Daughter of Wreath

The road back to Minoury had been a challenging one for Pinzak. He'd left Big Petunia with those two layabout humans, letting them continue to sweep the area for signs of other necromancers, with instructions to keep an eye on the elf-witch's hut once things had settled down. He was faster on his own, despite his rather gnarled and wizened appearance, hitching rides on wagons or ponies along the road until he'd made his way to Graicea's northern end - in fact, if he'd been any slower, he likely would have encountered Nowa and Vexa traveling along the exact same route he'd taken.

Now, though, he found himself in Minoury, the grand capital of Graicea. A massive, bustling city, the jewel of civilization on Paraven; Minoury was a place where people of all walks of life could visit, trade, and make a life for themselves... provided they followed the rules, of course, and provided they didn't anger the Order. Unfortunately, it was the Order that Pinzak was here to deal with, and it was quite unlikely they'd be pleased about his inability to apprehend a known (or at least suspected, and subsequentlyconfirmed) necromancer.

The twisted, white-haired goblin made his way through the city's gates, past the Foreign Flats and around Venbury, a heavily-patrolled square where government offices, taxmen, and merchant lords made their dark deals. He had an even less savory destination - the Abbey of the Holy Vessel. It was a massive cathedral, all gray-brick and harsh, slim spires, utterly undecorated but for the symbol of Rul: a white crescent facing downward, resembling a closed eye, just above which was a white half-disc, rounded on top and flat on the bottom. A rather simple glyph to represent the God of the Living, Pinzak had always thought.

The goblin made his way through the massive front doors, bringing him to two paths: the massive hallways to either side of him, each stretching into an enormous spiral staircase that would take him to the second floor, or down past the rows of seats, opening up into an amphitheater that descended toward a large, open stage where sermons could be given, surrounded by ornate candelabras, brass organs, and an elevated deck for a choir. The whole thing was built rather... strangely. Pinzak was not here to worship, though - in all honesty, while he mostly didbelievein Those, he didn't think about Them all that often. Those were just some big, cruel inevitability, a cycle that you went through whether you wanted to or not. It was Their worshippers that you really had to look out for, and the Order of the Holy Vessel was foremost among those that the goblin was concerned about.

As it stood, he turned right, down the hall, and up the stairs, bringing himself face-to-face with a duo of heavily-armored guards who blocked the second floor's contents: barracks, offices, and the subsequent staircase to the third floor. "I'm not certain you belong here," one of the guards said, her voice belying the suspicion that her black-plumed helmet concealed.

"He does," the other guard grunted. "This is the Custodian's pet rodent. Go on through, Pinzak." The second guard stepped aside, sweeping his gauntleted hand toward the stairs. "The Custodian's currently in a meeting, but Inquisitor Hall can take care of whatever filth you have to report."

"So grateful for ya 'ospitality," Pinzak bowed his sloped, white-maned head. He was well-acclimated to the general disgust these Order folks had for him, regardless of whether or not he was one of the living. He didn't represent whattheyvalued about life - wasn't chaste, beautiful, or orderly. Pinzak was a reminder, both of life's ugliness, and of the wretched things the Order had done in its name.

"Fucking goblins..." the first guard grumbled under her breath as Pinzak made his way up the stairs, opening a smaller door of inlaid wood that brought him to the private offices and meeting rooms. While private chambers radiated out from the larger, central 'war room,' several higher-ranking officials within the Order (and freelancers, like Pinzak) shared hushed discussions and negotiations at smaller tables and chairs. Green carpet lined the floor that Pinzak shuffled his twisted body along, while great tapestries of past Custodians and zealots, along with general tributes to Rul, lined the walls. The goblin's target was in sight, standing beside the wall nearby the door the Custodian was likely behind - Inquisitor Hall.

Tall and slim, Hall was a human with a build not dissimilar to the elves, though they carried themself with a decorum not befitting the decadence of the high elves or the depravity of the low elves. Their bangs were cut in a straight line, just above dark brows, and the rest of their ginger hair was likewise cut in a straight, severe style just below the jawline, above the shoulders. Gray eyes like a cloudy sky showed untiring resolve despite the dark circles around them, the inquisitor's skin milky white and lightly dusted with freckles. A narrow jaw, upturned nose, and high cheekbones gave them a noble, if rather delicate appearance, one very much offset by the blackened mail hauberk they wore, accompanied by heavy black greaves and gauntlets. Over the hauberk was a white tabard, emblazoned on which was Rul's symbol, though it was in black instead of white, with a longsword skewering it downward. Inquisitor Hall was not someone to be taken lightly, and every aspect of their attire and demeanor reinforced that fact.

"Oy, 'Allie, been a whilesabout," Pinzak put on his friendliest grimace, reaching out for a handshake that Hall did not accept. "Right. Well then. Think the ol' Custard-ian's ready for my li'l visit?"

"Address the Custodian with respect." Hall said firmly, drawing in a deep breath through their nostrils. "And no."

