You and Garruk shoulder through the crowd. The half-orc ducks under a beam, his armour scraping against a wall. You, hood down, silver-threaded robes drawing sidelong glances, look more like a scholar than a sellsword.
Garruk (grinning): “So… we’re lookin’ for heroes.”
Elaris (dry): “Yes. Ideally, ones who can swing a sword without narrating their backstory first.”
Garruk: “That’ll cut the list in half already.”
You reach the bar. The barkeep, a balding man with a chest like a barrel, slaps two mugs on the counter before you even speak.
Barkeep: “Ale for the big one. And for you, master scholar?”
Elaris: “Something refined. Perhaps a red from the western valleys. Oak-aged.”
The barkeep blinks, rummages under the counter, and produces a bottle with a hand-written label: “Mulled Plum Spirit (Strong).”
He pours you a measure. It hits the glass with the viscosity of paint and the smell of varnish. Garruk is already halfway through his beer, trying not to laugh.
Elaris (grimly): “Ah. Notes of regret.”
You take a cautious sip. It tastes like fermented campfire. You keep a straight face, swallow, and when the barkeep turns, you lean ever so slightly to tip a few fingers of the stuff into the mug of the snoring patron beside you.
The half-orc nudges you, eyes scanning the room.
Garruk: “All right, tell me who looks heroic. That one?”
He nods toward a wiry halfling standing on a table juggling daggers while quoting poetry.
Elaris: “Too much narrative exposition. Next.”
Garruk: “The elf in the corner, cleaning her bow?”
Elaris: “Possible. She hasn’t smiled once; promising sign.”
Garruk: “The dwarf arm-wrestling three men at once?”
Elaris: “Too heroic. He’d want songs.”
You make your slow survey of the room:
- A grizzled dwarf mercenary Bald ginger beard and a laugh like a drum — clearly a veteran brawler.
- A slim elf ranger, hood back, fingers stained with fletching glue, quietly counting arrows.
- A young human cleric in road-worn robes, clearly from Hollowpoint’s temple, trying not to spill her drink while taking notes.
- A pair of tiefling twins, flamboyant in color, arguing over dice and debts; probably rogues or charmers, but they know the Legion’s bounty tables by heart.
- And, at the far corner, a brooding sellsword with a crimson cloak clasp that looks suspiciously like a Legion trophy.
Each of these could be the kind of “hero” Thornmere might need… or at least the kind who’d make a good story.
Garruk wipes the foam from his beard.
Garruk: “All right, Shepherd. Which brand of ‘heroic’ poison do we start with? The brooder, the drunk, or the one that looks like they could actually hit something?”
You drift from the bar, glass in hand, through the warm chaos of the Ember Tankard. Garruk claps a massive hand on the dwarf mercenary’s back and orders two more ales. Their laughter rolls behind you as you home in on the elf at the far table.
She sits apart from the crowd, half-shadowed by the hearthlight. Her cloak is forest-green, well-worn, and dusted with road grit. A quiver rests by her chair; her bow is polished but patched — a hunter’s tool, not a trophy. On her vambrace, you spot a faint insignia: a silver thorn, the emblem of the Thornwatch Rangers, an old border-warden corps from the northern woods — disbanded decades ago after the Crimson Legion razed their outposts.
A faint line of scar tissue crosses her temple and disappears into auburn hair tied in a rough braid. Her right ear bears a small fragment of an old silver earring — military issue from that same region. She’s drinking water, not ale, and her posture screams discipline and distance.
You take a seat opposite her without asking, the firelight catching the silver threadwork on your sleeve. She doesn’t look up immediately, just says flatly:
Elf Ranger: “If you’re selling relics or romance, I’ve coin for neither.”
You take a sip of your questionable plum spirit and reply:
Elaris (dryly):
“Good. I was only selling conversation. It costs less and lasts longer — provided neither of us dies in the next week.”
That earns the faintest lift of an eyebrow.
Elaris (continuing):
“Silver thorn on your vambrace — Thornwatch issue. Northern regiment, disbanded thirty-two years ago. You’re either very nostalgic or very stubborn.”
She looks up fully now, eyes narrowing.
Elf Ranger: “You’ve got a scholar’s eye and a gravedigger’s tone. What are you?”
