Act I, Chapter One: A Rumor in the Dark

Petra nods eagerly to Wexley Thorn, shoulders slumping with relief that Tefli will go with them. She would rather keep a close eye on his recovery. Now they know each other's names and mutual friends too, that will make tending him go more smoothly.

She thanks Serah for the treatment for Tefli.


Turning back to Jasir, Petra asks in Sarcosan, "I believe I know you, you tutored me in spell analysis and principles? If so or really if not, my heart is glad to see you well. And my thanks for your help this night!" If he agrees that is how they met, she repeats the information about Jasir to introduce him, but in Erenlander.



To Varin, Petra asks, trailing after him as he works, "Have we met before...have you ever worked the docks or taken a gnome ferry boat along the River Eren? At any rate, thanks for your help, and do you want assistance gathering supplies? I can, er, reach the low shelves and pantries?"

Úlfr avails himself of the cleaning rags and water in the tavern to clean the blades, then he dries them grabbing lamp oil as he goes. "Of the man felled outside I council mercy if he yet lives. Dying in a fight brings honor, the old gods knew. Dying for no reason only makes evil stronger though. We should all leave. This town will turn ere the morrow. Less grim deeds, and more movement would do us well." As a last measure he makes sure they retrieve the orc's breastplate. "This armor is not for me... but it might save the life of someone else." He shows how little even the chest of the orc was by holding the plate up.

Then he does something even I didn't expect. He calls to Bran in Norther, "Countryman come. When time came to swing your blade, you held. Even the weight of words stayed your sword. Earn your place upon the barge. The shadow would slay you for failure. Do not let it. We do this for those we care for, and we would add your cares to our's as we said."

Jasir's wandering attention snaps to a point of focus as Petra speaks. He maintains a silent and rapt attention, his gaze only flickering towards the cellar door for a moment as it is mentioned. "An apt observation," he assents with a slight, but respectful, bow of his head. "I was contacted nearly a fortnight prior with a request to lend my efforts towards a venture of some import. I met Varin upon the road and learned that we share numerous friends and associates. Some of which are present with us now."

The Sarcosan listens to Wexley's instructions and rolls his shoulder slightly. He seems set to depart and doesn't seem to have much need of sorting through things besides retrieving his pack. He doesn't show much interest in attending the healers or the wounded... too many chef's in that particular kitchen wouldn't help.

As Petra approaches once more and addresses him in his native tongue Jasir visibly raises an eyebrow, though it's hard not to imagine that the face beneath the still-upraised mask is smiling. "You did not require much in the way of tutelage, Miss Pestlegrind," he replies in kind, before seamlessly switching to back to Erenlander. "Though, I would hardly call my efforts this night as worthy of thanks. But I promise they will be one day."


Azote's attention is not missed and Jasir raises a hand to his chest and bows his head slightly, while not culture specific, the motion is somewhat more common amongst elves or at least who have been called elf-friend... It's a gentle acknowledgement since it likely isn't the time for partial-embraces and the like.

He starts to pace somewhat, his gaze turning down towards the fallen thug. He seems to consider Ulfr's appraisal of the situation. "With respect, were we in more idealistic times I might agree. But can we speak for what he knows of our plans? I would not risk a pursuing force so early into the venture. I vote for pragmatism and a quick, merciful death."

With a quick shrug Úlfr makes it very clear he isn't willing to bicker about whether the thug should live or die. He seems intent on finishing what he's doing and bends back to his tasks.

Cloaked Azote returns the simple acknowledgement back to Jasir as this isn't the time for exchange of thoughts.

"He is shadow." can be heard from elven Azote as she makes her simple thoughts plain as many know she would kill any shadow given a fair chance. To be sure, she didn't neutralize him so that he might live.

Petra's cheeks warm at Jasir's compliment even if it's not how she remembers it--had they had more time for study, she could've learned so much more.


The dwarrow is pleased that Ulfr invites Bran to join them on the barge rather than leave him to his fate, and almost more so that he advocates mercy for a recent foe (Collaborator 1). "Mercy is never wasted, and second chances rarely are," she says in agreement with Ulfr on both counts.


But Jasir advocates for a more coldly calculated pragmatism. Dead men tell no tales. And Azote seems to agree, convinced that this enemy is steadfastly in the Shadow's corner, against them.


Petra tamps down on her knee-jerk reluctance to take a life without utmost necessity of defense of the self or others.


Instead she says ponderously, "If we are each having our say...I agree with Ulfr. We best not kill this man now he is helpless."