"Yeesh, touchy. Y'know itispossible to be somefin' ovver'n a prig sometimes?" The goblin chided. When the Inquisitor didn't answer, Pinzak continued, "For real, I knows you Order knobs are all serious bizness and whatnot, but ya not makin' the idea of bein' alive seem terribly rewardin'. Or all that lively, nows I fink about it."

"Perhaps I would be more lively if our organization wasn't consorting with low-life bounty hunters." Hall said, their stoic expression not faltering, though an edge of annoyance had managed to work its way into their husky voice.

"Fair enuff, I reckon. No love for ol' Pinzak in a single brick o' this place. Never can tell if'n it's 'cause I'm a goblin or just a fuck'ead."

"The Order recognizes all living, sentient races as equal," Hall recited. "We only take Offense with artificial 'life,' and the heretics that enable its construction. You know that."

"Keep tellin' yaself that, lovesome," the goblin sighed, slouching against the opposite side of the same door the Inquisitor shadowed. "Keep it up longenough, ya just might find yaself believin' it, aye?"

The redhead's jaw tightened, teeth gritted, but they didn't respond. Fortunately, they were saved a few moments later by the door opening, a duo of blonde-haired, opulently-dressed elven women spilling forth, one of them surreptitiously sniffing something off of her knuckle as the two of them headed back downstairs. Like a cat sneaking into a pantry, Pinzak slithered through the open door with almost liquid grace, the heavily-armored Inquisitor following behind and clicking the door shut.

The meeting room was not so spacious as the one leading to it, designed more for privacy than comfort, though the rich green carpet extended into it. A stained-glass window depicting a bountiful wheat field decorated the stone back wall, but the other walls were lined with bookshelves and constructed of a dark, warm wood, the room dominated by a large desk of similar material. The trappings on the desk were rather sparse - a few loose papers contained notes that had yet to be officially transcribed into logs, a quill and inkwell, and a well-crafted globe that depicted the world of Wreath, several bright red pins inserted at various specific points.

Behind the desk was the woman Pinzak had come to see - the Custodian. Whatever her name had been before she'd become the Custodian was lost now, taken from her when she gained the position, which ranked lower than only the High Inquisitor. The Custodian served as the Order's mouth and hand, if not necessarily its head, and the woman who bore the title had, time and again, proven herself very much worthy of it. Like Hall, she was human, though far shorter, and presumably, much older - while her olive skin showed barely any wrinkles beyond those at the corners of her lips and eyes, her hair was every bit as white as Pinzak's, worn in an elaborate coif of gem-inlaid braids around her head. She wore a gown of deep violet, trimmed with snowy white, and golden rings lined each of her ears.

"Custodian." Hall said, holding a clenched fist straight forward in salute, then dropping it.

"Eh, your Holy Scandalousness," Pinzak sneered, lazily replicating the salute with a half-hearted thrust of his lanky green arm.

"Pinzak." The Custodian looked up from jotting down a few final notes, fixing dark, almond-shaped eyes on the goblin. "I've received no word of an Offender being taken in."

"Ah, yeh, tha's right," the goblin said sheepishly, his beady red eyes not making contact with hers.

"Your task is quite straightforward, I think. So if you've come to speak to mewithoutproviding the Abbey with an Offender..." The threat in the Custodian's voice required no further words to be made clear, and Pinzak looked ever more uncomfortable, like a dog being scolded for relieving himself on the rug.

"Right, so, about that... wedidfind the witch."

"The Birch Witch?"

"Bit o' a bitch, yeh."

"Birch, simpleton."

"Plenty o' that, too."

"Describe her."

"Elf. Tall, skinny. You know how they is, the sword-ears. Dark 'air. Grumpy as badger-piss."

"And did she confess to her Offenses?"

"Nah, she weren't all too co-op-rah-tive. Did get 'er all nice n' locked up like, though!" Pinzak's attempt to honey his failure only looked to be annoying the Custodian, whose throaty voice grew ever more abrasive with each exchange of words.

"Yet I do not see her here."

"Right. So that's the itch-in-the-cock, ahh... she weren't alone. Some girl came an' saved her."

The Custodian slowly arched a brow. "A girl?"

"A girl, yeh."

"You were given charge of six graicean thugs and agrazzoth, and you were stopped by a... girl?"

"So, I only 'ad two thugs by that time. 'Ad to trade a few of 'em to get an oblivion priestess off mah back."

The Inquisitor interjected. "Ihaveheard reports of a Kou cult to the south, Custodian."

"Right you are," Pinzak continued, "second-offs, weren't no ordinary girl, see. Set Petunia after her, and a moment later she's changin', gets all big an' big-like, green and clawsy, goes a couple rounds with Petunia. And of course, anything that can fight Petunia's gonna scare off the 'umans, so everyfing just sorta fell apart." Obviously, the Custodian didn't need to know that it was Pinzak himself who'd led the retreat the instant things didn't look advantageous, not when he had someone else he could blame.