Elaris: “Both, depending on the company. Elaris Vorn. I’m here to prevent Thornmere from suffering the same fate as the Thornwatch. The Crimson Legion are moving again — Rook’s Crag, Hollowpoint next.”
There’s a pause, then she leans back, assessing.
Elf Ranger: “Then we have a shared interest. I’ve been tracking their scouts for a fortnight. They’re bolder now. What proof do you have?”
You place the Legion march orders on the table, folded to the seal. She studies it, eyes flicking, jaw tightening.
Elf Ranger: “That… will get attention. I can help. If the mayor’s smart, he’ll reinforce the east road, but the Legion will flank through the creek trails first.”
She hesitates. “Name’s Sereth Calenor. I don’t join causes anymore, but I’ll fight for a town that still stands.”
As she finishes scanning the orders, she says quietly:
Sereth: “You’re dangerous company, Elaris Vorn. I like that. Tell your friend with the axe to keep his voice down before I mistake him for a war drum.”
You glance across the room: Garruk and the dwarf are roaring a drinking song so out of tune that even the lute-player stops to stare.
Elaris (sighing): “He believes volume correlates with leadership. I let him think that.”
Sereth smirks — the first true smile you’ve seen. She takes her bow, stands, and gestures toward the dwarf’s table.
Sereth: “Let’s see if your… general is sober enough to parley with another ‘hero.’”
You thread your way through the smoke and laughter of the Ember Tankard, Sereth following just far enough behind to keep her bow clear of elbows. Garruk’s laughter shakes the rafters — deep, rolling, contagious — and draws eyes across the room. You can already see a few locals watching with that blend of amusement and apprehension reserved for men built like siege engines.
He spots you first.
Garruk (grinning): “Elaris! Come meet my new drinking partner — the finest liar in Thornmere!”
The dwarf he’s referring to is a mountain of muscle and beard, his nose bent twice, eyes bright as polished amber. His plate shoulders are mismatched, one etched with an old crest you can’t quite place — a mining guild? a mercenary company? — but both scuffed with age. He’s in the middle of a tankard-slapping game, one hand on a mug, the other arm wrestling a farmhand.
Dwarf: “Name’s Borin Stonebeard, if titles mean anythin’. Garruk here thinks he can drink me under the table. I told him the last orc who tried is still under that table.”
Garruk: “Rules are simple! Loser buys the next round, and answers a question honest-like.”
You arch an eyebrow.
Elaris (dryly): “Ah yes, the scholarly method of diplomacy.”
Sereth smirks behind you and mutters, “He’s winning though.”
You sit — cautiously — as mugs clatter and the tavern watches for entertainment. Garruk and Borin lock hands again, muscles tensing, ale sloshing. The bar shakes
The dwarf slams Garruk’s hand down at the last moment, ale splattering both of them. The crowd roars. Borin bellows triumphantly and waves for another round.
Borin (laughing): “Question time! Let’s see… Garruk, tell me—what’s the worst fight you ever lost?”
Garruk (wincing, shaking his hand): “A battle of wits with my employer. Still losing, far as I can tell.”
The crowd laughs; even Borin snorts into his ale.
You lean forward, voice cutting through the din.
Elaris: “If you’ve any strength left after humiliating my associate, I could use men like you — or rather, towns like Thornmere could. The Crimson Legion marches. We plan to stop them.”
The dwarf pauses mid-drink, eyeing you and Sereth in turn.
Borin: “Crimson Legion, eh? I’ve cracked more of their helmets than mugs. They took work from honest sellswords — I owe ‘em blood for that.”
He slams the mug down.
Borin: “You’ve got my axe for this round, at least. Provided the pay’s fair and the ale’s free.”
Elaris (deadpan): “You’ll find our budget generous in opportunity, if not coin.”
He grins, undeterred.
Garruk rubs his wrist, still scowling good-naturedly.
Garruk: “Fine. We’ll call it a draw in drinking and a victory in recruitment.”
Borin: “Fair! But next round’s yours, tall one.”
You note that half the tavern has turned back to their own games now, the other half clearly intrigued by the growing band around the necromancer in scholar’s robes.
Sereth leans closer and murmurs quietly enough for only you to hear:
Sereth: “A ranger and a fighter — good start. We’ll need more if we plan to face the Legion head-on.”
