Chapter Text
Time. Space. Gravity, fortune, reality itself. All of it bending to Essek’s will as he shapes the world to his own design. Years spent honing his craft, every scrap of power he has worked for and earned, now amplified as he channels them through this most sacred item. This most powerful tool. With the Beacon under his fingertips he knows—anything is possible.
“Dunamis is rooted in the foundations of the cosmos itself,” he explains under the scrutinizing gaze of the man he has thrown his allegiance with. “Time, reality, gravity; everything you will ever do and every path you may eventually take.” He demonstrates as he speaks, a few paltry tricks to accentuate his point. “It is an ocean of possibility.”
The demonstration comes to a close and he releases the Beacon. Trent Ikithon steps forward to examine it, one hand stroking his goatee as he ponders.
“Very interesting,” he says. “Bren, what do you think?”
“It is certainly interesting,” a new voice speaks from above them. Essek looks up to see a man dressed similarly to the two who had escorted him here. His arms bear the marks Essek recognizes as those belonging to Ikithon’s elite mage assassins, his ‘Volstruckers,’ but his position in this room and Ikithon’s asking of his opinion mark him as someone special. He leaps over the balcony—slowing his fall at the last moment with a few arcane words and a burst of flame that consumes a small feather in his hand—and continues his thought as if nothing had happened. “But, superstition or no, an arcane tool is only that: a tool.”
“Exactly.” Ikithon says it with the tone of a teacher praising a correct answer, and by the way the man, Bren, bows his head, Essek gets the sense that this is exactly that.
“It is a tool,” Ikithon continues, “and any tool can be understood so long as it is broken down into each individual cog.”
Despite himself, Essek feels a satisfied smile beginning to form on his face. He meets their eyes, first Ikithon’s, then Bren’s. “In that case, I believe we will work well together.”
“We will,” Ikithon agrees smoothly. “However there is some other business I must attend to at the moment. In the meantime, Essek, I would like for you to begin teaching Bren your… Dunamis.”
Essek glances at Bren, his smile falling as his resolve falters slightly. Though he had known on some level that this endeavor would involve teaching Dunamancy to outsiders, to be suddenly commanded to do so, especially to one who was not included in his original agreement, rubbed him the wrong way.
Seeming to mistake his hesitance, Ikithon assures, “Bren is my star pupil. I believe you will find him an excellent student, and a quick study. I want him working closely with us on this, as I would appreciate his insights.”
With his piece said, Ikithon turns to leave without any further discussion. “Astrid, Eadwulf, with me.”
The two that had escorted Essek here linger for a moment after Ikithon leaves, looking at Bren, whose posture seems to relax just a hair with his teacher no longer in the room.
“I will be fine,” he assures the other two. “Go.”
“Bren–” the woman, Astrid—or so Essek assumes—begins to speak, but Bren cuts her off.
“Go,” he repeats more forcefully. With one more long look, they leave, and Essek and Bren are alone.
For a moment, they stand in silence. Essek takes the time to better study Bren. He appears to be on the younger side (relatively, for a human) though there is a tiredness in his eyes that Essek is more accustomed to seeing in those who have lived several lifetimes longer than could ever be possible for the human in front of him. Besides that, not much of his appearance stands out save for the green marks of the Volstruckers on his arms, which Essek supposes is somewhat the point for someone who is supposed to be one of the Empire’s elite assassins.
“Despite what your master may think,” Essek breaks the silence first, “I have my own business to attend to as well. I can’t spend all day teaching whoever he pleases an entirely new system of magic from anything they have encountered.”
Bren nods. “I understand. I am happy to learn whatever you are able to teach me before you must depart.” He glances briefly towards the door Ikithon had left through. “He wields a lot of power in the Empire and is used to being obeyed without question. I should apologize on his behalf.”
“Should?” Essek questions.
“I don’t believe he would appreciate my doing so.” For the first time, the hint of a smile appears on Bren’s face, as if he is letting Essek in on an inside joke.
“Well, I would appreciate it,” Essek says.
“I had a feeling you might,” Bren agrees.
“Hm.” Essek waits a moment, but Bren seems content to wait and see what he has to say. “Very well. I do have the time to go over a few things before I leave. Is there an area of the arcane you already specialize in?”
