She's a Rainbow

Koshka sighed, it had been a while since she'd thought of him. 

Really thought of him, anyway. Everyday, somewhere at the back of her mind she guessed she must think of him. But calling to mind his face, his voice. It was pleasant to be lost in memory.

"Go on girl, continue, please," encouraged Treave across the room. His little face peered out from around the canvas, his nose preceding the rest of him by some way, before he added, "but keep your chin up, no moving now!"

Koshka gave a cough and reclaimed her proper pose, her face tilted away to expose her neck and shoulders, staring up towards the corner of the tiny studio. Her arm was draped across her reclining body languidly, one knee coyly raised. 

"Well... I don't know what to say about him really. I suppose he was kind. Charming even," the ghost of a smile lit her lips, her fangs showing at the corners of her mouth, "Plenty of them are, of course. But him... he was different. You believe in love at first sight?"

Treave gave a theatrical sigh from behind his easel, and without leaning to look at Koshka to respond, "My dear I am an artist. A thousand times a day I fall in love with a sight." 

"Well then... you understand."

"Well go on then, tell the rest of the story," he said. Behind the easel Koshka could only see the feet of the diminutive artist balanced on his stool, and she heard the rattle of one brush being placed in the water pot and another retrieved.

"I spend a lot of time thinking... where was he from? Because he told me, I know he did. He lay there with me afterwards and he told me all sorts of things. What he'd seen on his travels, how beautiful Waterdeep was from the sea. That there was so much else to see out there. And he told me where he was from but... I just can't for the life of me remember."

"What do you remember?" came the calm and inquisitive voice of the gnome, and Koshka giggled.

"I remember his hair. It was black, and curly, I curled it around my fingers as he lay there. And his eyes, they were brown. Deep and dark and he looked right into you when he talked to you. I remember the exact size and shape of his... well, you get the idea. I remember so much, but not where he came from."

"And what happened?" 

Koshka chewed on her lip before she continued the story. It was so quiet in the room, the scratching of the brush on canvas. Dimly from outside the rom, the heartbeat bustle of Waterdeep noon could be heard.

"Well, I was laying there, on my bed, watching him dress. That nice sailors shirt, strapping on his belt, shiny silver bosuns whistle dangling from it. He came and pulled the covers back and looked at me, and said that I should come with him. Leave for adventure, on his boat."

Koshka studied the knots and whorls in the old wood boards in the ceiling, the tip of her tail fought the urge to twitch.

"So many say that, of course. 'Come with me! I'll leave the wife!' or 'Run away with me, I'll take you away from all this!'" Koshka smiled ruefully, and her white eyebrows tilted ever so slightly apart, "so I just laughed and said next time. He was still smiling at me when he left, and said he wished I'd change my mind. And I just lay there and thought for a while."

Koshka heard the cry of a merchant somewhere outside, the clack of boots in the streets. The creak of a cart going down the lane. 

"I dressed so fast I forgot to button my shirt properly. I remember running, through the alley down towards the dock. Knocked over old blind Albert who sells the shells at the corner by the fish market, I was running so fast."

Koshka listened to the slow brush strokes from behind the canvas for a moment, then:

"When I finally got to the right berth, it was empty. I watched it then, parting waves not too far out the harbour. Big ship it was, all deep dark wood, blazing white sails, a lion on them. The name he told me, The Bride of Brythony, on the back all in pretty gold letters. Up on the front, the figurehead was an Angel, wings and everything."

Koshka tail gave a flick, her attention returning slowly to the room around her. The smell of paint, her own heartbeat.

"I watched that ship until it was a dot on the horizon, and then until it was nothing. I never found out where it went, and it never came back to Waterdeep again. I... suppose I think about what might have happened if I'd been on it, quite a lot."

There was quiet in the room, and Koshka flicked her eyes aside to see Treave smiling at her. 

"Thankyou, dear girl. I always find it calms my models to chat, take their mind somewhere else."

As the gnome approached, Koshka raised one shapely eyebrow.

"Done so soon?" 

Treave gave a shrug.

"Not just yet, but in a foolish mistake I should have foreseen, I did run out of red paint. You're vibrant, you know."

"I've been told. Naturally catches the eye," Koshka said, rising from the low chaise lounge and its many pillows, and stretching. Treave looked up at the Tiefling and removed his tiny spectacles to clean them on his smock. 

"I do understand though, my girl," he said as Koshka bent over to begin retrieving her clothes, "Sometimes you only get one chance to capture something. I try my hardest to." 

He gestured his little arms around him. Although Treave was by far best known for his many portraits of the women of the realms relieved of the burden of any clothing, in between were curious sights captured in his colours. The light on wet cobblestones, gleaming fruit on market stalls, flapping sails at dawn. 

"There's many beautiful things in the city, Koshka," Treave said as he replaced his newly cleaned glasses, "It's a blessing when one of them lingers for more than just a moment."

Koshka smiled playfully down at the tiny figure, and placed her hands on her hips.

"You can't flatter yourself out of the models wages, by the way, little man." she said.

"Wouldn't dream of it, my dear."

Give the People what they Want

The Yawning Portal was silent for a moment. 

Koshka's eyes darted, her breath caught in her throat, and for that moment it seemed she'd frozen.

Her clothes were a step and a half to her right, her instrument and the garter belt with her knife on it were two steps further, sitting on the bar. Koshka exhaled and realized there was going to have to be nothing else for it.

Barefoot and wearing nothing but her silken underthings, she shot from the chair and darted to her left, towards where she knew one of several exits from the Yawning Portal opened out onto the street. 

Tormyr gave a roar of frustration and, gesturing quickly to his men to take other exits, launched himself after her. Durnan didn't move, but made no mention to Tormyr's men that one of them was sprinting towards a locked and bolted door. 

Hearing the clatter and curse in the hall behind her as Tormyr found the mop bucket with his foot, Koshka slammed both palms into the heavy wooden door and fell out into the wet streets of pre-dawn Waterdeep. The sky was nothing but boiling black rainclouds, and rain spit down upon the cobbled streets as she leapt to her feet and darted towards the nearest alley. 

She was only a few steps away when she heard the door crash open once more, and the sound of heavy footfalls slamming the street in pursuit. 

Always faster than you expect, Dwarves. 

"I'm not gonna hurt you!" Tormyr yelled, and Koshka dared a glance over her shoulder to see eyes blazing with anger and an axe gripped tightly in a hand pumping as the Dwarf ran that she found didn't make the promise entirely encouraging.

Her head snapped back in time to see a fishmonger blearily rolling a wheelbarrow out a door for morning sales, hand half raised towards a yawning mouth, who suddenly jerked to a stop at the sight of a swiftly approaching amount of naked red flesh.

Giving a yelp of shock and stumbling back over his own doorstep, the man watched as Koshka vaulted the wheelbarrow and hit the street lightly, bare feet patting the stone. He was still staring after her when the Dwarf smashed full force into the wheelbarrow, sending it and a day's worth of herring flying across the alleyway with an almighty crash as the Dwarf barely slowed his pursuit.

Koshka turned a hard corner into the street, leaping across an empty market stall, folded up for the night, and picking up speed as she crossed into the tiny cobbled side streets towards the western dock ward. From the far side of the street she heard another commotion, and one of Tormyr's black clad men burst from the other side of the street, shoving a street urchin to the floor in his stride. Glancing quickly about himself, he caught sight of the Tiefling, and surged forward with a speed that startled Koshka. 

There was a brief yell of exchanged information from her pursuers, but Koshka didn't catch the gist of it as she darted down the side street and under the swinging night streetlamps. Had it been earlier in the morning, she might have found better luck with shadowy streets, a darkened corner to hide in, but candles were beginning to burn in the windows of the Waterdeep working class homes, chimneys beginnings to belch smoke, and the bustle of the long work day ahead was already rousing to life. 

Counting the small and crowded buildings as she passed, she hit the one she was looking for, and took a sharp right into the tiny alley between two houses. The normally high wall behind them was cracked and broken down here, and Koshka knew a old discarded chicken coop that would take her weight nicely. As she had a half dozen times before when fleeing a city watchmen, a debt collector or an over-zealous paramour, Koshka leapt to plant both feet on the rotten old wooden coop, and launched herself up to snatch a handhold atop the high wall. 

Tormyr came around the corner as she gained the top of the wall, and Koshka sent a darting glance back at him before she slipped from it. Tormyr roared in frustration once more, jabbing a finger indicating for his man to follow as he doubled back for another path.

Koshka hadn't looked what was on the other side, and as it turns out, the neighboring house had been slacking with the yard upkeep. She fell hard into the rosebush with a yelp of pain, and extracted herself with all the speed and decorum possible. Covered in tiny scratches and with her white hair filled with broken twigs and rose petals, Koshka sent a quiet whisper of thanks to the Gods she could name that somehow the thorns hadn't snagged on a garment and torn the underwear from her body entirely.

Stumbling across the small yard towards the street beyond, Koshka let out a shriek of pain as her bare foot came down hard on the edge of a broken brick, and followed up the shriek with an aggressive taking back of her prayer at the sky above. 

