such a coincidence thankfully unlikely,” replied Cole. As his own thoughts turned to the burn pits, Natalie mentioned. There would probably be nothing there, but it might be worth a check.

Natalie wasn’t done with this topic however and asked, “Then the Feeder made the Ghoul Troll and perhaps some of the other Undead involved in this whole mess. Doing more than just dominating ones he finds, but creating servants,”

Those words pulled Cole from his own thoughts and brought a curse to his lips. “Jag! You’re right. I hadn’t even considered that.”

Cole felt foolish for not taking that possibility into account.

“This changes things slightly for both the better and the worse. There is potentially far more powerful Undead to worry about, but Raising them up is not easy or simple. It will leave evidence of what was created and by who.”

Beaming with pride, Natalie felt a surge of confidence at Cole’s words.

“How many of these powerful Undead do you think the Feeder has under his control?” asked Natalie. “If he’s Raising some of them, shouldn’t that reduce the ultimate number? Since it would take more time and power.”

Cole shrugged at that, seeming uncertain. “Remember when I told you the main cost with Undead isn’t Raising them but keeping them under control? Well, that still applies, perhaps even more so here. Really skilled Necromancers can do things during the ritual to make the Risen Undead much easier to control. Minimizing the cost of their focus and power, in exchange for more ritual work. Meaning the number could be theoretically larger than the ten I was expecting. With as many as fifteen to twenty all together.” finished Cole.

His words got a nervous gulp from Natalie. Dealing with the Walking Charnel had been harrowing.. The idea of finding and destroying another dozen or so nightmarish Undead made Natalie feel a little sick.

Cole noticed her worried expression and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. An act of affection he could have scarily imagined himself doing even a day before. Slightly surprised at his own action. Cole spoke what he hoped were reassuring words. “There were four Vryko-Ghouls. Meaning, with the Charnel destroyed, a quarter or more of the Feeders minions are gone. This fight is not unwinnable.”

Cole’s words had the intended effect, Natalie relaxed slightly and spoke “Thank you. We’re almost at the Temple. What’s the plan?”

Smiling slightly Cole answered, “I’ll give Buri’s skull to the Priest of Master Time. Then we get to work looking for the rest of the Undead. I’ll need your help with that. Places the townsfolk consider cursed or foul. Locations like that often get reputations due to Undeath’s miasma polluting the Aether. They’ll be where I can find the Undead or possibly ritual sites.”

These tasks were something Natalie could do. Gathering up the information Cole needed and mapping it out would be easy. She’d lived in a Tavern her entire life. If there was one thing Natalie knew how to find, it was gossip. Just off the top of her mind, she could think of two locations Shepherds had talked about. Places the flocks avoided and where stupid sheep disappeared.

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The Temple soon loomed overhead, and the duo approached their destination. Natalie pushed the sturdy wooden doors open. Leading Cole into the Temple gallery. He trailed after her, trying to show a modicum more respect than Natalie had. While he understood that her being a resident of Glockmire granted her certain levels of flippant familiarity. A decade of dealing with Temples and Priests had taught Cole to err on the side of politeness. Being midday on a weekday, the Temple was empty except for two people standing at the far end of the main gallery. Priest Matthias and a matronly woman engaging him in a fierce argument.

“Master Time called me to aid him! I can’t bloody refuse, can I Trude?” spat Matthias, his reedy voice reaching a nasal pitch of anger.

The woman, dressed in beautifully tailored robes of orange and black, had an irate expression on her face as she spoke. The large silver hammer medallion around her neck told Cole she was a Priestess of Uncle Maker. The Priestess pointed a gnarled finger at Matthias with an accusatory air. “You had a few strange dreams, Matthias! You are weighing that against your life and that of every other person in this town. The Nobles barely tolerate us as-is. Aiding a Rest Bringer will bring their wrath down upon us!”

The wiry middle-aged Priest stared down his counterpart and snarled. “My God gave me a message and a duty to fulfill. He nor the rest of the Pantheon would send us to our deaths pointlessly. We will weather whatever storm this brings to us. The Gods and our own mettle will see to that. I have faith in that fact, Trude. Something you are lacking in this regard.”

The Priestess, Trude, Cole, assumed, looked like she’d been slapped. To Cole’s surprise, her robes changed color to match her expression. Shifting from orange to white, then back to orange, before settling on a bloody red. Offended shock was replaced by hot-headed anger, and the Priestess looked ready to bite Matthias’s head off, figuratively or literally.