Bren nods. “Transmutation is my main area of focus, though I also have something of an affinity for fire.”
“Transmutation and fire,” Essek repeats, considering. Neither area is perfectly transferable to learning Dunamancy, but there are certainly worse possibilities. Bending reality is at least within the realm of what this man is capable of, and if he truly is as quick of a study as Ikithon suggested…
“Show me,” Essek commands.
“Anything in particular?”
“Whatever you feel best represents your capabilities.”
Bren nods and reaches into a pocket. He produces what appears to be a sprig of some kind of herb that he crushes, muttering a few arcane words, and Essek sees the illusory image of a cat in front of him. Before he can be disappointed that this is all, the image vanishes and a large cat’s paw is hovering in the air before him.
“You’ve modified the spell,” Essek notes, recognizing some elements of the magic in front of him.
“I wanted to give it a more personal touch,” Bren says.
Essek nods. Bren has displayed a high level of arcane ability, and his modifications give credit to his ability to think outside of the box that will be useful in learning Dunamancy.
“We will begin with a few introductory concepts,” he announces. “Firstly, I want you to look into the Beacon. Study it and tell me what you see.”
Bren does so, and falls into a slight trance as he stares into the depths of the Beacon. Eventually, he seems to shake out of it.
“Well?” Essek prompts.
“Possibility,” Bren responds after a moment. “Endless potentials, things that may yet come to pass, or already have.”
“Many have described it thus,” Essek agrees. “Dunamancy deals at least partially in the manipulation of these possibilities, the alternatives that might arise had one choice or moment gone just a little differently…”
And with that, he reaches forward, tapping Bren’s shoulder lightly and calling on his arcane abilities to twist fortune ever so slightly in his favor.
“Possibility,” Bren repeats, his shoulders shifting as Essek’s spell settles over him. “You will teach me this?”
“I will.” Essek reaches into his cloak and pulls out his spellbook, pleased to see as he does that Bren reaches for his own. He flips to the required page and hands it over for study, though he keeps a close eye as Bren reads and makes notes that he is not flipping to look at any other spells besides what he was allowed.
He is pleasantly surprised by the questions Bren asks as he completes the process of copying the spell. They show a strong grasp over many foundational tenets he is able to pick up just from a relatively basic spell like Fortune’s Favor, and under other circumstances Essek thinks he could spend hours just going over arcane theory with this man. But of course, he has to remember their places. Bren is trying to draw information out of him, the same way he would if their positions were reversed.
When he finishes, Bren pushes the spellbook back toward Essek. “Thank you for sharing,” he says. “I’m sure this will come of use.”
“Good.” Essek takes the spellbook and tucks it away where he usually stores it. “I should be going.” He hesitates a moment, then asks, “You will keep me apprised of any further experimentation that occurs while I am away?”
“I will,” Bren promises. Logically there is no reason for Essek to believe him. Bren’s loyalty lies firmly with Trent Ikithon, after all, and if he wishes to experiment without Essek knowing, he could easily command Bren not to speak of it the next time they meet. Yet, as he meets Bren’s eyes, Essek finds himself believing his words anyway.
“Then, until next time, Bren.”
He draws out the runes required for his teleportation, and only faintly catches Bren’s reply as he steps back to the familiar dark city of Rosohna. “Until next time, Essek.”
Back home, Essek glides through the halls of his manor and considers the events of the day. It’s official now. The Empire has the Beacons, and he is in league with one of the members of their assembly to study them. The thought sends a small thrill down his spine. Even as he stands next to the Bright Queen as she declares war on the thieving Empire, he can only feel that sense of satisfaction. He’s done sitting around passively waiting for something to change while his mother wastes away. He is going to study the Beacons and find his own solution, and if that means war between the two nations then so be it.
He still plays his part perfectly, of course. He expresses the right amount of outrage at the theft, makes his promises to the Bright Queen that he will do everything in his power to discover where the Empire scum have taken the Beacons and retrieve them. But still, that sense of satisfaction carries him until the immediate panic wears off and he can once again teleport to the laboratory where he had demonstrated the Beacon’s abilities to Ikithon and Bren.