With a creak, Tormyr's man gained the top of the broken wall, and with the far more efficient balanced landing of a clothed body and well shod foot, jumped the rose bush and crossed the garden in a neat roll to follow the limping Tiefling in another alley. 

The wet streets were seeming less like her usual escape route and more like a wetly gleaming tomb as Koshka tried to gain speed again, the shadow of the leather clad man swiftly approaching and the crash of Tormyr coming around the far end of the alley. The scarlet trail left by her cut foot was bright in the yellow light from a nearby lantern, slowly washed away by the rain as she ran, and Koshka snarled another curse into the streets. 

Born in them, she should have expected she'd bloody die in them.

Looking above her, Koshka saw row upon row of hanging fabrics, the dingy overhang of this pathetic corner of the Dock Ward's market. Koshka had stolen misshaped fruit and dodgy meat from this corner of Waterdeep since she was a child. As she made the move to the dead end street she knew was coming, she had a grin on her face. She'd had her first kiss under one of the little stalls here, one dreary winter afternoon, an awkward snog with the baker's son in exchange for a hot cross bun, until they'd been caught by the boys dad and he'd chased her down the street. Damn good bun that had been, worth it. 

"Stop her!" Koshka heard Tormyr bellow, and Koshka heard the lurch of the spell before she even registered the strange words intoned by the leather clad man. 

The spear of fire soared overheard, lancing through the wet night and spreading fire with it to the overhanging drapery. The flaming materials dropped to the street before her, a wall of fire that seemed for a moment to obscure everything else. 

Koshka heard the thudding footsteps coming behind her, the impending crash of a body on her back, and without any further thought, she leapt through the raging fire into the alley beyond.

Tormyr swore and with a great swing of his arm, jabbed his armored elbow into the groin of his man. 

"Bloody Tieflings!" he snarled, leaving his man to groan in pain on his knees, "Do something helpful, you fool." 

Tormyr tightened his grip on his axe, and made to follow Koshka through the blaze. 

Taking his hands from his bruised balls, the leather clad man took up the sending stone from his pocket, and placed it to his mouth.

-

Koshka had decided it was time for her to reexamine her relationship with the Gods. 

Just as she leapt through the flames, her Tiefling skin feeling barely a summer's day scorch, she'd given her blissful thanks for her underwear once again somehow surviving catching alight, and had sped into the familiar alley, expecting to see the wide crack in the lower wall, that ancient old flaw that led a lithe street urchin to safety on the other side more than once, and found that after all these years, after all this time, someone had finally taken the effort to fix the crack.

Koshka was standing, arms hanging limp at her side, in the dark and dead-end alley as Tormyr stepped towards her. His face ruddy and red from the heat, his beard scorched and curling at the edges, his face lit with rage and fury. 

"Ready to stand the fuck still now are you?" he snapped, taking a step forward to stand firm. 

Koshka, wet from the rain, her silken underwear sticking to her red flesh, blood seeping from her foot, stood silently, watching the Dwarf. Trapped into the alley by the burning remnants of the market drapes, they stared at each other.

"I got to bring you to him, girl, you know I do," Tormyr said finally. The rage in his face had boiled out, and slowly his breath returned to normal.

"You don't have to, I could...slip away, right? I could've... almost did."

"Gave us the bloody run around, for sure. But I get everyone eventually," Tormyr smiled, taking one more step forward. His eyes looked up, left, then right. No escape.

"I suppose you bastards'll keep coming anyway, right?" Koshka asked, and Tormyr shrugged.

"If you weren't at the Portal, was gonna go to your place next. Yeah, I know where it is. If not there, your little boyfriend Errol, at his shop..." He let the threat hang in the air for a moment before continuing, "In the long run, it's better it ends here and now, isn't it? Life on the run isn't much fun, girl."

"Don't I know it," Koshka smiled giving him a knowing nod, "Spent my whole life running from one street to another."

Koshka took a step towards him, raising her hands together, as if to hold the Dwarf at bay. 

"Who am I, Tor?" she whispered.

The dwarf stared Koshka down, his heavy brow furrowed, grip still held steady on his axe.

"I don't even know who you are, Koshka," he said finally. Koshka, arms still raised in defense, nodded. 

"Exactly. I'm nobody. I'm a girl from the streets of Waterdeep. A half-breed, a tea-leaf, a guttersnipe. I sing in shitty bars for enough copper to eat, I fuck strangers in the trade ward for enough to pay debts. I'm nobody," Koshka said. 

She lowered her arms to her sides, slowly. Her hair was hanging heavy about her bare shoulders, twigs and leaves stuck among it's pale curls. 

"Lots of people are nobody, girl," Tormyr grunted. 

"And none of them, not one of them, could touch a man like Darrow. He's too rich, he's too strong. He's got the gold, he's got the magic, he's got the men who'll come for you and make people like me disappear. He knows that anyone who stands up to him has got to be somebody," Koshka spoke softly. Her voice was quiet, but without hesitation, without wavering, "Someone like me couldn't touch him."

"Unless he knows better," the Dwarf added. 

"And does he know better?" Koshka asked, one white eyebrow raised ever so slightly. 

The dwarf stared back at her for a long time, before finally giving the briefest shake of his head. 

"Because the only person, the only person who really knew, Darrow killed, right?" the Tiefling said, inclining her head. Tormyr looked down at his feet.

"He's got my cousin, girl," the Dwarf said, his voice low, "Standing right there, on his little desk. Trapped. Keeps him like a...like a trophy. All over a handful of gems he couldn't pay in time." 

Tormyr let the handle of his axe drop, to swing restlessly from the tips of his fingers. 

"Sometimes when I'm in there, in that room of his, I try to think how fast I'd have to be, to cut that scrawny throat of his, but no," Tormyr looked up, his brown eyes hard, "Guess I'm nobody too."

"Can't be nobody if you got friends though, yeah?" Koshka smiled, "Makes you somebody, at the least. You get your armour done in the Castle Ward right? Shop with the bad painting of the Wolf on the door?"

Tormyr frowned suspiciously, and the Tiefling gestured to his arm.

"Recognize the stitching, does it the same on everything. Old Wulf's shop. It's not actually authentic sword coast leather he uses, you know. He gets it in on the cheap off the boats from Calimshan."

Tormyr gave a curse, and muttered, "That bugger, I bloody knew it..."

Taking a step towards the Dwarf, Koshka extended a hand, her yellow eyes meeting his. 

"I may be a nobody, but this is my city. And If I ever get the chance, I'll help your cousin, and all those little toys on his desk, I promise."

Tormyr looked at the Tiefling's hand, red flesh bright in the firelight, and set his jaw in a hard line. He was opening his mouth to respond when all at once, as if it had been smothered in an instant, the fire around them went out. Without so much as a hiss to mark their passing, the flames simply flashed from existence and plunged the street into darkness. The sound of sharp heeled shoes clicking on cobblestones echoed down the alley, and Koshka's hand snapped back to her side. 

Striding swiftly towards them, his body hidden to the throat in a high collared royal blue coat bearing heavy silver buckles, was Darrow. 

He darted a look between the two, acknowledging the Tiefling's nudity with a brief frown of clear distaste. In the dim light, his tattoo leant his face a positively ghoulish appearance, as if the leering bony horror was truly staring out of the shadows waiting to pounce.

"One of your men summoned me, Tormyr, I trust he didn't waste my time," 

Tormyr looked to Koshka, her yellow eyes wide and staring silently into his, then back to Darrow.

"I'm sorry sir, we got into a scuffle in the street here. One of the boys let loose a scroll bit eager like. Lost our man in the confusion."

Darrow stared in silence, his face as if carved from some horrid stone. When Tormyr realized he wasn't going to say anything, the Dwarf continued. 

"Koshka here was helping us, she knows the streets well." 

Darrow slowly shifted his gaze to the Tiefling.

Koshka looked back at Darrow, his empty eyes staring back at her from dark circles, and gave a sigh.

"I'm sorry they dragged you all the way out here, Mr. Darrow, Sir. But I've no more information to give than I'm sure you've already heard. Tormyr knew I might know more about the Tiefling who supposedly intercepted the delivery, but it's not a girl I know. If we knew the colour of her flesh, maybe that would help narrow it down a little, there's not too many of us in Waterdeep. Still, no one I know would be so stupid as to rip you off, Sir."

Darrow stared Koshka down, his expression unchanging.

Tormy piped up, "Could be part of the thieves guild, they're all over the place."

"Skullport has seen ships from the Southern kingdoms, rumours of some shakeup from Icewind Dale." Koshka nodded.

Tormyr raised a finger as if he'd just thought of something.

"I heard the Xanathar has been stockpiling magic for war with the Zhentarim, imports could have been targeted."

"Xanathar, Zhentarim, even Thay has Wizards in the streets. I saw one at the Yawning Portal asking questions. Waterdeep is a nest of snakes, Sir. I know it better than anyone."

Darrow's mouth opened, as if to speak, and snapped shut again. One of his hands rose and, almost inadvertently, clutched at his throat, as if feeling something that might hang there under his clothing. 