Across the room, you still see the young cleric in road-worn robes and the tiefling twins arguing over dice, while the brooding sellsword in the corner hasn’t moved an inch, watching you with faint interest over his mug.
The tavern erupts again as Garruk and Borin head for the door, mugs in hand.
The half-orc’s voice booms above the chatter:
Garruk: “No, no, hear me out — it’s not about hurting the goat, it’s about form!”
Borin: “Form, aye? I’ve been chuckin’ sheep since before you were born, lad — let’s see if the innkeeper’s got a volunteer!”
The crowd hoots and follows them out. The barkeep groans into a towel, muttering something about “animal ordinances” and “another fine.”
You and Sereth remain at the table, now relatively quiet except for the fire’s pop.
Sereth watches the door swing shut and shakes her head, a faint smile ghosting her lips.
Sereth: “You travel with interesting company. I’m not sure which is worse — the necromancer or the goat-thrower.”
Elaris (dryly): “The necromancer, usually. The goat recovers faster.”
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
She laughs once, short but genuine, then leans in as you glance toward the rest of the room.
The cleric has moved to a side booth, still reading her notes; the tiefling twins are back to their argument, one waving a dagger for emphasis, the other keeping score with a charcoal stub; the brooding sellsword hasn’t budged, still nursing his drink, eyes tracking you now and then.
Elaris: “You’ve done more traveling here than I have. Any of them worth speaking to before I risk whatever fermented varnish passes for wine again?”
Sereth scans the room in turn, thinking.
Sereth: “The cleric I’ve seen before — she’s from Hollowpoint. Name’s Arden Vale, I think. Studied under the old abbot there, good heart, better aim with a sling. She’s been collecting refugees’ stories — might have information on Legion movements south of the river.”
“The tiefling twins — they call themselves Lazlo and Vexi. Con artists, but smart. Last week they sold a wagon full of empty crates to Legion quartermasters and walked away with thirty gold. Risky, but resourceful.”
“And the sellsword…” She lowers her voice. “Name’s Kael. Used to wear red. I caught sight of the tattoo on his wrist when he reached for his drink. He’s Legion — deserter, maybe. Dangerous if handled wrong, useful if handled right.”
She sits back, letting the weight of those options hang in the smoke between you.
Sereth: “If you want solid information and a healer, talk to Arden first. If you want infiltration or mischief, the twins. If you want to know how the Legion thinks, the brooder. Depends what kind of fight you want to build.”
She raises an eyebrow at you, amused.
Sereth: “Your move, Pale Shepherd. Who’s next — the saint, the scoundrels, or the ghost of the Legion?”
Arden Vale sits in a side booth near the wall, half in shadow, parchment spread across the table in disciplined rows. She’s young — mid-twenties maybe — but her eyes carry that taut exhaustion reserved for people who heal more than they sleep.
A bronze sunburst is pinned to her collar, wrapped with a white ribbon frayed at the edge. The design isn’t a pure Pelor emblem — it’s the variant crest of the Order of the Dawnsworn, a reformed branch of Pelor’s faith that rose after the Grayhollow tragedy. The Dawnsworn emphasize redemption through revelation — they believe even the fallen can be restored to the light if they understand the darkness they served.
That philosophy might explain her calm around soldiers, refugees… and necromancers.
Her robes are travel-stained but well-kept: linen dyed pale gold, with the faint outline of burned embroidery along the hem — scorch marks, not dirt. Possibly from recent combat or healing during skirmishes.
A small satchel of herbs and incense lies open, and you notice two sealed vials of holy water and a rolled scroll marked “Sanctify” — practical cleric tools, not ceremonial.
Her accent (when she speaks briefly to the barkeep for more tea) has the rolling lilt of Hollowpoint’s southern quarter. You remember that district was hit first during the Legion’s early incursions.
Most telling: she keeps glancing at the door. Watching. Waiting. That’s someone who expects a messenger or trouble — or both.
Sereth leans close enough to murmur:
Sereth: “You’ve got the look of a vulture, you know that? The thinking kind.”
Elaris (murmuring back): “Observation is half the conversation. The rest is timing.”
Sereth nods toward her, quietly approving.
Sereth: “She’s the kind who’ll fight because it’s right, not because it pays. If you’re careful with your words, she might just see you as the kind who can be redeemed.”