When he arrives, he finds the lab a flurry of activity. The two who had escorted Essek last time, Astrid and Eadwulf he faintly remembers, are standing next to a table, holding a struggling man down against it. Trent Ikithon stands nearby, a bloodstained knife in his hands though he doesn’t appear to be doing anything with it at the moment, apparently lost in thought. Bren stands at the side of the room, observing the situation, and Essek glides up next to him.
“What is going on here?” he asks in a low voice. It’s still enough to alert Ikithon to his presence, and he looks up with a smile.
“Essek, good! You’ve returned!” He sets the knife down loudly, causing the man held down on the table to flinch. “It seems there are some properties of this Beacon you did not mention last time.”
“And what do you mean by that?” Essek asks, curious but also somewhat apprehensive about what he may have been up to in the days since he left.
“One of my Volstruckers returned here injured, and when he passed this Beacon drew something from him. A ball of light from his chest.”
Essek feels his heart skip a beat. “It took his soul? With no ritual?”
“Is that what that was?”
“The Luxon Beacon is used for a process known as consecration. When a soul has been deemed worthy, they can be brought within proximity of the Beacon at the moment of passing. Our clerics perform a ritual to capture that soul and eventually to pass it on to a new vessel, where they will begin to regain memories of their previous lives once in adolescence,” Essek explains. “I have never known it to be possible without that ritual. This changes so much!”
“Yes, well,” Ikithon says, indicating the man on the table, “as of yet I have been unable to replicate this result. Perhaps your observations can inform me where I have been going wrong?”
“Yes,” Essek agrees immediately. “If the Beacon can be used in this way, then it proves our teachings have been limiting what is possible. Whatever assistance I can provide, of course this will require much calculation and–”
“I am more of the mind that one must begin in order to get results,” Ikithon interrupts. Before Essek can react, he picks up the knife and slams it into the chest of the man on the table, drawing a choked shout as the blade strikes home. Stunned, Essek watches as the man chokes on his own blood, his life fading away under the too-eager gaze of Ikithon. The Beacon doesn’t react.
“Do you see?” Ikithon asks, turning to Essek who hopes he has managed to school his expression to hide just how rattled the sudden murder made him. “Perhaps some insight on this ritual could help.”
Essek moves forward hesitantly. “I have never been one to focus much on the more religious aspects of the Luxon. I can do my best, but I think—”
“Excellent,” Ikithon cuts him off. He gestures to Astrid and Eadwulf who drag the body out before returning with another terrified person, hefting them onto the table in the same position as the previous man. “Please, demonstrate. Bren, observe.”
Even as he says it, Bren is already stepping up behind Essek as he approaches the Beacon. His arm brushes lightly against Essek’s, and he mutters, “For luck.” To his surprise, and no small amount of delight, Essek feels the sensation of Fortune’s Favor being cast over him.
“Quick study,” Essek mutters in reply before taking his place by the stand where Ikithon had the Beacon resting. He touches his hands to either side and prepares to channel his magic through it, doing his best to ignore the terrified whimpering of the person in front of them.
This is important, he reminds himself. This is everything you’ve worked for.
Despite their best attempts, none of the subsequent trials are successful. Essek finds himself wishing he had given any more attention to the process of consecration before, if only to spare himself from this brute force method that seems to be getting them nowhere. By the end, he is panting from exhaustion, and they are no closer to understanding what it is about the Beacon that allows it to store souls in the manner it does, nor why it was able to capture the soul of Ikithon’s Volstrucker.
Ikithon seems especially frustrated by their lack of progress and leaves in a huff with only a quick command to the other three to clean up. Astrid and Eadwulf move to do as they’re told, but Bren instead steps up to Essek’s side.
“You seem disturbed,” he says quietly.
Essek huffs, trying to compose himself though he knows it’s probably fruitless under Bren’s eyes. “I am merely tired. I channeled much of my energy into opening the Beacon for those… trials.”
“Of course,” Bren agrees in a very placating way. A moment passes as they watch the other two heft their latest “subject” into their arms. Briefly, Essek thinks about offering to reduce its his gravity to lighten their burden. He doesn’t.
