0. The Silver Kettle Inn

The Silver Kettle Inn was as much a gathering place as a shelter for weary travelers. It was early evening as Zix's gaze swept over the common room, taking in its details.

The centerpiece of the room was a large hearth set into one wall, the flames within crackling merrily. Above it hung a silver kettle, polished to a shine despite its age, with a faint engraving of a wheat sheaf on its rounded belly—a quiet nod to the inn’s namesake.

The bar stretched along the opposite side of the room, a broad slab of oak that bore countless nicks and stains. Behind it, the innkeeper moved with practiced ease, his laughter and good-natured banter a constant presence as he poured drinks and filled orders. Rows of bottles and kegs lined the shelves behind him, their labels a mix of local brews and exotic imports.

The patrons filled the space with life, their animated faces illuminated by the golden light of lanterns hung from beams overhead. A group of merchants occupied one corner, their coin pouches visible as they leaned in to haggle over a game of dice. At another table, a cluster of locals passed around a plate of roasted meat, their hearty laughter occasionally breaking into a bawdy tune.

Near the stage—a modest platform barely raised above the floor— Dorian LaCroix was sitting, drinking wine and looking around. The stage itself had a wooden stool and was framed by a decorative arch of ivy and flowers, clearly fresh, suggesting someone in the town took pride in keeping the inn inviting for performers.

A human-like creature with a lute in hand and a corvid on the shoulder, dressed in road attire of subdued colours, enters the hall from the direction of the inn rooms and approaches the bartender.

"Good evening to you. Would you allow a traveller to peddle sing and tale in your establishment tonight?

The bartender looked up as Zix approached. His sharp eyes took in the creature’s road-worn attire, the well-traveled lute in their hand, and the curious corvid perched on their shoulder. A grin spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Good evening, traveler," he replied, his voice carrying the warmth of someone accustomed to conversation. "A bard, eh? Haven’t had a good one through here in a couple weeks. Last fellow sang his heart out but couldn’t keep his strings in tune to save his life." He leaned on the bar, casting a glance toward the small stage at the far end of the room.

"Well," he continued, turning his gaze back to Zix, "if you’ve got the skill to match the look, you’d be welcome to sing and spin your tales here tonight. My patrons always appreciate a bit of entertainment after a long day’s work. You’ll take a share of the tips—standard fare—and I’ll throw in supper and beer for the night. How’s that sound to you?"

Dorian watches the room, his eyes attempting to identify people associated with the university. It's a game he plays with himself, as if to work out everyone's story by their dress and mostly their attitude. He's spent most of his life on such establishments.

The merchant gamblers seem as much as an expected feature as the local people. Their songs are full of mirth and tell of a shared history. He thought about joining one of those groups but has taken to drinking by himself

The minstrel on the other hand bears watching. He shifts his chair behind his table a little too better hear their performance once it starts. They've an otherworldly look about them and their art may be unexpected diversion.

He signals to the barkeep to give the minstrel a glass of the same wine he's drinking.

"Good, good, thank you. Then I shall begin."

The creature walked onto the stage.

"Welcome, welcome, guests of the tavern. I am Zix the Traveller, and I bring news, tale and song from distant lands, some as far as from the great sea . . ."

Zix first summarised what sorts of news - increasingly from father lands - would be told tonight, then began telling of the most important events for the cities along the path, one by one. Once a handful of tales was told, Zix declared a musical break, and performed a song, shapeshifting its voice between to perform it as a duet all alone.

When the barkeep caught his eye, Dorian raised his glass slightly, signaling for a second of the same wine to be sent to the minstrel.

Zix noticed. A faint smile played at the corners of their mouth as they inclined their head toward him. Then, with a flourish, they stepped onto the stage.
Dorian leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. He’d heard many minstrels in his time, but Zix had a presence that commanded attention. They spoke of cities he had only read about, recounting events with a precision that suggested firsthand experience. News of politics, war, and trade flowed from their lips, painting vivid pictures of lands far from this warm, bustling inn.

After several tales, Zix paused. "And now, a song—a small gift from my travels."

They began to sing, their voice shifting between tones so distinct it was as if two singers performed a duet. It was mesmerizing.

When the final note faded, the room burst into applause, but Dorian’s thoughts were interrupted by raised voices from the dice table.

"You’re a cheat, and I’ll not let you ruin another game!" one merchant bellowed, slamming his fist on the table.

"I am no cheat!" the accused snapped, his face pale but defiant.

The tension rose as the other merchants leaned in, their hands edging toward their coin pouches or the hilts of hidden daggers. Then, in an attempt to quell the uproar, the accused reached into his satchel and produced a small, intricately carved box.

"If you doubt my honesty, then let this speak for me," he said, his voice trembling.

The box was no ordinary trinket. Faintly inscribed with arcane symbols, it seemed to be filled with magical energy. Its surface shimmered as the lantern light caught it.

Dorian's eyes narrow even as he claps for the performance, as he sees the strange disturbance. After the traveling minstrel Zix gets off the stage, he moves over to the merchants.