To Azote, she appeals, "You may be right, he may eagerly serve the Shadow which oppresses your brave people more cruelly than most. But we did not witness enough to judge his motives with any certainty, did we? We all know the Shadow bullies and blackmails. He may be glad to be free of the orc. He did try to run, which seems to show he was no fanatic fighting to the bitter end, was he?"


She doesn't dare contradict logical Jasir without a rational-sounding alternative, so she turns to him next:

"Jasir, concerns of further pursuit are valid...but could we not, instead, take this man and drop him somewhere else with a minimum of supplies, into a sort of exile? Let him start over outside the ranks of whoever gave tonight's orders, too far away to raise an alarm about us soon enough to dog our heels? Or if that's too much time or effort, might we just bind him and gag him and blockade him in the hidden cellar so that he cannot get out quickly enough to cause trouble?"


She cannot help adding in an address to them all, looking from face to face,

"Think of this, how shall we fight a true rebellion against the Shadow while using the Shadow's own tactics? If we lose what sets us apart from their ruthlessness, if we too treat people as disposable things or as meat, how shall we build the people's trust and grow our ranks?

"And suppose the weapon of legend to oppose the Shadow that we plan to seek can only be wielded by those who choose a more enlightened path?"


She holds her breath and waits.

Azote retorts back, "That man was there when Tefli lost part of his life forever. He did not aid and attacked us on sight as no words were spoken. His actions have sealed his fate. He is shadow."

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

The air inside has gone cold and bruised, as though the storm outside has found a second life in the decaying tavern. Lantern-wicks bob on every exhale, painting each face in strokes of ember-gold and coal-black. The silence in the Thirsty Latern feels like a held breath moments before a scream.

Bran

Bran breaks first. He straightens, voice pitched to carry up the slick stairs.

"We have no country, and the bones of our ancestors are dust these tyrants grind into mortar. We help only our own, and mine needs me more than you. Leave me be—before I turn from this fool’s errand and carve a truer path."

The words rasp like steel dragged slow across flint, and the last syllable hangs, smoking, in the hush that follows. Bran’s gauntlet falls back to the sword-hilt; continuing to fidget during his contemplation.

A muffled sobble escapes the far corner where the unconscious rogue, trussed like a hog for market, lies in a puddle of guttering lamplight. His breathing is shallow, stuttering, but it draws the eyes of all present to the choice the company still has not made: mercy or silence, blade or bandage.

Wexley Thorn’s round spectacles catch the glow as he lifts his head, expression unreadable—too practised, perhaps, or simply too tired for outrage any longer. He looks from the inert prisoner, the gathering upstairs, then to the grim faces of the would-be heroes.

Wexley Thorn

"Deliberate quickly," he sighs, rolling the storm-spotted map with fingers that do not tremble but no longer steady either.

"Kill him, spare him, I hold no sermon in my beard for his lot. But indecision will drown us faster than the Shadow's hounds. Serah, Tefli, and I are for the river now. The barge shoves off before the moon hits it's peak and the Eye’s patrols smell warm blood. Come or stay; we will not delay for any soul."

With that, Wexley stuffs the chart beneath his cloak and claps his battered hat low against the wind and rain, already halfway out the door.

Serah of the Loom moves more slowly, but deliberate, shawl sliding on her shoulders like shed dusk. For an instant the lantern catches silver in her hair, and every crag in her face tells of winters survived by wit alone. She lays a papery hand on Wexley’s arm, halting for but a moment.

Serah of the Loom

"I have lived a long life, old friend, and in that span I’ve gathered more than tales to pass on. I must fetch a few… legacies… from my hearth before I join you. I will be dockside before you depart; I will not keep the river waiting."

Her tone is soft but unyielding, the way granite sings when struck. She nods once to the others, warm to Petra, guarded toward Azote—then gathers her cloak with the care of a weaver tidying her threads.

Tefli, half-hidden behind a table during the conversation, shifts but does not speak. His eyes, wide and glassy, track every shadow as though expecting each to leap free and bite. Sweat beads on his brow despite the chill, and his hand worries the hem of his shirt in frantic circles.

Wexley departs first, boots squelching on the damp wood, followed by cobblestone. Serah follows, her step lighter than one might expect from bones so old. Tefli hesitates, glances once at the bound man, once at the companions, and then scurries after his guardians, shoulders hunched, hand on his bicep, as though fearing even the lantern-glow might cause him harm.

The cellar door remains open. Condensation weeps through the seams on the floor and spatters the map-table in lonely drops. Above, the rain swells, and the rebel's steps retreat toward the harbor, fading beneath the roar of the storm and the Sea of Pelluria. All that remains is the slow, soggy breathing of the captive, Bran’s iron silhouette, the delibearting party and the creeping certainty that any decision made now will stain every mile upriver.