“Master Ikithon’s methods aren’t for everyone,” Bren speaks again as they approach the door. He speaks an arcane word and the door is pulled open, a mage hand or an unseen servant most likely, Essek is too tired to bother trying to dignify which.
“They do seem rather inefficient,” Essek agrees cautiously. He has no expectations that anything he says to Bren will not eventually reach Ikithon’s ears, but he can’t seem to care at the moment.
“Yet his results, when he does achieve them, are undeniable,” Bren says, lifting his sleeve momentarily to display the green lines marking his arms.
It's clearly a trap, clearly a ploy to direct the conversation where Bren wants, but Essek is too tired to play those games right now. He lets his curiosity win. “What are those? I’ve seen them on the others as well.”
“I assume you know what residuum is?”
Essek nods, feeling his eyebrows shooting up as he does. He already has an idea of what Bren will say next, but even then…
“He began by implanting the raw crystals into our arms. He believed they would increase our capacity to channel the arcane, and he was correct—though the initial placement was… unstable. It took many trials to develop the residuum infused ink.”
“And these trials were performed…” Essek doesn’t complete the thought. He isn’t sure he wants to, to say out loud just what kind of man he has allied himself with in this. Bren nods anyway.
“The three of us were the first he had any real success with in the process.” He gestures to the door Astrid and Eadwulf had just gone through.
“...Was it painful?” Essek doesn’t really know how to ask what he really wants to. After all, he himself has hardly gone through anything as intense as that, but he holds none of the intense loyalty to his country and those in charge that he has seen from these Volstruckers. He can’t imagine remaining by the side of someone who would be willing to do that to him. Some of his uncertainty must show through on his face, because Bren’s next response comes with a tone of condescension that shows he knows exactly what Essek was thinking.
“Some pain is worth it. I am more powerful than I ever could have been without this, better able to serve my Empire, my king. For that goal, I can endure anything. Not that I’d expect a traitor to his country to understand.”
Essek bristles. “It is the Bright Queen and the Dens who have betrayed our people by refusing to consider the full extent of what our Beacons are capable of,” he snaps. It is only as he sees Bren smile that he realizes he has given away too much; the taunt was merely a ploy to gain insight into his motivations, his thoughts. He should probably feel angry at that, but he just feels exhausted.
“I should be going,” he says, dropping to sketch the beginning runes for a teleportation circle on the ground. He is well into the ritual, about to place the runes that will designate his destination as the Lucid Bastion when he realizes Bren has not left. “Do you mind?”
Bren chuckles lightly, the sound echoing across the room. “Of course. Wouldn’t want you giving up yet another state secret to the Empire.” He turns to leave. “Until next time, Essek.”
Essek should leave it there, but something compels him to call out after Bren. “Your grasp of Fortune’s Favor is impressive. Perhaps next time I can introduce you to a few more advanced concepts.” An olive branch offered. And when Bren freezes and turns around, the genuine surprise and excitement barely concealed on his face is enough that Essek does not regret the offer. It’s a dangerous game the two of them are in, but he can’t deny the thrill that shoots through him at the chance to keep playing.
“I would like that.”
“Then, until next time, Bren.” He waits until he’s sure the other wizard has fully left before he completes the ritual, returning to Roshona, his mind already racing with the possibilities of what to teach Bren next.
-
“Bren, report to my office at once. You have a new assignment.”
The Sending wakes Bren up at precisely one minute past six in the morning. It takes a moment to extract himself from beneath Wulf’s crushing weight over half his body, but he manages, soothing his partner with a kiss against his shoulder as he protests the loss of his so-called ‘personal heater.’ It seems Astrid is still out on whatever business caused her to be absent last night, so once he settles Wulf back down he can get dressed and depart for Trent’s office quickly.
He is waiting when Bren arrives, tapping his desk with his fingers while he reads through the stack of papers in front of him. He looks up when the door opens and smiles. “Good morning, Bren.”
“Good morning,” Bren greets. “You have an assignment for me?”
“I do.” Trent shuffles the papers in front of him, producing a note with the singed edges signifying the arcane fire delivery method unique to the Volstruckers. “It seems a band of mercenaries has been giving Owelia some trouble.”
“You want me to eliminate them?” he guesses, but Trent shakes his head.