The fire crackles, Garruk and Borin can still be heard somewhere outside arguing about trajectory and goat temperament, and the night hum of Thornmere grows louder around you.
You rise from the firelit table, Sereth gliding alongside like a shadow. The noise has dimmed slightly; most of the goat-related chaos is happening outside (judging by the laughter and the barkeep’s groans). You approach Arden Vale, who looks up from her parchment as your footsteps near.
Sereth places a hand on the back of the bench.
Sereth “Evening’, Sister Vale. Don’t mean to intrude, but we could do with someone who knows which end of a prayer’s meant to work. This is Elaris Vorn — he’s the one slowed the Legion’s advance.”
Arden looks up, eyes catching the firelight — wary, kind, but sharp.
Arden “Aye? Slowed them, did you? You’ll forgive me if I ask how. There’s more than one sort of power that buys time these days.”
Elaris sits, composed, folding his hands on the table.
Elaris: “Fair question, Sister. Let’s say… I’ve had to learn to speak to the dead to save the living. Grayhollow taught me that. There was a cleric there — Peloran, I think — who showed me that even the dark can be turned toward the light if the hand guiding it stays steady.”
Arden’s expression softens slightly at the mention of Grayhollow.
Arden: “I know the name. The Dawnsworn keep records of that place. You’ve my respect for speaking of it so plain. Most folk just call it cursed and move on.”
Elaris: “Curses are just truths we’ve stopped studying. I’ve no interest in spreading darkness, only in understanding it — and using it to stop worse.”
Sereth nods, crossing her arms.
Sereth: “He’s the one who found proof of the Legion’s next march. We’re building a company — Thornmere’s militia, a few sellswords, anyone with sense and courage.
Arden folds her parchment neatly, considering.
Arden: “My faith teaches that light without wisdom burns the wrong things. I’ll not turn away if you’re fighting for folk who can’t stand for themselves. But I’ll say this plain: if your power strays too far into what should stay buried, I’ll end it.”
Elaris (dry, faint smile): “I’d expect nothing less from a Dawnsworn.”
She extends her hand. You shake it — her grip firm, calloused, steady.
Sereth leans back in her chair, satisfied.
Sereth: “That’s three then — a ranger, a fighter, a cleric. And our necromancer. Thornmere might just stand a chance.”
Arden glances toward the window where Garruk and Borin’s laughter echoes faintly, then back at you.
Arden: “Though from the sound of it, they might burn the place down first.”
Elaris (deadpan): “That’s step two of the plan. Step one was find a cleric willing to help clean it up.”
She laughs — a short, genuine sound.
The laughter and the smell of roasted onions have softened to a steady hum. Across the tavern, two red-skinned figures sit at a corner table that’s a miniature battlefield of coins, cards, and daggers stuck in the wood.
From the safety of distance, you watch. It’s not cards exactly; they’re playing a street-born mix of liar’s dice and knife-tossing. Each round, the loser must tell a truth or take a dare—half confession, half performance. One twin flicks daggers into a circle on the tabletop without ever looking, the other palms coins with such dexterity that even Sereth has to blink twice.
They’re not just gamblers. They’re reading people—counting blinks, lip twitches, tone changes. Professional confidence tricksters with an entertainer’s rhythm.
Sereth : “That’s Lazlo and’ Vexi, though which one’s which depends on who’s winning. They’ve made fools of half the border guard an’ friends of the other half.”
Arden : “They’ve both helped refugees when there’s profit in it. Sharp tongues, quicker hands. They’ll follow coin—or a story that promises it.”
Sereth nods toward the table.
“Don’t mistake there age for Naivety though they are masters of luck charm and mischief”
Lazlo, the older twin— voice all swagger.
Vexi, the younger more mischievous of the two
You approach. Lazlo looks up first, grin wide, horns capped in bronze.
Lazlo “Well now, what’s this? Scholar’s wandered out his library. You here to bet brains against beauty?”
Vexi “Aye he is, look at him—got that I’m cleverer than you stare. Gonna tell us ‘bout probability next, I can feel it.”
Lazlo: “You can feel the ale, that’s what you can feel.”
Vexi: “Eh, shut up, you cheated last round.”
Lazlo: “Did not. You blink slow, that’s all.”
Vexi “He did, he definitely did, see, you blink then—”
Sereth mutters aside, “They do this even when no one’s listening.”