Natalie coughed loudly, grabbing both Priests' attention. Trying not to show any nervousness at interrupting two of the most respected community members. Natalie said. “Priest Matthias, Priestess Trude. I’m sorry to bother you, but Cole here needs the Temple’s aid.”

Priestess Trude caught Natalie in a paralyzing gaze. Her face conveyed her thoughts perfectly to Natalie, even though the Priestess hadn’t said a word. “I’m disappointed you’ve gotten involved in this. I care for you as a Priest, neighbor, and fellow artist. And I cannot understand how you could be so foolish?”

Natalie did her best not to wither under Trude's stare. The fierce matriarch was the town’s Priestess of Uncle Maker and the best weaver in Glockmire. Something helped by her own magical savantism. Few people in the town demanded and earned respect like Trude did. Previously the two women had a good relationship, Trude offering Natalie advice on her art and other matters. Now, Natalie wondered if that bridge had been burned.

Cole saw this exchange and only grasped the surface level of it. Such social nuances had never been his talent, and he’d long learned to accept the deeper levels of communication some woman seemed naturally capable of. A talent more than one Magi had unsuccessfully tried to prove was a form of minor telepathy. Seeing no better option, Cole leaped into the tension and hoped to draw the Priestess ire away from Natalie.

“I apologize for interrupting your… conversation. And I am sorry for intruding on your town. I mean no harm, and I hope to do some good while I am here.” Cole reached into his pack as he spoke, gripping the Dwarf skull. “I also must agree with Priest Matthias. Our God's attention has been drawn here, and not without good reason.” with those words, he pulled the burnt skull free and showed it to the Priests.

“This is what is left of the Undead that killed one of your Temples Acolytes three years ago. It was still out there, capable of killing more people. This Undead was not alone in that regard. Many of the horrors from three years ago are still loose. I intend to fix that, at my God’s command”

Trude recoiled slightly from the sight of the skull, but Matthias only raised a quizzical eyebrow. The Priest asked. “I assume you brought that here for me to consecrate and inter?”

Cole nodded and handed the skull to the Priest. Matthias pulled a handkerchief from the pockets of his robes and gently took the skull in cloth-wrapped hands. It was a moment of quiet reverence and understanding between the two servants of Master Time, both understood the respect such remains deserved.

“The soul has long been freed, and the family has no desire to claim the skull. I trust you will see it laid to rest?” spoke Cole as Matthias tucked the Skull away.

Nodding, the Priest spoke with a slight uncertainty in his voice. “I still wish you’d not come to Glockmire. But you’ve proven your point Rest-Bringer. You do your duty, and I will do mine.”

It seemed the Priest was still resistant to the idea of helping Cole in any major way. Which was fine. However, he also seemed unwilling to fully remove himself from this ordeal. Matthias wouldn’t take a step forward like Natalie had, but he also wouldn’t take a step back like his community demanded. Not a small feat of bravery and Cole had to acknowledge the haggered priests' efforts.

Trude turned her glare upon Cole. The sharp eyes of a talented craftswoman appraising him like so much wool and cotton. Cole suddenly felt slightly self-conscious of his appearance. His clothes were either dirty or nearly destroyed. While bandages and smears of ash still covered his face. After a few seconds of appraisal, she stuck out her hand and spoke in a curt authoritative tone.

“I am Loom-Matron Trude Dalca. Your apology is acknowledged and accepted. Just as Matthais says, we of the Temple have no desire for you to be here. But if it is the Pantheon’s will, there is little I can do to countermand that.” then, with unexpected strength, she pulled Cole towards her. Calloused fingers and an iron grip trapped his larger hand as she half-whispered in his ear. “But if I have any reason to believe you mean this town or its people harm, I will cut you like an errant thread.”

Cautiously, Cole nodded in understanding, and Turde released him. “Now, Rest-Bringer, follow me. The idea of a divine servant running about in rags is an affront to both the Gods and your peers.”

Cole looked to Natalie for an explanation or assistance. She just shrugged and said. “I will be at the Silly Goat. I’ll see you when you’re done.” Natalie purposely ignored the confused and pleading look on Cole’s face. He could handle himself, and Trude was right. He was in need of new clothes. It would be a good opportunity to check back in with her father anyway.