“From the reports, they appear to be a band of nobodies, thrown together by a set of bad circumstances, and yet their abilities may be useful if they could be… redirected. I want you to infiltrate and assess this group; see if we can turn their, ah, talents toward assisting the Empire.”
Bren is stunned, though he doesn’t show it outwardly. Ever since the night he failed his final exam, Trent has kept him close. He has been sent out on missions, sure, but never farther than a day’s travel from a teleportation circle. A form of pity, he had always thought, a way to still allow him to serve the Empire while catering to his ‘fragility,’ as Trent had called it.
Of course, Bren would never question his master’s orders out loud. He nods his head. “I will prepare to leave at once.”
“Good. From Owelia’s last report they are currently just south of Alfield. Take the circle to Zadash and requisition a horse from there.”
Bren nods again. “And Owelia?” he asks.
Trent’s eye gleams, as if Bren has just passed a test he didn’t know he was taking. “I’ll leave her use in this endeavor up to you. Though, of course, if this group was giving her such trouble, I can’t imagine what that would be.”
Bren lets the implications of that settle over him. Trent doesn’t like to keep things that don’t have any use to him anymore. It makes his keeping of Bren that much more of a generosity. “Understood,” he says.
“Good. Dismissed,” Trent says with a wave of his hand.
For a moment Bren considers bringing up the study of the Beacon, the relationship he has begun building with the Shadowhand to learn more about the artifact, but he holds his tongue. If Trent doesn’t deem it important enough to keep him around for, then he clearly has his own ways of getting the needed information. He tries not to feel too disappointed about losing out on the opportunity to learn more Dunamancy from Essek. After all, the studies will continue, and even just the small amount he got is enough that he can begin to work out some of his own theories.
Still…
Eadwulf is already gone when Bren returns to their room, which only saves him needing to explain to his partner where he is going. He packs a few things—best to travel lightly—and begins the process of drawing his teleportation circle right there.
His arrival in Zadash is uneventful, as are the next two days of travel. His ability to create a Tiny Hut at night means he is unbothered as he sleeps, despite the signs of bandit presence in the area. It’s as he’s beginning to approach the outskirts of Alfield on the third day that he hears a commotion.
“I can’t believe she got away again! Weren’t you watching her?” a woman’s voice shouts, clearly frustrated.
“Of course I was watching her, but what do you expect me to do against that kind of magic?!” a male responds, equally frustrated.
“I don’t know,” the first woman responds, “Can’t you do some more of that freaky shit?”
“I mean, maybe? I barely know what it is, much less how to use it!”
“Would you two knock it off?” A third, lightly accented voice joins the noise. “She can’t have gone too far, so quit wasting time bickering and let’s go after her.”
Bren waits for a moment, but the group doesn’t seem to be coming in his direction. Quickly, he dismounts from his horse, casts Invisibility on himself, and stealths toward where the voices were coming from.
It doesn’t take him too long to arrive, and when he does he sees an eclectic gathering of individuals. Bren easily identifies the first voice that had spoken as the human woman dressed in the colors of the Cobalt Soul, who is urging her companions to move quicker. Among those companions, he sees a half-orc, two tieflings, a goblin, and another woman who seemed to have some kind of divine heritage. They match the descriptions Owelia had managed to send back about the group that was on her tail, so Bren settles in to watch as they set off, presumably after Owelia herself.
Despite the rough start Bren had observed, he begins to see how this group could be giving a single fully trained Volstrucker issues once they finally start moving. The blue tiefling clutches a holy symbol he oddly doesn’t recognize and shadows seem to grow out of the trees to cloak the group and muffle their footsteps. A moment later, the goblin calls out that she’s discovered the trail, and they set off.
They fall into formation quickly for a group that can’t have been working together too long, keeping the blue one that Bren surmises must be a cleric of some kind in the middle. The goblin scouts ahead, stealthy enough even outside of the range of whatever spell the cleric has cast to easily remain hidden and seek out more remnants of Owelia’s journey. Behind her, leading the rest of the group is the Cobalt Soul monk and the purple dual-wielding tiefling, while the half-orc and large greatsword-wielding woman stay to the back.