"Gentlemen, that's a fine box, I can see why the kerfuffle. Bee l perhaps you're in the need of an expert arbitrator!?" He gives his finest slick smile.

The accused merchant squinted at him. "And who might you be?"

"Merely a traveler with a knack for spotting opportunity. You see, disputes such as these are delicate matters, and one ill-chosen word or action could lead to... unpleasantness. But with the right arbitrator," Dorian gestured to himself with a flourish, "you might find a swift and fair resolution that leaves everyone satisfied."

The accuser’s eyes narrowed, though his expression softened. "And what’s in it for you, then, eh? Arbitrators don’t come cheap. Is this going to be too expensive?"

Dorian looks at Zix wondering if the minstrel has anything you add. "Ten percent, that's fair. Now like tell us about this box. The workmanship, the runes, it's a striking piece. If you want this to be a good trade for the ante on your bet, you have to give us the history. How did you come across such a beauty?"

He's enjoying himself, his easy way with people apparent as he's accustomed to rubbing shoulders with important men and women. The trick of it is everyone is the king of their own little hill, and belittling them gets you less than acknowledging that.

The bard doesn't interfere, but pays attention, not beginning any more tales nor songs while the commotion seems to remain unresolved.

The merchant hesitated. His fingers tightened around the box, his eyes darting between his accuser, Dorian, and the curious onlookers who had gathered. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"This is no mere trinket," he began, his voice defensive but tinged with pride. "It’s an enchanted locker, crafted by the artisans of Valgredt nearly a century ago. The Mutatio runes you see here—" he turned the box to show its faint, glowing markings, "—are part of the enchantment that allows the box to store anything. Anything at all. Weapons, jewels, documents, even... less tangible things." His voice lowered on the last phrase, his eyes narrowing.

After a couple of seconds, the merchant continued. "The runes work in harmony with a Tutela spell, a protection enchantment so strong that without the correct incantation, the box is impenetrable. Not fire, steel, or magic can open it. I’ve tested it myself."

The accuser, a broad-shouldered man with rings on nearly every finger, frowned. "It’s not that I doubt the value of this box, Mr. Arbitrator," he said slowly to Dorian. "It’s that he was losing until suddenly he wasn’t. Coincidence doesn’t sit well with me, not when stakes like that are on the table."

"Zix the Traveller," another merchant, silent until now, said with a smile, "you’ve brought us tales of far-off lands tonight. Perhaps you’ve encountered something like this box in your travels? Surely your keen eye can tell us more."

Dorian ignores the subtle accusations of cheating, at least for the moment. "First things first then. This box, a magical implement of surpassing utility. Fine for carrying subtle or valuable objects through danger. A demonstration of it's magic perhaps, then we can discuss the value if such an ante?" With the others he looks to Zix the Traveler for their opinion.

As to the cheating, he works it through in his mind. It could be sleight of hand, or magic. I, too, could possibly imbue someone with such competence. He slowly sides more with the cheater, but is determined to play it fair

Zix looked at the box.

Huh. This looks like one of the trinkets my parents had, allegedly used by Cliffport's messengers to pass high-secrecy communication between rulers and clandestine operators to ensure that an interception would be less likely to reveal a plan or orders or whatever. Wonder if this one has a similar origin.

Zix tried to remain unperturbed. "I have heard rumours of containers like these, but never tried opening one."

Technically true.

The accused set the box down on the table with deliberate care, his fingers trailing over its smooth surface as though reluctant to part from it. The glowing runes seemed to pulse faintly.

"Opening it is no trivial matter," he said, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "The enchantment isn’t just protection; it’s a challenge. Without the incantation, this box won’t just sit unopened—it will actively resist you. People have tried brute force, clever spells, even blood sacrifice to crack one of these. All failed."

His eyes darted to Dorian, and a small, wry smile crept across his face. "A demonstration, though? A demonstration is another matter. I can show you how it responds to the wrong approach, if you’re all so eager to see it in action. But I’ll warn you now—once you see it, you’ll understand why it’s worth more than any coin you’d wager against it."

Dorian is certain the merchant is attempting to make a sale of some kind but can't quite put on his finger on who is the mark. Bringing forth the box may increase the perception that he's a cheat, after all, since it prices he has magic at his disposal.

"A challenge! I certainly relish those. Tell me one thing before we begin this fine diversion. Do you hide something within already or does it remain empty?"

The merchant paused, his hand still resting on the box as though the object were alive and might attempt escape.

"A fine question," he said, his tone smooth but guarded. "The answer is... it depends on your perspective."

He lifted the box with both hands, turning it slightly. "The box is both full and empty, you see. Without the incantation, its contents—or lack thereof—are entirely irrelevant. Even I couldn’t tell you for certain what lies within, not until the proper words are spoken. That’s the beauty of it. Or the curse, depending on how you see such things. I call it the Schrödinger box, after a famous Archmage and former Dean of Perceptio at the Misthaven University.

"Naming a box after a scholar who deemed such ambiguity absurd? That's a mean thing to do," Zix smiles sardonically.