"What kind of questions, child?" Darrow snapped, his voice curt. Koshka made an exasperated flourish.

"I didn't hear much, the usual I suppose, where is this, who's in charge, how do I find that. He gave old Durnan, that's the bartender over there, quite the working over. And they're never interested in anything I've got to sell, let me tell you."

Darrow's gaze was on the floor before him, his nose flared. Koshka decided to push.

"If you need eyes and ears on the street, I'm your girl. I'm everywhere. I play in all the bars, sleep in all the beds, sit at all the windows. If anyone breathes a word about something you want to know about, you won't find better in Waterdeep than me. No one pays attention," she smiled, her fangs showing at the corners of her lips, "I'm nobody."

Darrow gave a single, sharp nod, and with a tilt of his head to Tormyr, turned fully about.

"Don't waste my time again, Tormyr, tell your man I expect payment for the scroll," he said. Torymr gave Koshka a look somewhere between disbelief and respect, before Darrow turned with a jerk of his hand, pointing a finger at the Tiefling.

"And I trust you haven't forgotten, Koshka. 60 gold, you have two days remaining."

Koshka spread her hands apart,

"No sir, I'm good for it." she said. Darrow hesitated, briefly.

"...make it 55. Get yourself some clothes," he said, turning. With the cracking of his heels on the cobblestones, he was gone.

Tormyr was left standing looking after him in the street, and turned to Koshka. The Tiefling was standing tall, her ragged hair a mess, one hand upon a cocked hip. 

"You got the talk, girl. Give you that," Tormyr grunted. Koshka shrugged. 

"Everyone's got something, eh?" she said with a smirk, "Got great tits too." 

Tormyr gave a bark of a laugh,

"Aye well, if you like 'em on the skinny side," He stepped forward, and offered a hand to Koshka. The Tiefling took it.

"Thanks, Tor. I'll make it up to you," she said softly. The Dwarf nodded. 

"You make digging a debt a noble profession, girl. But I'll remember that." 

Together, they began to slow walk from the alleyway, Koshka limping ever so slightly, Tormyr's axe resting on his shoulder. 

"Get you back to the Portal eh? Warm up?" he sniffed, rubbing his nose. Koshka nodded, rubbing her wet shoulders. 

"First though, you know anyone I can steal 55 gold from before tomorrow night?" she asked.

Tormyr immediately gave a huff that sent his moustache to quivering, "Oh, loads!" 

"Good, In that case Tor, I need a favour..."

-

Epilogue - A Change in the Weather

Darrow looked up from his work to find a small, smiling face, stood just barely tall enough to peer over from other side of his desk. Even among Gnomes, Treave was particularly tiny. 

"Good day to you Mr. Darrow," the Gnome nodded, giving a little bow. In his hands he gripped a rolled package.

"And to you, Treave," Darrow said, placing his writing implement aside and folding his hands together on the desk, "Tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure? If I do find myself in need of a painting of some spread eagled Elf girl you can rest assured I'll reach out. No need to go door to door."

Treave gave another jolly bow and inclined his head even lower, chuckling at the comment, even though Darrow's emotionless face made it impossible to judge whether the man was actually joking or not.

"Glad to see that my well deserved reputation precedes me, my work hangs on the walls of Waterdeep's finest, as I'm sure you know. If an Elf maiden is not to your taste, I have had so many wonderful models sit for me, Dwarves, Aasimar, a particularly beautiful Goliath who had the most amazing..."

"Your pornography collection aside, why are you taking up my time, Treave?"

Treave gave a chirp and approached the desk, bearing higher the rolled package. Without waiting to be invited, Treave placed the package upon the desk. Darrow looked down at it, his dark eyes unchanging, and gave an almost imperceptible raise of one hairless eyebrow.  

Treave unrolled the package, and the revealed bracers gleamed silver. Darrow's eyes narrowed, and he reached partially towards them, curling his hand almost to a claw. Treave remained silent, the glint in the Gnome's eye remained as warm and humorous as ever, but there was something else there too. Shrewdness, knowingness. 

Darrow folded his hands once more, restraining the urge to reach out and take the bracers, and instead stared up at Treave.  

"Just fell into my lap, and I thought 'what luck'," Treave said.

"What do you want for them, Treave?" Darrow whispered.

The gnome clapped his tiny hands together, and Darrow watched as the Gnome's eyes darted around the room briefly. Quick glances at the wands strapped to the side of Darrow's chair arm, to the seemingly normal cloak that hung from the wall behind the desk, to the little figures that stood silent nearby.

Trave allowed his hands to fall to his side, and awarded Darrow with a beaming smile.

"No charge." 

This time Darrow's brow really rose, he remained silent, and Treave continued.

"Shall we say that, should I ever need a favor, I can count on a man of your... unique talents to assist as required?"

Darrow stared up at him for a moment longer, before he reached to roll the package up once more, and take it in his arms, cradling it. 

"Done," Darrow said. Treave gave a flamboyant bow, and spread his hands wide. 

"So wonderful to do business with you again, Mr. Darrow," he said as he turned to leave. As he strode, he stopped to look at the far wall.  

"This wall is very quiet, Mr. Darrow. Needs something to spice it up. I have a lovely painting of a Tiefling, by the way. I'll send it along, on the house."

Little Miss Queen of Darkness

The Yawning Portal saw the usual clientele of Waterdeep souls tonight as Koshka performed. Her eyes were closed, and the tall sitar was held in her hands, braced against one upright knee, folds of her skirts spread out upon the tiny corner stage. Occasionally she'd crack one dark yellow eye to observe the crowd, watching as she sang softly. 

It was an uninspiring night, and apart from a blonde-haired old Dwarf nursing his third huge tankard of sour smelling ale who actually seemed quite absorbed in the performance, there were few eyes upon the Tiefling as she played. A yawning human couple sat closely, more invested in each others eyes, three halflings sat around a table trading bawdy stories and occasionally laughing loudly. Koshka saw Durnan behind the bar, looking around the room with his eagle old eyes as always. 

It was a quiet song, low tempo, of slowly spiraling sitar strums that echoed about the room, a voice low, sad.

Naked Ruby cries
A painted alibi
She fell onto her knife
Naked Ruby cries 
All night

The blonde dwarf raised his tankard and drunkenly nodded his head slowly, as if in agreement with the lyrics. One of the halflings finished what must have been the punchline to her story and screeched with high pitched laughter. 

At the waters edge
Ruby grips the bed
She knows she's going to die
If she can't swim to the other side
Naked Ruby cries
All night

Another guffaw of laughter split the quiet song, and two brawny stevedores began exchanging noisy words concerning the proper way to tie a bowline knot. Koshka opened her eyes and found Durnan looking at her, giving her a spread of his great calloused hands and giving her the unmistakable hand gesture of 'give me something here'.

Koshka allowed the rest of her song to go unsung, trailing off the last strings of her sitar quietly. The quiet in the tavern went unnoticed, and no faces turned up to see what had happened to the music, other than one dwarf who still looked on expectantly. 

Koshka leaned to glance into the brown purse placed down in front of the stage, to see a scant handful of coppers had filled it since she began, and rolled her eyes. Nothing else for it then. 

Koshka turned to the lad who ran drums for the other bards, knowing he knew how to keep a beat when required. 

"Boy, get behind your drums here. We're gonna have a sing along," she said. The boy got up from his place and clambered behind the two large drums that sat behind Koshka. 

With a flowery wave of her skirts, Koshka stood, swinging her sitar around to balance over her shoulders. 

"Bit quiet in here tonight isn't it?!" she called out. A few faces turned towards her, a few eyebrows raised, "You all come from a funeral?"

A one-eyed old soldier in the far corner gave a snort of derision and called back, "Aye, yers if ya keep playin' that bloody dirge, half-blood."

There was a roar of laughter, Koshka cocked her hip and extended a pointed fingernail in his direction. 

"Oh we're all having a go now are we?" she asked, "Think you lads could do me better?"

There were a few shouts, mumbled retorts, at least one brief attempt to supply another cutting remark that fell short.

Koshka placed her sitar down, resting against the wall, and bending down, neatly undid the ties on her boots. 

Barefoot, the Tiefling hopped neatly onto the nearest table, causing the incumbent half-orc to snatch up his wobbling cup, and raised her hands up.

"Who knows 'Upon Returning from Icewind Dale?!'"

There was a great cheer from the assembled room. Koshka met them with smile, baring her fangs, and in a loud, melodic voice, she began.

We all set sail for Icewind Dale
The place where good ale flows
Where the maidens are fair
In the chill summer air
And they sing songs that everyone knows

Reaching behind her, Koshka gave a tug of the lace that held her bodice tight, and opened the back of it with a jerk of her shoulders.

But Gods help you if you are a human
'Cause you better learn to drink quick!
For those damn Dwarven lasses
They drink their ale in flashes
And they'll drink it all before you take a sip!

Koshka tossed her bodice in the air as the boy began a rolling sea shanty beat, and with a drunken roar, a dozen of the occupants of the bar joined in for the chorus, tankards banging on tables and suds spilling.