You take the empty chair, eyes flicking to the scattered coins and knives.
Elaris “If I join, does the loser answer a question or lose a finger?”
Lazlo: “Depends how personal the question.”
Vexi: “Or how useless the finger.”
They laugh in stereo. You lean forward, studying the game pieces.
Elaris: “So it’s about luck, bluff, and reading faces.”
Lazlo: “Exactly. You in?”
Elaris: “I deal in faces more silent than yours. Let’s see if the living variety are any subtler.”
You watch their eyes, not their hands. Every twitch, every suppressed smirk. When Lazlo slides the dagger toward you, you already know the die under his palm shows the wrong number. You call it. The room chuckles; Vexi groans.
Vexi: “Ahhh he’s good! Proper good! Told you he’s got them dead-eyes.”
Lazlo “Right then, scholar wins a question. Make it interesting.”
Elaris: “All right. Suppose I told you there’s a legion coming that’ll pay you in corpses instead of coin. Suppose I offered you the chance to bleed them and get rich doing it. Would you take it?”
The smile fades just enough to show thought behind the bravado.
Lazlo: “Depends who’s payin’, and how likely we are to walk away breathin’.”
Vexi “He means yes.”
You slide the stolen march orders onto the table. Their eyes flick to the red hand seal.
Elaris: “The Crimson Legion. They’ll hit Hollowpoint inside the week. We mean to stop them, with wit, with steel, with whatever tricks we can find. You want in, you get coin, you get stories, and—if you live—a clean slate.”
Vexi: “Clean slate?”
Elaris: “For people who can lie as well as you, that’s the only kind worth keeping.”
They exchange a look, silent for the first time all night.
Lazlo: “We’re in. But we pick the heist music.”
Vexi: “And I get first dibs on loot. You get bones, we get shinies.”
Elaris (smirking): “Deal. Though sometimes bones are shinier.”
(The Ember Tankard, now deep into the small hours of the night — the kind of hour where laughter goes crooked and secrets loosen.)
Outside, Garruk and Borin’s voices thunder through the night air. Every few seconds there’s a “MOOOOO!” followed by Garruk shouting, “That’s not proper form!” and the barkeep’s distant cry, “Put that down, it’s milkin’ stock!”
Inside, the atmosphere has mellowed. The twins still argue over dice and pocket each other’s winnings, Arden and Sereth sit one table away, quietly watching.
At the back, Kael waits — alone, same as when you first saw him. One hand around a mug gone cold, the other resting near the hilt of his sword. The crimson cloak clasp on his shoulder catches the candlelight; it’s a Legion make, worn down and scratched out, as if he’s tried to scrape away its sigil.
You note the way Kael sits — always with his back to the wall, line of sight to both door and window.
His gear is practical, not ornamental: half-plate patched with chain, short cloak, traveller’s boots stained by mud and blood alike. The sword on the table is Legion steel — curved slightly, standard officer issue — but the blade’s edge is blackened with oil to dull its gleam. He’s drinking nothing; his mug’s been cold a while.
His tattoo, when his wrist shifts, is a crimson serpent — Legion rank insignia for sergeant. Scratched over with a knife scar.
You catch a flicker of what could be regret, or habit. Hard to tell.
Then his eyes lock on yours. Sharp, grey, too alert for drunk company.
Kael
“You’ve been staring since you walked in, necro. If you want a seat, take it before I start charging rent.”
He gestures to the chair opposite him.
Elaris “If you’d charged rent sooner, you might still be drawing pay from the Legion.”
That earns the faintest smirk. You sit.
The Conversation
For a while neither of you speak. Just the sound of the fire, the dice clatter from the twins, the muffled “MOOO!” from outside.
Kael: “You’re not Legion. And you’re not militia. That leaves scholar, spy, or trouble.”
Elaris: “I’ve been all three. Tonight I’m trouble.”
He chuckles once.
Kael: “Good. The world’s short on honest bastards.”
You study his eyes again — the calm of a man who’s seen enough death to stop flinching at it.
Elaris: “You left them.”
Kael: “I left after they started branding prisoners. You can call that conscience if you like. I call it bad orders.”
He tips the empty mug, watches the dregs roll.