Some questions best left unanswered.

Not that Seelah needs as many answers as she initially thought. How the Shadow knew our heroes were holed up here…well the answer, surely, is an iron silhouette fidgeting with the pommel of his sword. Redemption is still possible, our ebony guardian thinks to herself. But alas, there was little time for convincing.

You can be better Bran, Seelah replies. Redemption is yours to take. But you must choose it. Let not the Shadow choose you. Realizing her words are perhaps as lost on Bran, as they are on the unconscious collaborator, Seelah collects her gear and turns to go.

Later, our ebony guardian Seelah doffs her chain mail, and dons the breastplate. She adds her chain mail to the party’s loot, later covering it upon the barge with a blanket. Her new-acquired breastplate but a small trophy, stained with the blood of Shadow.

I’ll wear it well, she thinks to herself, then quietly uttering the phrase in the Orcish tongue.

The Sarcosan's head tilts slightly as Ulfr expresses more idealism... and in so doing so provides some insight on what transpired prior to his arrival. Though he lets out a quiet huff of breath, he's unable to say he dislikes the outlook of the giant Norther.

Slowly Jasir raises a hand to grip his own chin, his other arm folding itself across his abdomen, his body language portraying pensiveness. He seems to grow still, but the light behind his eyes can only mean that he plotting courses through the unknowable future. Even Petra's alternative gets contemplated. Though after a few moments he shakes his head.

"When one takes a prisoner, one must then guard said prisoner. Remain vigilant against his every possible treachery. Would you keep him sedated? Then perhaps trust to hope that he is not familiar with whatever location we release him? Better to leave him here bound and pray he is blind to our designs," Jasir provides before raising his finger. "You ask what sets us apart from the Shadow... Have you ever tortured some one? Ever murdered for no reason besides the dark enjoyment it evokes? Inflicted pain for its own sake? Mutilated? Defiled? These are things the Shadow does. I assure you, a quick painless death is not a methodology the Enemy ascribes to."

"What if the weapon requires a sacrifice? Or the will to wield it? Some bridges we can only cross when we arrive at them," he counters delving into further speculations before huffing out a breath. "Know that while I hold my belief on what is the correct course... I do wish the world was more of a variety that your beliefs could flourish in more hearts."

With that said he slowly stretches his hand backwards towards the hilt of his cedeku. "We should choose now. We must go."

Varin grunts in response to Peta’s question, barely glancing over his shoulder as he rummages through a half-splintered cabinet.
"I get around, Peta. Do a little bit of everything to get by," he mutters, pulling out a dusty bottle, checking the label, and tossing it aside when it turns out to be vinegar. "Pretty sure you’ve patched me up once or twice. Maybe more—I’ve stopped keeping count."

The Elfling hoists himself up onto a rickety shelf, boots scraping the wood as he climbs higher to check the top storage racks. His eyes scan for anything useful—maps, hidden bottles, bundles of herbs, or spare gear—anything that might’ve been stashed where scavengers wouldn’t think to look. Below him, the others continue their conversation, but Varin stays focused, listening without commenting.

"We’re taking the prisoner," he says flatly, not looking down. "I’ll keep an eye on him."
He drops to the floor with a soft grunt and crosses over to the bound man slumped in the corner. Kneeling down, Varin checks the ropes—tightening the knots, testing the tension, and giving the bindings one last pull to make sure there’s no slack.

"Once we’re a good distance out, I’ll throw him off the barge. After we get what we need from him."
Varin stands, towering over the prisoner for a moment, eyes hard.
"Let his fate be in his own hands after that."

He turns to the group, brushing dust from his gloves. "Someone’s going to need to carry him to the barge. I’ll keep him from biting, but I’m not capable of hauling that dead weight the whole way."

Bran scoffs and sneers underneath his mask, toward the cellar stairs, rasping voice echoing with disdain. "Spare me the noble creed, guardian. Swing at what’s in front of you. I fight for Elise, no room in that for shadow, strangers or saints."

Damp dust swirls round Varin’s boots as he prowls the decaying hall. The floorboards groan like fretful sleepers beneath each nudge of his heel, and every overturned table seems to clutch its own small secret. Long-rotted ale vats yawn empty, but a few corners still resist the years… and the recent carnage.

Behind what was once the bar, a splintered shelf yields three squat jars of salt-packed pork, the brine inside still clear, the wax seals unbroken. Farther back, inside the cabinet, and finds a clay flask, the glaze fired black as pitch; a sharp shake tells him the lamp-oil within sloshes true. Even better, a half-hidden bottle of bitterroot wine lies corked on the floor nearby. The label damaged, yet the spirit fumes bite his nose: prime for fire.