We've been kicked out of every pub in Icewind Dale
We've been beaten within inches of our lives
For we act like asses to those fair Elven lasses
It's a wonder any one of us survived!

Koshka leapt to the next table in the line, her bare feet landing between the laughing Halflings, unlinking her outer skirt with a whip of her hand and depositing the garment atop the head of one of the little folk. He emerged from beneath it with a laugh of support and reached up at Koshka's leg as she danced out of reach to the next table.

Well it was there I was drinking one fine mornin'
Flirting with some pretty goblin fun
When behind me there loomed such a shadow
That I fled out from my seat for to run!
Well I swear it was a mountain of muscle
That kicked my arse and threw me out the door
But 4 foot 7 was her height
And her anger gave her might
And she looked big when you're lying on the floor!

Her white shirt next to fall behind her as she skipped to another table, Koshka found the air around her seemed to glow, lights that were following her, dancing as if in time to her swinging hips, her rolling shoulders. Flicks of glowing lights flashed and glimmered around her fingertips as she deftly unlatched the buckles on her heavy second skirt and sent it falling about the heads of the singing folk at her feet. 

With only her meagre silk undergarments remaining, Koshka raised her voice, and the lights beamed with more energy still. 

Like whiskey and bitters are to moth and to flame
A more volatile mixture can't be found
For when you go a-travelling
If that bodice you're unravelling
Belongs to a Tiefling be prepared!

Her bare red flesh gleaming in the light from the hearth, Koshka leapt back upon the stage as the chorus continued to be belted out by an entire room of roaring drunks. The lights that followed Koshka were throbbing, seeming to feed off her energy, her confidence, punctuating her performance with every movement.

Her fingers twirled at her hips, Koshka deftly began unlacing the tiny silk knots that kept her remaining garments on. With a roll of her hip, about to whip the entirety of it from her body, she heard Durnan yell across the bar at her.

"For Tyr's sake Kosh, keep sumthin' on at least!" the bartender growled. There was a general groan of disappointment from the audience. 

"There goes yer bloody tip barkeep!" cried the blonde dwarf, sat staring up at Koshka by the stage, resulting in a resounding cackle of laughter. Koshka made a show of retying the knot and spread her hands wide in a great shrug of apology, her face lit with a playful smile.

When the last repetition of the rousing chorus finally died down, Koshka stood with hands on her bare hips, looking about the crowd. With a little kick of her bare foot, she kicked the purse clinking down onto a table in the middle of the room.

"Right... any requests?" 

The bar exploded into noise immediately, calls for 'Down among the Dead Men', 'Bound for south Serpentes', 'Calimshan Girls' echoing all over. When the old Dwarf quietly suggested 'Kisses in Skullport', one of Koshka's own ballads, she leaned over him to tussle his hair and make the old man blush. A good few drinks worth of silver and even a few glinting gold coins clinked heavily into the purse as more songs were suggested. Koshka gave a wink to Durnan as he slowly shook his head, returning to cleaning his glasses and wishing he'd stuck with the quiet raga. 

The strange lights continued their effervescent illumination around Koshka's deep red skin, swelling with her mood and her smiles. Later, drunks would trade stories all down the dockside about the evening, with the intensity of the strange magic display, and indeed, the state of nudity of the Tiefling performer growing ever more exaggerated with each telling.

-

Durnan was wiping down the bartop with a rag as Koshka sat nursing a drink at the far end of the long wooden bar. The last dregs of the occupancy were either helping each other leave, or snoring in corners waiting to be prodded by Durnan's broom. Not long before the first light of dawn would shine over Waterdeep. 

"Why so glum looking, Kosh?" Durnan asked. The Tiefling, lost in her thoughts, took a moment to respond. 

"Not been a great week for... I guess anything." she replied quietly, her voice hoarse from a night of loud and ever-rowdier shanties. Her clothes were in a pile on a stool beside her. 

Durnan reached over to give the purse that sat beside her a prod.

"You made 13 gold in one night, girl, usually you'd be bouncing off the  walls," he said. Koshka gave a shrug, staring into her drink. The old warrior gave a sigh, and leaned in closer to her.

"Look girl, I known you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper. I know when you're upset. If it's something I can help with, let me know. Yeah?"

Koshka put down her drink, chewing her lip. 

"I know... It's just... I gotta see Treave is all, he said he'd meet me here. Things'll be fine once he gets here."

"Well, you know what's best, I'm sure," Durnan grunted, and Koshka saw his chin rise as he looked over her shoulder, "We're closed lads, open up again for libations late morning."

"Oh this won't take up much of your time, barkeep," came the gruff brogue from behind Koshka. She felt a chill down her spine, and slowly turned. 

Behind her was a particularly broad Dwarf, an axe on his hip, flanked by two men in leathers. 

"Koshka is it?" said Tormyr, "I need a word with you."

-

'Naked Ruby' lyrics by Katiejane Garside.

Part 4

Behind Blue Eyes

Koshka approached the little wooden door and stood quietly for a moment. The cobblestones beneath her boots were wet, and the Tiefling glanced to either side down the dark alley. Echoes from the docks could be heard dimly over the crowding buildings. Clutched against her bustier was the pouch of coin. 

Her dress was heavy with the rainfall, and water glistened on her curved horns as she took a breath to steady herself, before she knocked firmly three times on the door.

There was a moment of silence before the little window slid open with a crack that made Koshka jump, and from it gazed the large black eyes of the Half-Orc bodyguard. He was having to learn awkwardly to see through the small window, and frowned down at Koshka. 

"I'm here to see Mr Darrow," she said, hesitantly. 

The Half-Orc gave a snort, and the window slammed shut. Koshka shifted uncomfortably. Pulling at her dress and tugging her shirt from it's uncomfortable wet hold around her neck. 

Finally the door swung open, and the guard stood aside to allow her in. He was huge, and Koshka felt his gaze on her back as she stepped down the little hallway towards the office. The hallway was long and tight, and should someone stand at either end with a crossbow, Koshka was painfully aware there was nowhere to go. 

Her boots echoed noisily down the hall, and it seemed a long time until the Tiefling finally turned the corner to enter the office. It was small, the ceiling seeming to encroach on headspace, and Koshka held her hands clutched in front of herself as she waited to be addressed. 

Darrow was seated behind his desk as always. Papers and coins cluttered around. Multiple heavy scrolls were lined up in a row near him, and he appeared to be in mid-transcription when his gaze finally crawled up Koshka's body to look at her. Every time when Koshka thought she was prepared, that she was used to it, she'd look into those eyes, deep and big and blue, staring out from that awful face, and immediately feel her stomach turn.

Koshka automatically turned her eyes from his gaze, and tried to look elsewhere. Her gaze found the little statues on the corner of his desk, and the awful feeling of tension in her gut started again. Glancing at the scrolls, she didn't want to be accused of snooping, so instead she settled on looking around her at the items on the walls instead. The pictures, the paintings, the many collected items that had found their way to Darrow's office. 

"Koshka," Darrow said, his accent extending the first syllable into an unpleasant hiss, "You're wet."

Koshka tugged at her skirt uncomfortably. 

"Yes...It's raining," she said. 

Darrow's face, his true face, was as unreadable as ever, and Koshka tried again not to stare at it as the human extended a hand to gesture at her.

"You're treading water on my carpet, girl." 

Koshka stepped back onto the bare stone quickly, tutting.

"Sorry, sorry I didn't mean to..." 

"Towards me, girl, where I can see you," Darrow said. 

Koshka took a breath to steady herself, and stepped around the red carpet to stand before Darrow's desk. 

"Do you have something for me?" he said. 

Koshka suddenly remembered why she was there, and fumbled the little coin purse from her bustier. Almost dropping it, she extended it to place on the desk before her. 

Darrow's hand shot out, fast and deft as any thief. Snatching Koshka's extended hand and gripping it tight around the purse. Darrow's nails were neat and trimmed, the cuticles of his fingers red and sore looking.  

He waited in silence until Koshka raised her gaze to look into his eyes. 

Those blue eyes. It was so hard to look into them. Koshka's breath was shallow. 

Darrow was a more horrifying sight than any bodyguard he could possible employ. 

Darrow's skin, where it was visible, was a pale and pasty white. Years without sun had made his flesh like parchment, the skin around his eyes dark and sagging. Every inch of visible flesh upon the man, and Koshka could only assume, upon all the rest of his flesh currently covered by a plain and simple black shirt and breeches, was tattooed in excruciating detail of a demonic horror. As if superimposed over his own body, the demon seemed to regard Koshka as Darrow looked at her. Around his thin lips were leering, grinning fangs, tongue lolling black down his chin. Horns so elegantly designed they seemed almost to bulge from his forehead. All the way to his hands, where individual bony claws stood upon every finger, each knuckle meticulously covered. When buttons on Darrow's shirt had been loose, Koshka had seen glimpses of of bony ribcages, black against his pale flesh. 

"Little small, isn't it?" Darrow hissed, dragging Koshka from her horror, "You owe me 60 gold, Koshka."

Koshka stumbled over her words for a moment, before she found her confidence. 