Seeing no other option, Cole followed the stern Priestess down a side passage in the Temple and into a small tailoring workshop. A serpentine shape flew through the air and into Trude’s waiting hands as they entered. Cole stepped back in surprise, reaching down to his axe before realizing the brown length was a measuring rope with different colored bands at intermittent lengths; the rope was a common tool of tailors. Which still didn’t explain how Trude had summoned it to her.

Turning to the startled Cole, Trude saw his hand on the axe. She tutted slightly and, with a gesture, sent the rope flying towards Cole. He braced for impact, but all it did was bring itself up to his shoulder span, change color where it touched each arm, and returned to Trude. She examined the rope and explained. “You are a big one, aren’t you? I hope I have enough fabric to cover your bulk. Estimating such things is not my strong suit. Weaving is my preferred craft, but I am a capable tailor.”

Trude jotted down the measurements of the rope on a scrap of paper. Then with a gesture, she got the cord to continue its dance around Cole, measuring his body and delivering the results to her. Trying to break the uncomfortable silence and trying not to flinch every time the rope sped past, Cole asked. “Is it enchanted? Or is this some boon of Uncle Maker?”

“Neither,” remarked Trude, not turning to face Cole. “I am a Savant. My talents lend themselves to thread and fabric.”

‘That explains it.’ Thought Cole. Savants were rare people born with an innate magical gift for one particular type of magic. They came in as many varieties as there are spells to cast, and Cole had heard of thread magic. A curious art that wove magical energy and strings together in a unique way. Trude seemed to be a Savant of that art, but that might not be the limit to her talent; many skilled Spellweavers started as Savants. Using that innate talent as a stepping stone to greater things.

“A considerable talent, I can see you put it to good use,” remarked Cole as he glanced around the workshop. Several unfinished but still beautiful rugs and tapestries took up large parts of the chamber. Trude grunted in response and pulled a sheath of black cloth from a drawer, and started making marks on it. After perhaps two minutes of silence, Cole decided more thick-headed bluntness was required. “Why are you doing this, Loom-Matron.”

Trude kept working, and Cole thought she would ignore his question, but after a few seconds, she exhaled and answered. “To keep my consciences clear.”

A pair of scissors tied with thick string floated over to Trude, and so did a sewing kit with similar adornments as she talked “I think you are going to get yourself killed and probably drag poor Natalie down with you. But that girl is stubborn, and I know nothing I’ll say will dissuade her from this course. So I’m going to do what any good tailor would do and give you a good set of clothes to die in.”

Digesting that, Cole answered plainly. “You’re right; I will probably die. But I’ll do everything in my not insignificant power to make sure Natalie does not.”

Turning to him, Trude eyed the large man standing awkwardly in her domain and asked. “You care for her that much?”

Cole got the message, the unspoken question of his interest in the beautiful young woman, woven together with the spoken question like a strong rope. “I don’t know if I want what she does, but I do care for her. But even if I didn’t, I’d still stand between her and the dangers I face. That is my duty and purpose.”

Trude's hard brown eyes met Cole’s pale blue and neither broke the contact. Cole could tell the woman was trying to get the measure of him. It didn’t take long for Trude to let out a pained-sounding exhale and ask. “I understand. The Gods don’t give anyone a set purpose, but they do help those who find one. I found mine making my home a more beautiful place. Somewhere where the winter’s chill is muted by good fabric, and the dreariness of life is lightened by spun artistry.”

Returning to her work, Trude begrudgingly admitted. “I cannot blame anyone who follows their purpose. People lucky enough to find their place in the world shouldn’t throw that away. So I’ll make you a good cloak and hope it hides you and Natalie from the darkness around us. Return to me tomorrow. I should have it done by then.”

Cole took that as his sign to leave and moved towards the door. Trude called after him in a strangely hollow voice. “And Restbringer. If you harm Natalie or anyone else in this town. I’ll strangle you to death with your own Jagging clothes.”

That actually brought a smile to Cole's lips. It wouldn’t be the first time someone threatened to kill him, and it was refreshing to have it be over actually righteous reasons. “I’ll hold you to that promise Loom-Matron Trude. Thank you for the cloak,” was his response.

Leaving the workshop, Cole returned to the main sanctuary of the temple. Finding himself in the small alcove dedicated to Master Time. The sad flowers were the same, and so was the austere hourglass. But someone had put a handful of coins at the altar’s base. He couldn’t know for sure, but Cole guessed they were the offering Filip had made to avenge his sister. The boy had delivered it before Cole had even returned with proof of the deed. An act of faith, it seemed.