None of them seem to have noticed Bren following invisibly. He lingers toward the rear of the group, keeping a particularly close eye on the half-orc. Of them all, he has the least grasp initially on what he is capable of, though he has identified him as the second speaker from earlier, and therefore the one with the so-called ‘freaky shit.’
It’s honestly somewhat disappointing how quickly they manage to catch up to Owelia. Even having been pursued so ardently as she claimed to have been by this group, a Volstrucker should be able to hide their tracks better, and Bren feels himself solidifying what it is he has to do.
If the Soul is involved in the pursuit of a Volstrucker, then they’re investigating Trent Ikithon, and if Bren wants to integrate himself into this group he’ll have to play that angle, give them just enough to make them think he’s worth keeping around while not giving too much away. Invisibly, he takes down his hair and scrubs his hands through it, messing it up from its combed state. Then, as he watches the group fan out to prepare and ambush Owelia, he kneels down and begins to rub dirt into his clothing and onto his skin, doing his best to create the impression of someone who has been away from society for some time.
The monk moves first, bursting out of the woods with her fists swinging. Immediately, the goblin takes advantage of the distraction to begin firing from the treeline. After all the travel on Owelia’s heels, Bren’s invisibility is close to running out, but he takes advantage of the last few moments of his spell to watch closely and take stock of everyone’s abilities. There is not too much surprise from the woman with the greatsword, though she is quite adept at wielding it. He is expecting something similar from the dual wielder, so it is somewhat alarming when he first draws his blades against his own skin, causing them to light up with elemental energy where his blood touches the metal. The cleric leaps into the fray—no, actually, it’s an illusory duplicate, he realizes, spotting the actual one hiding among the trees. There is nothing illusory, however, about the large spectral lollipop the duplicate holds, and even Bren can’t help but wince when it clocks Owelia across the face. The half-orc hangs back as well, though he now holds a strange looking weapon in his hand. He extends a palm forward and two dark beams of energy shoot out to impact Owelia, blasting her back against a tree.
Bren’s internal clock lets him know his Invisibility is about to run out right as he can see Owelia beginning to panic. She has held her own in this fight, but it is one against six, and they are closing in around her. She raises her hands, preparing the somatics for a large area of effect spell as a last ditch effort to clear the way for her escape, but before she has a chance to complete the spell, Bren stumbles into the clearing, his invisibility gone.
Owelia recognizes him immediately. “You!” she gasps in Zemnian. Bren glances briefly toward the monk, knowing of the Cobalt Soul’s tendency to train their members in many languages. He doesn’t see any recognition on her face, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. “Did he send you to help?”
Bren’s expression is cold when he replies. “Nein.” Her expression freezes, but it’s too late for her to react. It’s second nature to summon fire to his palm. She can’t avoid it. She burns.
For a moment in the aftermath, Bren feels his chest tighten. Her scream as the flame hits, the way his fire consumes her, it’s too much like–
Then his gaze catches on his still-outstretched hand, on the ring that Master Ikithon had given him after. A wave of calm passes over him. He is following orders. He is helping the Empire. They were traitors.
He returns to himself just in time to cast an arcane Shield to block the punch that comes flying toward his face.
“What the hell was that for?!” the Cobalt Soul monk shouts in his face, though she doesn’t try to punch him again. “I still had questions I needed to ask!”
Bren can’t help the incredulous huff that leaves him at that. “You were never going to be able to hold her any way other than dead. Her kind are trained far too well for that.”
“I could’ve–”
The half-orc cuts her off. “Could’ve what? That was the third time she’s escaped and we only had her two days! He has a point, Beau.”
“Has a point?” That’s the goblin, who has somehow managed to get right up behind Bren without his noticing. He hears the sound of a crossbow bolt locking into place. “Who the hell is he? Who the hell are you?!”
Slowly, Bren raises his hands. “My name,” he says, “is Caleb Widowgast.”
Beau crosses her arms. “Ok, Caleb Widowgast, why are you here? What do you know about ‘her kind?’”
“Quite a bit,” Bren says, shifting one of his arms until the sleeve falls down, revealing his tattoos, “considering until very recently I was one of them.”
Silence. Then chaos breaks out, overlapping shouts of questions and threats until a magically enhanced voice cuts through the noise.