"It's 25 gold, I...I had trouble this week. Things didn't go as planned."

"Yes well things rarely do if you plan poorly, don't you find?" Darrow said, without an ounce of humour. He continued to hold Koshka's hand in a surprisingly firm grip, "I find to take care of things I often have to do things myself, so that I don't have anyone else to blame. Tell me Koshka who do you have to blame, hm?" 

Koshka hesitated, "No one."

"No one? So you are squarely to blame for failing to provide what you owe? 60 gold by this week Koshka, my spells don't come cheap, you know that."

She nodded firmly.

"Yes, yes I know. I'm sorry, I'll have the rest by next time, no question."

"I have your word, girl?" Darrow said, his blue eyes narrowing. Koshka had the sensation of being crushed, her ribs tightening, her breath short. For one awful moment, as she stared at his face, she had the sudden impression of one curving tattooed bone twitching, ever so slightly.

"You have my word, you'll be paid in full."

"Trust is all we have in this business, Koshka. I don't have to warn you what happens when someone fails to honor an agreement with me, do I?" 

Koshka's gaze fell to the little statues upon the desk. Each one so real looking, so detailed. Almost impossibly so, like they'd start moving any moment. One, a dwarf, looked like he was in the process of beginning to swing a weapon, beard flailing, the tiny face twisted in rage. The newest one there was a woman, dark skinned, naked, long curling braids about her shoulders, an expression of shock on her face and one hand raised as if to defend herself. Koshka recognized the woman from the Yawning Portal, a known thief. 

"Yes, I know," she said. Darrow allowed her hand free, with a deft turn of his fingers, he slipped the purse loose and, without looking into it, placed it into a drawer behind his desk. 

"You have until three moons from now, or I'm making space on my desk." 

Koshka gave a nod, and was about to turn to leave when Darrow's head tilted to one side, clearly listening. His face twisted, briefly, into a scowl, before his usual unconcerned demeanor returned. 

"He doesn't have it?" Darrow suddenly snapped, responding to a conversation only he could hear.

Darrow spread his hands flat on the table, his face suddenly a mask of concern, "Hold him there until...No, send him back here, both of them. Now." 

Koshka made to leave, but Darrow's voice snapped sharply, he was pointing to the corner of the office room.

"You. Stand there. Face the wall. Silence. Understand?" 

Koshka hesitated, and Darrow raised his voice a small but noticeable amount. 

"Now."

Koshka stepped to the corner, staring in confusion at a coatrack as she head hurried footsteps coming down the little hallway. She heard Darrow whisper under his breath. 

An odd feeling came over her, a strange, cooling sensation her entire body over. In shock, she realized she couldn't see her own eyelids when she blinked. She had become invisible. 

Koshka stood, silent and invisible, in the corner of the office, as two figures entered the tiny room with a commotion.

"Darrow, Darrow mate I'm so sorry I don't know how it happened but there was a problem with the trade off, they're all gone," came the gruff and panicked voice from the newcomer. From the height the voice came from behind her, Koshka could tell it was a Dwarf. 

"You lost the satchel," Darrow said, his voice like ice. 

The Dwarf stuttered, and another voice began. Koshka's breath burned in her throat, and her eyes widened in shock and recognition. 

"There was a miscommunication, at the tradeoff, Mr Darrow, sir." the voice said. The same voice Koshka had heard whispering sweet things into her ear a night before, "I think, I think someone knew about the meet."

"And you, a professional courier, gave my package to the wrong person." Darrow asked.

There was a huff of breath, and Koshka could picture Finn's trademark shrug and careless rolled eyes.

"Professional hazard, always. I'm sure it can be found, after all, I remember everything I..."

Darrow cut him off by slamming his open palm on the desk with a slam that made everyone in the room jump.

"You allowed yourself to be tricked. To be fooled. To be taken for an idiot. To have MY PROPERTY STOLEN FROM YOU," Darrow's voice boomed, raised to an echoing yell. 

There was silence for a moment, held breaths. 

"I do so love having someone to blame, don't you?" Darrow said, coldly. 

"Mr Darrow, surely we can..." the Dwarf began. Koshka's eyes hurt suddenly, and sickly green light filled the room. There was a moment of horrible screaming, and then nothing. Koshka stared into the corner in terror, waiting.

"You'll find my satchel by the end of the week, is that clear, Tormyr?" 

"Yes Mr Darrow, yes sir, you have my word, all the best on it already." 

"Go." 

There was movement, the shuffle of a single pair of feet down the hallway. Silence.

Koshka felt herself return to normal, the feeling of chill replaced by the sudden awareness of being visible again, and the unexpected feeling of vulnerability it caused. 

Darrow was seated behind his desk, hands spread. There was no one else in the room. 

"Three moons, girl. Clear?"

"Yes...Mr Darrow... sir," Koshka whispered, breathlessly.

Darrow gestured at the door, and Koshka left. 

Heart hammering in her chest, Koshka strode down the hallway and stood before the bodyguard. The Half-Orc placed a finger to his lips briefly,  The last echoing footsteps were echoing down the alleyway, and when they fully disappeared into the night, he slowly slid finger from his lips, and opened the door for Koshka to leave.

-

Rain hammered down on Koshka as she walked through the streets, heels clicking on the cobblestones. 

An awful weight hung in her throat. She'd made a terrible mistake. The only person who had seen her face was gone, but she knew, somehow, somewhere they'd be onto her, seeking her out. 

Koshka looked down the rainy streets towards home, and instead turned in the opposite direction. Treave, she had to go to Treave. He'd know what to do.

-

Darrow sat in his office, his hands spread and gripped to the table in front of him. His breath was heavy, heaving in his chest, and he thrust out a hand to fumble with his drawers. 

There was a roaring in his head. A hunger. A hunger that had to be sated before something terrible happened. 

As he reached out, the claws of his tattoo rippled, for just a moment. The awful bone-white claws tatooed onto the backs of his fingers leapt fully from his flesh to scratch lines into the wooden desk. Darrow turned aside, trying desperately to contain it, but he was running low. 

His store exhausted, he tugged one of the rings from his own fingers. Powerful magic, but no other option now. Holding it in his hand, he tried to concentrate, to quell the roaring deep behind his eyes. The creature staring out of his skull hissed a threat into Darrow's brain. 

He concentrated, the magic ring quivered, and burned away to nothing in the palm of his hand. Magic surged through him, calming, quieting, sating.

Darrow leaned back in his chair, sighing in relief. It was quiet for now. 

Darrow slammed shut the drawer and hissed. He was running out of wondrous items. Soon there would be nothing let for him to devour. 

-

Part 3

Livin' on a Thin Line

Findan sat up to rest on his elbows and watched the Tiefling as she reclaimed her clothing from around the floor. She turned yellow eyes towards him, and he got that thrill again. Dark eyes full of laughter and promises. He still couldn't believe his luck. Years of courier work and never had a job ended like this. 

She stood up, her dark red skin almost the colour of blood in the dim light, her body hidden only by a barely-there chemise.

"Well it's been a pleasure doing business with you, sir, I do hope we can arrange it again sometime," she said. Her voice was husky, with a lyrical accent Findan wasn't familiar with. He spread his hands wide and grinned.

"You got that right, where can I find you when I'm back in town?" 

"Oh, I'll find you first," she purred, slipping back on a deep blue shirt and buckling the front around her stomach. Findan's satchel lay on the floor nearby, bulky and heavy. He had been sick of carrying and watching the thing all the way from Icewind Dale. 

When the Tiefling was fully dressed, standing tall in low-heeled riding boots, a frilled skirt and a small jacket, she knelt to take up the satchel and slung it over her shoulder.  

"Until next time..." she whispered, and blew the courier a kiss, Findan watched her go, and decided to get a few more hours sleep. 

-

Tormyr was gnawing on the second hunk of dried meat he'd purchased from the nearby stall when Findan finally appeared, trotting down the watery street with a spring in his step. The Dwarf gave a grunt of acknowledgement as the courier approached and flashed a smile.

"I said noon. Not noonish, Finn," Tormyr grunted, waving the meat at him. Findan gave a nod and fluttered a hand in apology.

"Oh come on, I'm barely late. Sometimes in life you have to take the time to relax, Tor. Don't you ever take a day off?" 

"Not really, s'matter of fact. Why y' so perky?" Tormyr asked, his eyes narrowing under his great bushy salt and pepper eyebrows. Findan gave a laugh.

"It was a good night, sometimes all it takes is a change in luck to brighten up the whole world, you know?"

"Apparently so. Coulda' fooled me though, looks like another shit morning in Waterdeep f'rall I see though. The meet go well then?" the Dwarf asked.

"I tell you, If you'd told me what the contact was like before I would have taken this job weeks ago," Findan gave a whistle. Tormyr stared at him curiously.

"Oh aye? The Tiefling yeah? Scary looking bugger isn't he?"

Findan hesitated, looked down at the dwarf, hands on his hips, and gave an incredulous half-laugh.

"He?" 

"The Tiefling. Your contact. Koziel. Big bugger with horns out to here," the dwarf gestured, extending his arms either side of his head, "What do you mean?"