The Gods weren’t sadists who demanded their followers prove their devotion through constant leaps of faith and self-destructive acts of reverence. They did, however, ask for their worshippers' trust. With little acts like Filips being exactly what they wished for.

To most people, the whims and wills of the Pantheon were unknowable things. Interpreted by Priests and shrouded with mystery. A natural product of the separation the Gates provided to the world. The Gods’ voices were muffled, a price the world paid to be protected from Demons and worse. The few exceptions to this rule are the most devout and powerful servants of the Gods. As a Paladin, Cole counted in that number, and he had a pretty good idea of what Master Time wanted. With the cold feeling in his core pushing him ever towards his goal and the rare whisper in dreams to help guide him.

Leaving the altar, Cole set out to the Silly Goat. Trying his best to understand but also ignore where that internal chill was guiding him. The gentle icy thrum inside his soul pointed him in one direction, towards the Castle and whatever horrors he might find there. Another time or place, and Cole might have simply broke into the Castle and done his damnedest to kill its Vampire occupants before the Sun went down.

Now he had more than his own tattered skin to worry about. And even if he could guarantee the safety of the town’s people if his hypothetical rampage failed. He still couldn’t guarantee it if he succeeded. In most anywhere else in the world, you were hailed as a hero if you killed the Vampire terrorizing a town. In the Blood Duchies, you instantly became a wanted criminal and danger to those around you. So he'd have to work at playing this smart. Something easier said than done when dealing with centuries-old paranoid monsters.

---

 

It didn’t take Natalie long to make her way back to the Silly Goat. She’d taken this path probably a hundred times before. Except this time, she wasn’t accompanied by her family or friends. In fact, nobody even got close to her on the streets as she headed home. No one did anything as dramatic as crossing the street to escape her, but Natalie could tell she was being avoided. The people of her home considered her a threat now. Someone who might bring monsters and mayhem down on them all. Which was something she’d have to fix as soon as possible.

The Silly Goat was nearly empty, something not unusual for this time of day. Only Barnabas and her Father were inside, sitting on opposite sides of the bar, engaging in tense conversation. They both looked up to see her come in, and Wilhelm quickly rushed over to hug Natalie.

The surprising force of the bear hug forced a squeak from Natalie. After almost crushing her in his arms, Wilhelm pulled away and looked over her daughter. The grime of travel, roughing it in the wilderness, and multiple near-death experiences clung to Natalie. Taking in her slightly disheveled appearance and the slight limp she moved with, Wilhelm asked. “Are you alright? Are you hurt at all?”

Natalie smiled sheepishly, “I bruised my ankle a bit, but other than that, I’m okay. Cole, got the worst of it. But hey, a monster’s dead!”

Giving his daughter another nervous look-over, Wilhelm let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Alright, come sit down, get off your feet for a bit.”

Natalie obliged, sitting next to Barnabas, who had an analytical look on his face. Like he was trying to piece out some puzzle only he could see. Wilhelm meanwhile bustled about, getting a bowl of warm soup for his returned Daughter. Natalie took the bowl with murmured thanks and eagerly dug into the mushroom soup. It had only been a bit over twenty-four hours, but she’d really started to miss warm food. After letting her have a few mouthfuls of food, Barnabas asked, “So what happened?”

Putting down her spoon, Natalie looked at the two men and explained the past day's events. She skipped some details about Cole, things she guessed he wanted private. And didn’t mention anything related to her and Cole’s broader plans. It felt strange not telling the two men everything. Sure, she’d been “creative” with the truth before, but never on anything this important. It's one thing to lie about respecting curfew. It's another to leave out your involvement with a Paladin’s holy mission to save your town from Undead horrors. Still, Natalie did it easily, she needed to protect them, and right now, all the information would only make the situation worse. Wincing internally, Natalie noted she was getting better at handling corpses, death, and lying to people. Cole’s presence in her life had a definite effect outside the obvious.

Barnabas and Wilhelm listened intently and sat in silence when Natalie finished. Barnabas broke the silence by letting out a quiet but steady stream of curses. Some of which Natalie didn’t even recognize. Eventually, the old merchant slumped against the bar and voiced his opinion.

“You’re way over your head, kid. All of this is going to get you hurt, and I’m terrified to see that happen.”