“Stop it you guys!” Everyone turns to look at the blue tiefling, who had been the one to shout. “Shouldn’t we give Caleb a chance to explain? I mean, he did just kill one of his own guys; why would he do that unless he’s telling the truth about leaving them?”
A somewhat naive view, but one that works directly to Bren’s advantage, so he lets her have it. After all, he supposes it’s not completely unreasonable to those unaware of exactly how Trent Ikithon operates.
“I’ll admit I’m curious as well,” the purple tiefling agrees. (If this is going to be anything then Bren really needs to learn their names.)
Beau looks around at the rest of the group and sighs. “Fine. Explain, but if I hear one thing I don’t like…”
Bren slowly lowers his hands, allowing his sleeve to fall back into place. “Unfortunately, it is difficult not to speak of unpleasant things when it comes to our former master.” He allows his eyes to rest on Owelia’s body momentarily before glancing towards Beau. “I assume you know who that is?”
She nods. “Trent Ikithon.”
“Ja. There is much I could say about him, about his methods. The most relevant, perhaps, is this: when I was younger he gave me a test. He told me to kill someone, a traitor to the Empire. I… failed.”
“You didn’t kill them?” the goblin asks, voice much softer than he expects.
“No, I did, but I regretted it.” Bren hears a sharp inhale from one of them. He doesn’t see who, gaze firmly locked on the ground. Even as carefully as he is shaping this story to his advantage, reliving that night, that shame horrorstopitsavethem fills him as he speaks, and he absently fiddles with his ring to calm his nerves while he continues. “He’s kept me close since then, but lately he’s been… distracted. When he sent me to assist Owelia,” he nods briefly toward the burnt body, “I figured this would be my only chance.”
The group is silent for a moment, processing his words. Finally, it’s the woman with the greatsword, who has been quiet up until now, who speaks. “What are you going to do now?”
Bren shakes his head, lets some of the uncertainty about this mission bleed through. “I don’t know. I can’t go back, but I don’t have anywhere else to go… I…” He lets his gaze go unfocused, as if the enormity of what he has done is just catching up to him. This is the critical moment. His mission relies on getting close to these individuals, and if he’s played his cards right…
“Oh!” It’s the blue tiefling who speaks. “If you don’t have anywhere else to go, you should come with us! Most of us didn’t really have anywhere else to go before either, but now we go around stopping guys like Trent! You should totally help us!”
Perfect.
Beau hesitates. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jester.” Bren—or, actually, he should start getting used to Caleb, since that’s the name he gave—updates her name in his mind.
“Why not?” the half-orc speaks up. “I mean, think about it this way: either he comes with us and we can keep an eye on him, or he goes off on his own and who knows what he does!”
“I don’t know…” Beau says, but after thinking it over for a moment she gives in. “Fine. You can stay, but I’ll be keeping a very close watch on you.”
“I would expect nothing else,” Caleb agrees. He looks over to Jester. “Thank you for the offer. I’d be honored to travel with you, and of course I’ll do my best to assist in anything you wish to do.”
Jester smiles widely. “Awesome! Welcome to the Splendid Six!”
“There’s not six of us anymore, though,” the goblin points out, causing Jester to deflate slightly.
“Huh. I guess we’ll have to change it then. The Splendid Seven? No, that’s not quite right…”
“Plus, what if we get another new member? Then we’ll have to change it again. Maybe we should just pick a random number, that way no one will know how many of us there are!” the goblin suggests.
“Ooh, I like it!” Jester whips back to Caleb. “Caleb! Do you have a favorite number?”
“Uh, nein,” he answers.
“Nine, perfect! We are… The Mighty Nine!” Jester announces.
“Ah,” Caleb realizes the confusion. “Actually, I meant nein, N-E-I-N as in the Zemnian word for no, not…”
“Ooh, that’s even better! The Mighty Nein!”
It sounds exactly the same, but the rest of the group is nodding. Bizarre.
“I like it,” the other tiefling says. “It has a nice ring to it.”
“Catchy and confusing,” Beau says. “It suits us.”
And so it appears the matter is settled. The group is called ‘The Mighty Nein,’ and Bren as Caleb Widowgast is officially one of them. This will be interesting, if nothing else.