Findan was silent a moment, and he looked out down the wet streets, chewing on his lip. Tormyr's moustache gave a concerned wiggle, and he prodded the courier. 

"Why...who'd you give the package to, Finn?"

"Erm... I think there might have been... a misunderstanding somewhere. I met a Tiefling at the dock... she said she was the one I was looking for."

"She? Well did you ask for the password? The one the contact was to give you?" Tormyr thundered, his gruff voice echoing off the cobblestones.

Findan scratched at his head sheepishly, the colour having suddenly drained from his face. 

"I... I fear it slipped my mind," Findan said, all trace of levity gone. Tormyr stared up at him, moustaches quivering in rage.

"Who'd you give the package to Finn?!"

-

Treave looked up at the polite knock on his door, and cautiously called out. 

"Yes, yes?" 

"It's me," came the voice from beyond. Quiet, distinctive. 

Treave's face lit up and he tucked his paintbrush behind his ear and scampered across the room to unlock the door.

"Koshka! Koshka my dear come in, quick quick!" he stood aside to make room as the Tiefling crouched to fit through his miniature studio door. The red-skinned woman gave the tiny Gnome a hug that almost covered his figure entirely in her frilly shirts and great skirts. Treave gave a quick glance out the door before he closed it behind her. Koshka slumped a clattering satchel on the ground. 

"Is this it? Is this it? Well done girl! How on Earth did you get it from him?" Treave said as he cleared aside his easel and paints, eagerly tugging at the drawstrings of the satchel. 

Koshka gave a low shrug and smiled.

"People'll believe anything if you give them enough reason to."

"Clearly, clearly so!" Treave chuckled. The contents of the satchel displayed, he tugged an elegant loupe from his shirt pocket and placed it to his eye. 

"Well...what have we got?" Koshka asked hesitantly; watching the Gnome work. 

Taking items from the satchel one by one and carefully examining them, Treave nodded slowly.

"Hm, it's definitely magical cargo alright, looks like a wonderous item horde. Let's see now..."

Koshka clutched her hands together in anticipation and bit her lip with a sharp fang. Treave proceeded to meticulously examine the contents of the satchel item by item, sniffing stoppered bottles, tapping on something here, listening intently to something there.

"Wig of many styles... Self inking quill... oh!" he lifted a thumb-sized dull metal object, "Unpierceable thimble of defense!"

Koshka's face started to fall, as Treave continued to sort.

"Goblet of goblins... Evergrowing cheese... Abacus of counting..." 

"Is it all... trash?" Koshka ventured. Treave gave a shrug.

"Depends on your view of trash I suppose, there's always a market for novelty magic items you know. This Bag of endless beetroot? Might get a few silver for that at the market." 

Koshka slumped back, dejected.

"Where's the good stuff? The Potions of longevity? The Rings of wishes? Girdles of giant strength?"

 Treave looked up at her and gave the Tiefling a comforting smile. 

"There there my dear. They can't all be dragon's hordes. But, don't be too down," he was sniffing at a tiny metal flask, pearlescent liquid sloshing within, "Because I happen to know that a certain masked Lord will pay at least 30 gold for this one." 

He tossed the tiny item to Koshka, who cradled it in her hands. 

"What is it?" she asked reverently. Treave gave a wink.

"Potion of hair regrowth. He's been trying to employ a wizard capable of giving him back his curls for years now."

Koshka shook her head and sighed.

"Thankyou Treave. I'll leave the rest with you?" 

Treave gave a nod, shoving the bulging satchel aside. 

"Of course, of course! Anything I find a home for, I'll be sure to kick you back your percentage." 

She leaned to give the gnome a small kiss on his prodigious protruding nose, and made to leave.

"Oh, if you still want to earn a little more, you know you can always come model for me, dear!" Treave called after her. 

"You haven't got the gold, Treave!" she called back playfully. 

-

Koshka stood in the rain outside the tiny door, clutching the potion to her breast. 30 gold would be enough to tide over the debt for now. 

Taking a quick glance either way down the street, she sped off towards the dock, heels clicking on the hard cobblestones.

-

Treave listened as the footsteps trailed off out of earshot, and once more made sure his door was locked.

Digging into the bottom of the satchel, he pulled out the metal bracers from the bottom. Etched in filigree and gleaming silver. They seemed heavier than they should be. Treave kicked the rest of the satchel and its contents aside, and placed the bracers carefully upon his work desk. 

"Now then, let's see why they wanted you so badly..."

-

Part 2

Tales from Solemn Vale: The Legend of the Ryswell Strait.

The forests of Solemn Vale are home to many rivers and streams that babble along through the trees. Some are wide enough to be crossed by small bridges, others just large enough for a traveler to leap from bank to bank.

One unassuming length of river, a few miles into the forest, bears a history of death. The Ryswell Straight, as this quarter mile of rugged river is known, runs between mossy banks and looks to any passerby like any other quiet woodland creek. The little river is deceptively deep though, and startlingly fast.

Following the Ryswell Straight will lead to a flat rock, slipping out from the forest floor over the river. The rock is treacherous, slippery even when dry. And it was from this rock, in the winter of 1576, that a girl named Bethany Ryswell was cast naked into the freezing river by the town priest. 

Accused of witchcraft after a neighbour’s hen began laying black-yoked eggs, Bethany was swiftly apprehended by the local clergy, and the priest declared a test of faith. Promising Bethany would be cleared of all accusations should she swim the river and climb the other side, the girl was thrown in. 

Only a dozen feet across, the river’s current held the girl down against the rocky riverbed, and Bethany never again rose from the water. The Priest cursed her name as a witch, it let it be known that holy justice had been served. 

Ryswell straight began to be visited by missionaries over the decades following, becoming something of a holy site. They noticed strange things about the waters moving through the area. As if disobeying the laws of nature itself, the waters of the Ryswell straight coarse faster when touched, streaming past errant fingertips or dangled toes as if clutching for them. The waters turn in onto themselves in places, spinning the current in strange and unpredictable ways. Holy men at the site say it was the power of God in the waters. 

This narrative was kept up a while, until a visiting Bishop blessing the river stepped on a particular out-jutting rock and slipped into the straight. The waters gripped the man like claws, tugging him under without time to scream. It was hours before they pulled the Bishops body from the waters downstream of the Ryswell straight, bloodied and torn upon the rocks. 

In the strange way of things, more people began to visit the Ryswell Straight following the bishop’s grisly death. Each seeking a test of faith, to prove their holiness by leaping into the waters and successfully swimming to the other side. It seems none were as holy as they believed. Since 1576, no-one who has stepped into the Ryswell Straight has made it to the other side. Every single pious soul, adventuring daredevil or unfortunate walker who just happened to slip, has died in the short straight of river. Either held under by the twisting waters, or smashed upon the rocks. Some believe God is a harsh judge, and others say that the ghost of Bethany Ryswell still lies seeking warmth from the river bed.

At the Ryswell Straight today, little marks the place but for a poorly constructed wire fence around a few areas of the river, and a sign that warns ‘DANGER. Beware slippery Rocks. No Swimming’.

In the Mountains, The Dreams (A Cerce Stormbringer Story) Part 2.

 Part 1

-

Chapter 2

"Bloody hell..." crooned Cerce as they crested the rocky rise and the scope of the monastery came into view through the trees.

It was a building devoid of light, even among the dim moonlit forest it was a hulking black shape deeper than shadow. It sat hunched on the hillside like a gargoyle, with creeping towers reaching out into the forest. There were no fires burning, no signs of habitation, only darkness.

"Now that is not a welcoming place," Adam said as he came up to stand beside Cerce. "Proper good spot to get murdered right up, that is."

"You're not wrong. What do you think they're worshiping up in there?"

Adam put his hands on his hips, fingers toying with the hilt of his rapier.

"You're asking me? I don't know, love. Could be one of them monks suddenly figures he's a prophet? That's not uncommon. Or they dug up a book, standard Old God stuff, miserable forgotten type who likes child sacrifices and dreariness?"

"Yeah, if we're lucky. If that's the case all we got in there is a bunch of zealots to knock about," Cerce frowned.

"You worried it's something else?"

"Well the other option in these sort of times is that these fuckers found something horrible in the dark and decided it was a God," Cerce said as she peered through the mist towards the monastery. 

"Hm. Doesn't sound promising."

Adam tugged on his belt, testing the smooth draw of his rapier from its clasp. Satisfied, he nodded towards the shape that seemed to crouch upon the hill before them.

"Shall we?" he asked.

"Nothing to be done," Cerce nodded.

Together, they began the climb.  

-

The stones of the monastery walls were crumbling. Ivy crawled among the cracks, brittle and dying from the chill in the air. 

Cerce placed her hand upon a column as the travelers stepped from the barely-there path and into a flat dirt courtyard. 

She retracted her hand with a sudden hiss, and Adam looked over to her.

"Something sharp?" he asked.

Cerce looked at her fingers.

"No...no it's cold. It's like ice."