Natalie didn’t know how to respond to that and let those words hang in the air. Wilhelm broke the silence instead, his voice unsure. “He’s right, Natty, but it seems to me you’re also doing good. I…well, you know my feelings on this. I don’t want to see you suffer, but I know you well enough that nothing I say will stop you from taking this path.”

Wincing slightly at both their words, Natalie ate more of her soup and decided if she was going to be having a painful conversation, she might as well make it worse. “Dad, have you told Barnabas about my plans?”

It was Wilhelms turn to wince. “No… I was looking for the right opportunity.”

Barnabas looked between the two, trying to decipher their meaning, but Natalie spared him the effort. “I’m planning on leaving Glockmire this coming Spring. I’d like your advice on where to go and how to travel there.”

Surprisingly Natalie’s words actually seemed to calm Barnabas. He considered the news and visibly untensed before speaking. “I couldn’t understand why a girl as clever as you would be getting involved in something so dangerous. But now it makes sense. You're trying to do some good now since you’ve got an exit strategy. You might step on some toes, but if that happens, then you have an escape plan.”

While Natalie wouldn’t have put it in those words, Barnabas was right in what she planned. Looking between the two men, Natalie asked again. “So, will you help me?”

Barnabas snorted in derision. “When have I ever not? Let me get some maps and notes from my office, and we will get to-”

The Silly Goat’s door opened. All three people turned to face the newcomer. Natalie felt a smile grow on her lips as she turned, expecting Cole, escaped from Trude’s clutches. The smile died as instead of Cole, a well-dressed stranger stood in the doorway. She’d never seen the short little man who’d enter the tavern, but Natalie recognized his clothes. The carefully tailored but austere black uniform of a Dayman. Those mortals tasked as servants and intermediaries of the Nobility. Pale skinned, squinting from the sunlight and generally sickly looking, the older looking man examined the Silly Goat with a slightly dismissive air.

“May I help you, sir?” asked Wilhelm, his nervousness buried under years of hospitality training. The Dayman's lightly-glazed-looking eyes flicked onto Wilhelm, and after a moment, the strange old man spoke.

“Ah yes, I am here to speak with a… Ms. Natalie Striga.” Tension filled the room, and after a moment, the Dayman continued. “I am Chamberlain Simon, servant of Lord Glockmire. And I have some questions for Ms. Striga. Nothing too serious, just some clarification over recent events.”

Shakely, Natalie stepped forward and cleared her throat. “I’m Natalie. What questions do you have?”

Simon looked her over, his eyes lingering on Natalie’s body for just a second too long. There was something distinctly predatory to his gaze. More than the lecherous glances Natalie had long learned to deal with from drunk bar patrons. It sent a shiver down her spine, but Natalie held her head high, refusing to show any fear. It had taken her approximately ten seconds to understand this man was a predator of some kind. Showing weakness of any kind would be extremely dangerous.

“Ah good,” said Simon, his eyes still glued on Natalie with unnerving intensity. He didn’t seem to blink as much as he should have, and that odd glazed-over stare never wavered. “If you follow me, I can have my answers, and this can be over with quickly.

Wilhelm stepped forward, wanting to protect his daughter. Natalie shot him a look, and he paused. Returning the Dayman’s stare, Natalie responded. “I don’t have the time to go to the Castle, but there are several empty rooms here we can speak in.”

Nodding slowly, Simon acquiesced. “Of course, please lead the way.”

Natalie motioned for him to follow her as she took to the stairway. She gave both Wilhelm and Barnabas covert glances that she hoped conveyed, “I can handle this, but don’t leave the building, please.”

As they walked, Natalie could feel those same leering eyes on her back. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and absently Natalie reached for her barrette. Playing with the memento her mother had given her and taking comfort in the hidden blade concealed inside.

She took the unnerving Dayman into the same small room Cole had talked with Filip in. The inversion between that interaction and this one was not lost on Natalie. They sat down at the table, Natalie still fidgeting with her hairpin. An act that caught Simon's attention, apparently.

“That's an interesting ornament, what's it supposed to be?” the question caught Natalie slightly off guard, but she quickly responded.

“A bird of some kind, it was a gift from my Mother. But I doubt that’s the type of question you came here to ask Master Simon.”

Simon tipped his head in agreement. “That is true. I’m not here to make small talk but ask about your involvement with the Rest-Bringer known as Cole.”