The accused and owner of the box smiled broadly at Zix's remarks.

"Precisely."

Then, as he prepared to demonstrate the box’s enchantment, one of the others, a rotund man with a graying beard and a faint smell of pipe smoke, leaned forward. His voice carried a conspiratorial undertone as he spoke:

"Pandora's Box," he murmured, his words barely louder than the crackle of the hearth. "Could this be it?"

The room fell silent for a moment. The accuser replied, "You speak of myth. Surely, you don’t mean to suggest this is the Pandora’s Box?"

The older merchant shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps not the original, no. But the story speaks of many such containers, doesn’t it? Not all of them made by gods. Some say skilled enchanters have tried to replicate the fabled artifact—boxes that hold wonders and horrors alike, sealed away from the world until someone foolish or brave enough dares to open them."

"What are you talking about?" asked the accused merchant.

The rotund merchant lit his pipe and leaned forward again, his eyes gleaming with the firelight as he puffed on the carved stem thoughtfully. He gestured toward the box, as if its mysterious aura gave weight to the tale he was about to tell.

"Pandora’s Box," he began, his voice low and steady, capturing the room’s attention as though he were reciting an ancient ritual. "A tale far older than the common folk’s fables about a curious girl and the wrath of gods. The true story—well, the one wizards and witches whisper to each other in darkened chambers—is about ambition. And betrayal."

He tapped the side of the box with his pipe for emphasis, its faint runes flickering as though responding to his words. "Long ago, there were those among us—mages, warlocks, enchantresses—who sought to overthrow the divine. They weren’t content with the gifts of magic bestowed upon mortals. No, they wanted the power of creation itself, the power to rule worlds and shape reality with a mere thought."

"To achieve this," the merchant continued, "they forged vessels—containers capable of trapping the essence of the gods themselves. These weren’t crude creations, mind you. These were works of art, imbued with ancient runes and secrets lost to time. Each one was designed to deceive a specific deity, to lure them in with promises of tribute or devotion, only to seal them away for eternity."

The accuser raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking in a faint smirk. "And I suppose the gods didn’t take kindly to such treachery?"

The merchant chuckled darkly. "You’d be right, my friend. When the divine discovered the plot, their wrath was terrible. They cursed the vessels—turned them into prisons not just for gods, but for anything placed within them. Objects, power, knowledge—it didn’t matter. Once sealed inside, it was beyond mortal reach. Some say the gods left a key, an incantation to open these boxes, but only as a cruel jest. A riddle so convoluted, it would drive most mad before they ever found the answer."

He gestured at the box again, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "They say the vessels—Pandora’s Boxes, as they’re called—still surface from time to time. Not all of them were destroyed, after all. Some were hidden, passed down through generations, their purpose and origins forgotten... until someone foolish enough to open them unleashes whatever lies within."

The room shivered with unease. The accused merchant, clearly growing agitated, slammed his hand on the table, silencing the room with a sharp crack that echoed above the crackling fire. His face, flushed with irritation, twisted into a scowl as he glared at the storyteller.

"Enough of your ridiculous fables," he growled. "This isn’t some cursed relic crafted by power-hungry fools trying to usurp the gods. It’s an enchanted box, made by a mortal wizard. No gods. No curses. Just skilled craftsmanship and a bit of practical magic."

He paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself, and then continued, his tone sharper and more deliberate. "I bought it fair and square from a traveler in Cliffport. The man claimed he acquired it from a Valgredt artisan—a place that still holds weight in certain circles, for those of you who know anything about magic. Their enchantments are renowned for being both practical and reliable. Nothing sinister about it."

Dorian looks at the other merchants, and says, "What do you think? Should we try and open it? If you think it might be cursed, I can make the attempt."

He's using his charm and obvious curiosity to side step the accusations that have flown about. After this he'll want to ask the box-owner more questions, as his curiosity about magic had been recently heightened.

Zix pondered for a few moments.

"I vaguely recall some scholars pointing out that in the Pandoric tales, the word used referred not to a box, but to large corked vessels for liquid, and that construction of intricate boxes was not typical for the crafters of the era from which the story hails. So presumably this is not it. But of course, that doesn't prevent the box from having a curse ready to spring on whoever mishandles it."

The box’s owner let out a long breath, his gaze darting between Dorian and the gathered merchants.

"Fine," he said, his tone clipped but firm. "By all means, try your hand at it. Let’s put an end to this chatter and prove once and for all there’s nothing to fear." He slid the box across the table toward Dorian with a deliberate motion.

The other merchants exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier accusations momentarily forgotten as the allure of the artifact took hold. One of them said, "Are you certain about this? It’s one thing to wager on its value, but opening it could... well, you’ve heard him."

Dorian will attempt to solve the box as if it is a puzzle. He'll secretly cheat of course, by using Amplifico to heighten his intellect in solving the puzzle.

"Come, we're all good friends here, let us investigate this mystery together!"

Dorian focuses his inner might and attempts to use the magic to enhance his mind. "Yes, let's see what we have here." He takes a deep breath.