Adam put a hand to his brow and looked up at the looming monolith of a building before them. Cold, empty, silent. Blackness yawned from every empty stone window.

"I don't see fires. Looks like a tomb. If they aren't keeping warm somehow in there, it's going to be one."

"I don't like this one bit, Adam," Cerce said. She was peering up into the darkness of a window far above. Something was drawing the eye there, but nothing stared back from the empty black stone hole. 

Cerce narrowed her eyes. 

"Well, sooner in, sooner out, eh?" Adam said. He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulder and gave a shiver. "And the stone has to cut a bit of the wind out at least." 

Cerce looked about the courtyard, her blue eyes peering across the old stone, the dirt, the green ivy eating up through the cold walls. 

A spot they crossed bore the marks of something long there only recently moved, plants growing in perfect lines, and Cerce noticed scratch marks upon the stone, as if something of great weight had been dragged off, towards the doors.

"Yeah," Cerce said absently, and followed the scratches to the giant set of wooden doors that stood to the front and center of the monolith building, the only portal not black and staring. 

The doors were ten feet tall, with holes where Cerce assumed a handle would once have been. She put her fingers through one and gave a tug. The doors could have been made of solid stone as much as they moved.

Cerce dropped to a squat and put her eye to the hole. 

"Woah, woah, don't... don't do that!" Adam waved. 

Nothing but a void peered back as Cerce stared through the little hole. 

"Nothing back there," she murmured. 

"No I mean that's how you get a big hook or rusty spike or something jammed through your eye up into your..." Adam's fingers made jabbing motions towards his face, accented with a hook of the finger and a tug, "Gak!"  

Cerce stood up, frowning. 

"Well, warn me before I do it next time. If I get gakked you're the one who's got to walk home all by  themselves."  

"Aren't you glad you brought me along?" he said, giving the bottom of the door an experimental kick. Cerce watched his lips turn down in sudden pain.

"Didn't work? Why not give it another try? Definitely getting somewhere," Cerce chuckled. Adam flapped a corner of cloak at her.

"Oh shut up and help me, here," Adam said, putting his shoulder to the door and half crouching, jamming his foot against a rise in the stone floor and shoving. Cerce fell in beside him, her arms up and pushing, and with a great creak that split the silent air of the courtyard, the right door gave an inch inward, a sliver of black nothing showing between the doors. 

Grunting, Adam strained against the door again, before Cerce elbowed him aside.

"Just needs a little encouragement, is all." 

Taking her halberd, Cerce jammed it between the gap in the doors and gave it a twist. With a great pull, the door was forced open another few inches, enough for Cerce to get a little more leverage, and with a second tug, the door crunched against the stone ground enough to admit them.

Adam took a bow and gestured politely.

"After you." 

"Oh, charming," Cerce grumbled as she slid sideways through the opening and into the darkness beyond. 

Adam stood for a moment, looking out over the quiet courtyard, before he held his hat to his head and followed.

The moment Adam crossed the threshold, he was so aware of the silence it was startling. Adam's hands rose to his ears almost automatically to brush the lobe of his ear, testing if his hearing was still with him. He blinked, and blinked again, unable to tell whether his eyes were open or closed. 

"Cerce," Adam said, an edge of panic to his voice the Nadyr immediately recognized.

"It's okay," she responded. Her voice coming back to him from a few steps up ahead. Her words were flat, no echo bouncing back through the blackness.

"Stand still a moment, you'll be able to see," she said. 

Adam looked around himself, seeing nothing. The world was empty for a moment, and the horrible sensation of staring down into nothing made his stomach lurch with vertigo. Through the blackness there came movement, and Adam's hand jerked for the hilt of his rapier as Cerce's hand reached out to grab him. 

Her fingers closed around his wrist.

Cerrce pulled him closer, his body coming up against hers. Automatically, Adam put his arms around Cerce's waist, and they stood close to one another. 

An inch or so taller than he was, Cerce's mouth was near Adam's ear, and he could hear her shivering exhales. 

The cold in there was indescribable, an awful chill that seemed to suck air from the lungs with every breath. The cold crept up through their boots as if they stood barefoot upon the dark stone beneath them, and nothing but the black masonry was visible as the sepulchral interior of the monastery slowly gained shape. 

There was a sound that came to the ears, low at first, but slowly rising in the stillness.

"What is that?" Adam whispered. He heard Cerce hold her breath as she listened, the barest glimmer of light reflecting from her eyes through the darkness.

"Wind. It's wind blowing from somewhere. Below us," she let the breath go, air warm on Adam's cheek. "This place goes down into the mountain."

"We need light. Light and heat, or we're gonna die in here Cerce."

He heard Cerce shift, her head glancing this way and that. White hair fell over her shoulders, and Adam could barely see it, grey amidst layers of black. 

"Check beside the doors, these old place are meant to have sconces for torches."

"Me check? Can't you see in the dark?" Adam hissed. He heard Cerce give a sigh of disbelief.

"Why would I be able to....you seriously think I can see in the dark?" she shoved at his chest with her elbow. 

Adam raised a hand out, peering through the darkness ahead of him, split only by the moonlight coming through the crack in the door. 

His hands touched the bare stone behind the door and he recoiled, the temperature so cold he couldn't tell if it was freezing or scorching. 

"There's one here but it's empty," came Cerce's voice from the other side of the door. "couple feet in, about my head height."

Adam slid his hands across, reaching up and across, and his wrist banged into something protruding.

"Got it, there's one here," Adam said as he gave a tug on the wooden torch and felt it grind loose. Dust trickled to the floor surprisingly loud. The head of the arm length torch was wrapped in a filthy rag, cold to the touch, brittle.

"No way this thing'll light, it's been here forever," Adam grumbled. 

"Adam..." Cerce whispered. 

"Ey, you still got that flask from Carnaby? The good Redroov Mountain stuff?" Adam fished on his belt, fumbling in the darkness for his flint, "might help it take."

"Adam there's...something there." Cerce's voice held a chill that made Adam freeze. 

He looked up, the torch in one hand and his other reaching for the hilt of his rapier. 

Deep in the darkness before them, a light was bobbing.

Adam saw Cerce shift in the darkness, her tall shape lowering, her legs stepping apart. The line of moonlight through the door glinting on the exposed head of her great halberd. Adam heard a deep exhale pour from the Nadyr's lips. 

 

The wild, aggressive way that Cerce fought had seemed chaotic and mindless to Adam the first few times he'd seen it. Like a dervish, twisting and swinging the great blade, her body writhing in the eye at the center of the storm. Long days at Cerce's side had taught Adam differently. 

Adam drew his rapier, silently and swiftly, and took his usual place just behind and to her right. She felt his presence, and took a step forward. 

"Who goes there?" Cerce yelled at the slowly wobbling light that approached through the darkness.

 The light illuminated as it went, shedding fluttering light on the grand hallway they seemed to be standing in. Cerce narrowed her eyes against the apparent optical illusion, the room so long that the monastery must surely extend far into the mountain upon which it stood.

"A humble servant, no more!" came the reply. A soft voice, steady. 

The flame came to a stop, and the figure who held it lowered the torch so as to illuminate himself. Sending a great shadow far behind him down the hall he'd appeared from. 

Yellow light spilled around him, lighting the entrance hall and making Adam inadvertently raise a hand to his eyes for a moment. Cerce stood sentinel and unmoving, adrenaline relieving the shivering cold for a brief moment. 

At first, the man had the impression of being broad, brawny. Shoulders high and wide, a body thick, but the gauntness of his face and the depth of the sockets his eyes were sunk into made it clear that the man was simply bundled into multiple heavy layers of thick brown robes.

"Just a humble servant, am I, welcoming new travelers to the home of the Blazing Light."

Adam gave a scoff of disbelief.

"You can't be serious." he said, and the monk turned his head to pointedly look at the thief.

"Light is found in the darkest of places, my quick-to-presume friend."

Adam raised an eyebrow, and found his eyes met when they darted to Cerce. 

"Prickly, for a monk, aren't we?" she asked. 

The man lowered his torch further, peering over the flame at the two friends. 

"Many who come here seek to disturb us. We may be a humble order but we have much work to do."

Adam gave a derisive grunt, but the monk continued undisturbed.

"I am Brother Locke, and here we tend the fires, to keep the cold at bay."

"Where's the rest of your people?" asked Cerce, partially lowering her weapon. She was straightening slightly, her guard dropping. Adam was still alert, his blade drawn, his eyes roaming the hall for others. 

Apart from the fire burning around Locke, there was only blackness.

"We are below, in the temple. The old monastery is so cold in the winter, we relocate below."

He extended the torch into the area between them, his sunken features seeming to wobble into distorted shapes in the moving light cast by the flame.

"I fear you've a wasted trip if you seek shelter though. We fast in the nights, and have little to spare. Perhaps you can seek your warmth elsewhere, travelers?"

Locke took another step forward, silent on the cold stone, and he jerked to a halt as his light fell upon Cerce and he came to look upon her.

"Oh," he stumbled over his own speech, his face suddenly animated, a smile spreading, "Oh my goodness look at you. You've come so far, haven't you?"