At last his glove brushes a faint powdery gleam beside a broken crate: dried glimmermoss spores, gone dull without blood to wake them, but worth a healer’s time if kept dry. He gathers a modest pinch into a pouch before the thunder outside starts them glowing.

---

After stuffing the last of the scavenged supplies into his pack, Varin strides over to the edge of the cellar. He pauses at the top of the stairs, eyes narrowed into the darkness below where the helmed man still lingers.
"We’re leaving," he calls down, voice flat and final. "I hope we never meet again."

Without waiting for a reply, Varin grips the edge of the hidden door and pulls it shut with a solid thunk, sealing the cellar—and whatever was left in it—behind thick wood and silence.

Turning to the others, he jerks his head toward the exit. "Time to move. Someone grab him"
He starts ushering the group out of the tavern, staying until he was the last one out.

"I hear you Azote. Take his life if you will. It's my hope that I've killed enough today." He shoulders whatever packs are left of party loot and makes ready to walk out the door. He does seem to wait to be the last one out though. (Not counting Bran.)

Edit: He's also sets the prisoner by the door inside so he can grab him up easily. He stands right next to him with a boot lightly on his leg though.

Petra waves farewell to Wexley and Serah and nods her vigorous understanding there's no time to waste, the boat must leave soon. A bit sorry both elders never weighed in, but less surprised that she might otherwise be given how roughly the night has gone.


Petra admits to Azote and Jasir, "I cannot and would not argue against the point that this man failed to do the right thing by Tefli as well as by us when he threw his lot in with the orc. I just believe it more likely he acted out of fear and cowardice toward the orc and other Shadow servants, as opposed to malice.


"Nor would I argue there is no mercy in a quick death compared to...prolonging suffering. And of course it's significant not to take pleasure in others' suffering or death...but, treating people as things is a step in the direction of spite and disregard for life, and down that path may lie other deeds like torture, if you see my concern?

"I don't even mean to say that merciful acts will never come back to haunt or bite us, I know sometimes they could, including this one."


She blanches at Jasir's suggestion the weapon of legend may require a harsh sacrifice. Though not because she's some seer who can say for sure it will not...any more than she can be sure a weapon to fight the Shadow will require righteousness. "If the weapon we seek asks a life be sacrificed or similar treachery, I will personally suspect it to be a trick of the Shadow's."


The dwarrow smiles wistfully when Jasir acknowledges that his leanings have not changed but he wishes the world were more like she believes it could be.


It surprises Petra that Seelah does not weigh in on the dilemma with the prisoner but pleases her greatly that Seelah encourages Bran. Even if Bran disappoints again, for consistent and understandable reasons. His lady friend (or family?) comes first, damn anyone he sees as between him and that goal or distracting him from it--so they must move on and let him do the same, before he turns violent.


Varin gives her another pleasant surprise, remembering her AND showing willingness to take the prisoner and set him loose later far from Greybarrow. A pity it's not the same solution of 'lock him the cellar' that Jasir seemed ready to concede, avoiding a consensus reached yet, but any mercy is a mercy.


"If you let me revive the prisoner a little...I or someone else could help him walk? I cannot carry him, I am sorry. If someone were willing to carry him, with or without reviving him we could splash a little liquor on his breath and pretend he's our drunk friend...or two could support him between them, one arm under each of his armpits?"


Petra holds her breath as Azote and Ulfr continue to discuss killing him, grateful Ulfr is not willing to do the deed personally and feeling closer kinship to him because of that choice. "I still counsel mercy. But I cannot be the one to carry him to the eel boat as much as I wish otherwise. Nor can I stop any person who thinks a quick death is the best we can do for him, for us, or for all."

I won’t be party to torture, nor to throwing people overboard to their death.

Petra looks startled. "No, not torturing for information. And not sending him overboard to his death...overboard with something to keep him afloat, or else set him on land, I thought that was the plan? Send him into exile farther from the city limits of Greybarrow so he won't cause trouble, not kill him."


The dwarrow healer looks to Varin for clarification, hoping she had not misunderstood or that if she had, Seelah could sway him.

"If we take him from here, he becomes our responsibility. At that point I won't let us give him injury. We would owe weregelt to his family, and I don't have cattle enough for all of that."

Although the situation seems new to many, it is not to Azote. She well knows the man has seen her and if he lives to tell the tale more troubles will follow. Her conscious weight more than its share. Seeing the problem she takes action.

She walks over to the prisoner and stabs him to death, "There. The deed is done." as it again burns her soul. "We have a boat to catch." There was no joy in her voice. Only determination.