Kael: “They’ve got new leadership now. Some say it’s the old commander come back from the grave. I don’t buy ghosts, but the Legion’s moving quicker, sharper. Someone’s steering them who knows fear better than honour.”
Your eyes narrow.
Elaris: “You’d know their patterns.”
Kael: “Aye. I wrote half of them. You’re planning to stand against them?”
Elaris: “To stop them, yes. Standing might be optional.”
He laughs under his breath.
Kael: “You’ll need more than luck. And less morality.”
Elaris: “I’ve already traded most of mine.”
The silence after is almost companionable.
Kael’s telling the truth. He did leave the Legion — disgusted, not hunted. But the bitterness in him hasn’t healed; it’s curdled into something sharp. He’s the type who fights to balance a scale no one else can see.
He finally looks up fully, voice quieter:
Kael: “All right then. I’ll march with you. One condition.”
Elaris: “Name it.”
Kael: “If we find whoever’s pulling the Legion’s strings, they’re mine first.”
Elaris (cold, even): “You can have your vengeance. I only want their secrets.”
Kael nods once, stands, pulls his cloak tight.
Kael: “Then we understand each other.”
He turns, gives a short nod toward Sereth’s table, a ghost of respect to the ranger and the cleric watching from the side.
Kael: “Get some sleep, Shepherd. You’ll need it.”
He heads upstairs without another word.
As Kael disappears upstairs, the tavern door bangs open. Garruk stumbles back in, covered in straw, Borin behind him roaring,
Borin (Yorkshire roar): “Told thee! Cow’s a terrible barbell!”
Garruk (slurring West Country): “It moo’d encouragement!”
The twins collapse into laughter, Sereth pinches the bridge of her nose, and Arden mutters something that sounds very much like a prayer for patience.
Elaris (sighing): “And that’s our army.”
The barkeep of the Ember Tankard, one Tomell Underbrow, is polishing a glass with the grim resignation of a man who has accepted that life is just a series of escalating noises. The sounds of MOOO! and “Put me down ye daft ox!” still drift in through the open shutters.
You approach the bar, cloak drawn, expression that perfect Elaris mixture of patient intellect and weary sarcasm.
Arden and Sereth take up a quiet post near the door, pretending not to be associated with the spectacle outside. Lazlo and Vexi immediately start counting coins, loudly claiming they’re “contributing to the lodging fund,” while actually stealing small change from one another.
Tomell glances up as you approach.
Tomell (tavern accent, gruff southern farmer):
“Aye, you’re with the… party. You plannin’ to pay for the broken chair, the dent in my door, and the cow out back that’s now got a complex?”
Elaris
“If I recall correctly, emotional trauma is not chargeable unless the cow files a complaint.”
Tomell: “The cow can’t write but its owner can, an’ he’s got an axe. So—rooms, or am I evictin’ all of you into the night?”
You set one gloved hand on the bar, measured tone somewhere between charm and threat by bureaucracy.
Elaris: “Tomell, you strike me as a man of reason. Now, I could pay for all nine of us, or—”
(gestures toward the window where Borin and Garruk are trying to measure a cow with a broom)
“—you could waive the fee in exchange for me removing those two from your livestock and ensuring they never return unsupervised.”
Tomell pauses.
Tomell: “…You’re sayin’ I get rid of them, you all sleep indoors, an’ my furniture survives the night?”
Elaris: “That’s the agreement, yes. Think of it as spiritual pest control.”
He looks from you to the window, back to you. The distant sound of Borin proudly shouting “It’s consenting!” clinches it.
Tomell: “Done. Two rooms upstairs, the lot of you keep it down, or I start chargin’ by decibel.”
Elaris “This is for the cow’s therapy.”
Tomell snorts and waves you off, muttering about “the strangest week since the harvest festival.”
As the night winds down:
- Garruk and Borin are herded inside by Sereth like misbehaving children.
- The twins claim a corner of the floor near the fire, arguing over whose tail gets the blanket.
- Arden kneels briefly by the window, whispering a short Dawnsworn prayer.
- Kael sits apart, polishing his sword in silence.
- Elaris finally removes his gloves, sets the blackened spellbook beside his bedroll, and allows himself the smallest exhale of something close to peace.
Outside, Thornmere sleeps.
Tomorrow, the council will meet — and your newly formed company will decide how to strike first against the Crimson Legion.