Natalie had been expecting this and gestured for Simon to start his questions. “What can you tell me about this man? My sources claim he’s a large fellow with an impressive collection of scars. But having a better understanding of him would be useful. Which leads me to you, Ms. Striga.”

“Well, you have the description right; he’s also got blue eyes, and what little hair he’s got is blond. But I bet your sources could tell you that. So what exactly do you want to know? “ Natalie was towing a dangerous line here. She didn’t want to betray Cole’s trust nor get caught in a lie. So finding out exactly what Simon was after would give her an idea of what to say and how to say it.

“Our main concern is his faith, Ms. Striga,” said Simon. “Rest-Bringers tend to be… problematic in our part of the world. Having him stir up hysteria in the citizens is not acceptable. So knowledge of his faith and how he plans to express that is crucial. It could very well determine how the Lord reacts to his presence in his town.”

That question was easy enough to answer for Natalie. “He’s a true believer. Following his ordained calling the best he can.” Simon shifted at those words and looked like he was about to speak. Natalie didn’t let him. “But he’s also pragmatic in a lot of ways. The Blood Duchies and the Lord disquiet him, but he’s not foolish enough to challenge the status quo. He seems to understand doing such a bold act would lead to nothing good. So he’s finding other ways to follow Master Time’s will without stepping on anybody's toes.”

“Interesting,” remarked Simon. His eyes were still fixed on Natalie.

‘Does he ever blink?’ thought Natalie as Simon asked: “So hunting down the vermin who escaped after the regrettable incident three years ago is his compromise?”

“Yes, he’s working to clear out the ‘lesser undead’ as he calls them from the area,” answered Natalie. Hoping her use of the terminology Cole taught her might give her account some credence. “He told me he’s trying to make sure something like the Breach won’t happen again and that we won’t be in danger from those things hiding out in the wilds.”

Simon seemed to take that answer well and brought up his next question. “That seems acceptable, but why are you helping him? By all accounts, you are a respected young member of the…community by all accounts. So why involve yourself in a potentially dangerous outsider like this Rest-Bringer. Doesn’t that seem rather foolish?”

Natalie bristled slightly at the condescending tone, but she stayed in control. She knew what she had to do next, but the idea rankled her. The best way to sell a lie is to base it on truth, especially if that truth is powerful in its own right. “My Mother was killed in the Breach. By a monster that escaped the Knights. I’m helping him so Cole can track down and kill the thing .”

Slowly, Simon got to his feet, reached out his hand to shake hers, and spoke. “Your aid in this has been most useful, Ms. Striga. And might I offer you some advice before I go?”

Natalie nodded curtly and rose to shake Simon's hand. A pained gasp escaped Natalie as the old man’s grip crushed her hand in a cold, clammy vice. She tried to pull away to no avail and found herself staring into the unnerving Dayman’s glassy blue eyes as he spoke. “Have more respect for your betters, and stay away from this situation. It will not end well for anyone involved. Especially a pretty young woman with bad manners.”

He broke his grip and left the room as if nothing abnormal had happened. Natalie looked down at her shaking hand. Tender red swelling was already forming where Simon nearly crushed her fingers. A suppressed shudder finally made its way through Natalie, and she leaned against the nearest wall. After a few moments, she reached up and pulled her hair-clip free. She looked down at the little ornament and clasped it to her chest. Feeling the cold silver in her hands and taking comfort in its presence. Natalie’s long black hair flowed around her face, unbound and free to cover her in its dark curtain.

Taking a moment to refocus herself after such an unnerving experience, Natalie looked down at the small bird-shaped hair clip and exposed its silver blade. Smoothly polished and still razor-sharp, the flat side of the blade reflected Natalie’s face back to her. The slight welling of tears was apparent in her eyes, and the face she saw reminded her of a scared little girl. Seeing that brought a jolt of anger and self-recrimination to Natalie. Turning her focus back to the blade’s edge, Natalie made a promise to herself. If anyone put her in a situation like that again, Dayman, Noble, Stranger, anyone. She’d ram her knife into their face.

Folding the small blade back into its hiding spot, Natalie bound up her hair. Holding her head high, Natalie went downstairs, letting controlled anger wash away the fear and humiliation she felt. That goatworrier Simon had made a very big mistake in trying to intimidate her. Natalie did not respond well to threats and found herself doubly committed to this half-mad cause she’d gotten involved with. With her help, Cole would bring down the Feeder. And if she got a say in it, as many of the Nobles and their servants as possible.

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