Cerce hesitated, before she placed the end of her halberd to the ground where it rested with a dull thunk. 

"We come north up from the Foul Mouth, called up here by..." she began, before she was almost immediately interrupted. Locke had stepped forward, careless of the harsh light that he was shedding upon the two travelers. Just a few steps away from Cerce Locke stopped to examine her.

"Goodness no, you've come some much further than that. So far, to get here, I'm so sorry it took so long."

Cerce darted a look back to Adam, whose eyes glinted back at hers in the dim yellow light. He gave the slightest of shrugs. 

"You've been... expecting us?" he asked, and was ignored. The monk only had eyes for Cerce.

"We've been waiting, I... The others will want to meet you immediately, miss. Please, what shall we call you?"

"I'm Cerce. I...came to help." she said. The monk positively beamed. His body vibrated with excitement and he made a grand show of inclining his head before her. 

"Cerce, Cerce," Locke repeated, drawing out the syllables long and slow. 

Sir-see. He practically hissed. 

Just as she became visibly uncomfortable with his sycophantism, the monk straightened and jerked the torch back the way he came. 

"Please! Come, come. The others will be so eager to look upon you," he stopped half turned, and looked as if he meant to attempt to take Cerce's hand, before he apparently thought better of it and began a brisk walk down the corridor. 

Cerce glanced back at the door, at the sliver of moonlight creeping through. The light from Locke's torch was already receding, plunging the doors into darkness and shadows, surging along the ground to swallow them once more. 

With a quick look at one another, Adam and Cerce began to follow.

Chapter 3.

Adam fixed his rapier to his belt once more, his pace quick and the heels of his boots clicking on the stone floor to keep pace behind Cerce's long and quiet strides.

Locke scurried forward ahead of them, a glowing orb in the darkness, continually half turning and tossing his gaze back over his shoulder to make sure he was being followed. 

"As the cold approaches we move below to stay as warm as we can, down in the old quarters," he explained as he walked, gesturing into the black void beyond each portal or archway they passed.

"Little up at this level now, the old hall is empty, the upper kitchens, and all above," he waved a hand nebulously above his head, "All empty now!" 

His voice verged on manic, his eyes wild as he glanced back to look at Cerce.

"How many stay here, Locke?" Cerce asked quietly, and he spun to walk backwards momentarily, his eyes on her.

"Oh just myself and the current order, and the new supplicants, any others left. Too cold for some, the work we do here. They all left, to find somewhere warmer."

"What's a supplicant?" asked Adam. Locke spared him a brief glance but ignored the question.

A yawning gap in the wall caught Cerce's eyes as they passed, enough light flicked into it to see nothing but the blackness it led to.

"How far below does it go?" she asked.

"Oh all the way down," Locke responded without turning, before immediately going on.

"Do you know when others will come?" he asked Cerce enthusiastically.

Cerce looked to Adam, shrugging.

"Others? You mean other monks? Why would I..." Cerce was cut off as Brother Locke turned and raised the light above his head.

"All the others! We're expecting everyone here! We can't wait forever!" he gave a brief and sudden laugh. He looked at Cerce as he continued down the hall, his shuffling backward steps uneven. 

"Brother Leece said you'd come soon, but we've waited so long for you. I was beginning to think.. well...we went through all the others, as we waited, how could he expect us to wait forever?!" his voice was losing clarity. Tears wet in his eyes, glittering in the swinging light of the lantern, "The ones who left! Ha, they...they'll see now, won't they?" 

"Wait, the supplicants? The children from the town? The children are still here?" Cerce asked. 

"Everyone's here," Locke said, "There must always be supplicants."

Adam realized he could no longer see the wall behind her when he looked to Cerce. The sloping stone on his own side had become harder to see too, curving off into the darkness beyond the circle of the lamp that Brother Locke held aloft. 

The monk was moving faster now, his feet slapping and scuffling on the ground beneath him, his breathing ragged. He gave a half laugh, then a sudden whoop of joy that disappeared into the dark without echo.

"She's arrived!" he suddenly blurted out, "She's here! She's finally here!" 

Cerce strode forward, her halberd gripped in her freezing hands, and made to reach for Locke's robe as it flailed behind him. 

Before her claws could snatch at the ragged material, the light was snuffed out. 

The darkness was absolute. So sudden and so startling it stopped Cerce in her stride as if she'd walked into a wall. She heard Adam's boots click to a halt, the uncertain shuffling of heels skidding as he turned this way and that. 

"I can't see anything, I can't..." he said, panic in his usually measured voice. 

Cerce was breathing through gritted teeth, her fangs bore at the corners of her lips. The dark fooled her, and she had the impression of reaching hands, of shapes moving, deeper black against the already complete darkness that gripped her. 

She hissed at Adam for silence. 

It was as absolute as the darkness, no wind, no echos. Cerce could hear her own heartbeat hammering in her chest like a drum. She began to be aware of a scent, hard to place, familiar. Like ozone, moss, mold. 

"Where are you?" she said quietly. 

"I'm...here?" Adam said, from just far enough away.

With a great swing of her arms, Cerce brought her halberd around and overhead in an arc, the blade striking and scraping across the floor, sending sparks flying and filling the halls with the deafening crash of metal on stone. 

In the flash of sparks, the figures were revealed. A circle around the two travelers, just visible on the edges of vision. Their robes brown, looming just a few feet away now.

As darkness descended once more, the smell came back again. Strong this time. Wet and clammy, floral, dank. The smell stuck to the back of the throat, thick and choking. 

Cerce found herself taking a deep and hurried breath, and heard Adam doing the same.

"I feel weird..." Adam moaned. Cerce blinked hard, feeling her eyes watering and a tightness in her throat gripping. 

"When I move, get ready to run," she whispered. She felt Adam's presence at her back, moving close behind her. She heard him respond, but somehow the words were lost, meaning seeming to flee into the darkness.

She became aware that the grip on her halberd was loose, the shaft resting on the ground. She curled her fingers again around it, trying to remember what she'd just said to Adam. She frowned, it was gone. 

Light slowly shone between the figures that massed around the pair. The illuminated brown robes of the monks shifting and swaying in the darkness. A figure was stepping forward, holding a low burning lantern in one hand, and seeming almost to float, so silent were their steps on the cold stone. From beneath the hood, a chuckle came.

The voice, when the figure finally spoke, was soft and calming.

"Brother Locke, thank-you for bringing our guests forth."

The accent was unfamiliar, the cadence lyrical. Cerce fought to listen, the weight behind her eyes increasing as the light was brought closer. The figure gave a deep and appreciative sigh.

"Oh. Oh my. The light shines upon all of us today, brothers and sisters."

The voices of the assembled came back in response.

The light shines. The light shines.

"We've all been waiting... so long, here, for you. I have waited." 

Locke leant forward into the light, his hands gripped before him, shaking.

"She wants to be called Cerce, Brother Leece."

"Thank-you Locke. I'm very grateful for everything you do," the figure named Leece extended a hand to touch Locke on the shoulder, and Locke dutifully retreated to the throng of monks.

"It's a beautiful name, Cerce. I had always wondered what they might call you," Leece said. His voice had a soporific quality, and Cerce stared into the darkness under his hood as he moved forward to her once more, now within arms reach. 

Cerce tried to speak, but found her speech slurred.

"Who're...who are..." she mumbled.

"I am Brother Leece. First among the Blazing Light. And you, are very, very welcome."

Leece raised the lantern in his hand, illuminating him. Beneath the heavy hood were vibrant, soulful blue eyes, staring from a startling and handsome face. Curls of white hair were visible around his sharp cheekbones, and at the corners of a wide curving smile were sharply pointed teeth. His skin was green.

"Our most dear sister."

Cerce stood frozen as Leece reached for her face. His fingertips brushed her cheek. 

Cerce was shoved aside and the world spun as Adam hurled himself into Leece with his entire weight.

She heard the great clang that rattled her ears and after a moment realized she'd dropped her halberd. She reached out for it desperately as movement in the darkness all around broke out. 

The lantern was snuffed out and hisses of orders and cries from among the ranks of the monks seemed to come from all directions. 

Cerce heard Adam scream for her to run. 

Hands surged from the blackness, gripping at her ankles, snatching handfuls of her hair, tugging at her clothes.

A hand gripped at Cerce's ear and pulled, jerking her head aside sharply and making Cerce cry out in pain. 

Leece's voice cut through the darkness, raised to a shout.

"DON'T. TOUCH. HER!"

The hands retreated, Cerce pulling herself free of the throng and scrambling across the cold floor. Getting her feet beneath her was proving difficult, and she stumbled drunkenly as she tried to move, the strange smell filling her senses. 

Her hands found a wall, and she clung to it, her legs feeling like she was wading through water. The sounds of the scuffle was getting further away. She heard a scream, and the sound of Adam's blade against stone. 

The wall seemed to give way, and as she stumbled forward to reach out for it again, found the floor beneath her abruptly drop. She fell, first a few feet, crashing into the vertical stone, then down again.

All light fled as she fell, spiraling, further into the blackness below. 

-

Part 3