"Green and... clawsy. Like a grazzoth?" The Custodian inquired.

"Tha's right! Like she was borrowin' Petunia's strength! Real weird shit, that's what I say! Some kinda freak!"

The Custodian ran her tongue across the front of her teeth, silent for a moment. While Pinzak was obviously still a wretched worm unworthy of respect or mercy, a girl thattransformswasn't the kind of lie he'd make up - it'd be something far grander, likely with a minimum of one internal logical fallacy. "Inquisitor, does this sound like anything you've heard of, before?"

"It does not, Custodian." Hall answered.

"And would you know this girl if you saw her again, Pinzak?"

"Ahh... yeh. 'Course I would. Like a steel trap, this old noggin o' mine."

The Custodian drew a deep, slow breath, considering her options. The Birch Witch was still a primary target, but if this girl could do what the goblin described, she could be an even greater priority. Anyone who intervened with the apprehension of Offenders - much less an abomination like the one Pinzak had described - was an enemy, and needed to be dealt with. "Inquisitor, take a brace of soldiers loyal to the Order under your command. Do not return without either the witch, or the heretic who rescued her. Consider them to have already confessed to their crimes, and deal with them accordingly. And..." she was loath to give her final instruction, but it made sense. "Bring Pinzak with you."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"I just couldn't ever get into the high-flying acts. I wanted to! I kept trying! But the horns always ended up getting in the way, and... yeah, too heavy." Gelyn, the shokari circus performer who's now joined our initially one-woman mission, has taken some time to really get to know, even with a few days on the road to do so. Beyond her optimism and fixation on heroics, her past is something of a mystery, obscured in the pizzazz of her time with the Picklehammer Brigade. Despite being shokari, she seems to have as little cultural connection to the subterranean giantfolk as Vexa or I do.

"What's the strangest place you've performed in?" I ask as the three of us walk, still following the road ever-eastward toward the goblin city-state of Tague. The landscape is still grassy, though some short, rocky hills have been starting to creep up around us, and a lot more wildflowers along the side of the road - mostly in shades of bright blue, deep red, and pale purple. "I'm sure you've seen some crazy places, right? Did you ever go to the bluffs?"

"Not the bluffs, no - Toche said there was no real money in it, not enough to be worth the trip," Gelyn shrugs. "We learned that the hard way when we tried to do a show down south."

"South?" Vexa speaks up, sounding shocked. "You played for the barbarians?"

"A couple times! We did shows in Gray Lagoon, Eel Marsh, and even the Stag Towers, but itreallydidn't go well," Gelyn lets out a short chuckle. "Turns out they have more of a storytelling culture, didn't really 'get' the idea of a performance without a narrative."

"Hm. I admit, I didn't expect a lack of artistic synergy to be the problem you'd had," the Birch Witch lets out a dry little giggle of her own. "Glad to see they left you in one piece, though."

"Most of us, anyway," the shokari clarifies ominously.

"Ooh, hey-!" I whistle for silence, closing my eyes. There's a rushing sound, almost silent, but many months in the wilderness has sharpened my senses to even minor irregularities. "Do you hear that?"

My two companions go quiet. While Gelyn doesn't seem to be noticing anything, Vexa nods along a moment later. "Water. Not far away. A river or stream, maybe even a waterfall."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I smile.

"That the lower class is framed as a parasite upon the wealthy, while it's really the rich nobles and merchants that drain the lifeblood of the common people, offering only poverty and violence in return?" the elf blinks.

"Oh, I was gonna say 'I'm hungry,' is that it?" Gelyn says hopefully.

"Wow, two really different answers," I hesitate, then shake my head. "We should find that water and clean up! It's been several days now since we got to take a real bath, and I know I could definitely use it."

"Can we still eat?" the shokari frowns.

"Don't see why not. There may even be some fish or big game by the water!"

It takes close to half an hour before we find the source of water, not far north of the road. Itisa waterfall, if a rather short one, that seems to represent the southernmost tip of a river that bends down, then curves back up to the northeast to follow the descending hills. Even more exciting is thatbehindthe waterfall appears to be a grotto! Despite it still being midday, we decide to make the most of things and make camp here. While Gelyn sets up our tents and a campfire, I set traps for game likely to wander close, and Vexabeth scratches some glyphs into a glass bottle, whispering a chant into it before tossing it into the river - and some moments later, around a dozen fatty, pink-scaled fish are tossed up onto shore, flopping around in place as their demise approaches.

"How'd you manage that, Vexa?" I ask.

"Every part of the natural world is infested with spirits," the witch explains, casually tossing the fish onto a clean, flat rock. "The harmony they have with the land can easily become disharmony, if you know how to persuade them."

"...Do I want to understand the process any better than that?"

"Probably not, bug."

I drop the subject and set about cooking. This area hasn't provided much in the way of fruits and vegetables that actuallytastegood, so I make use of some of our old thornpeppers, crushed beeknuts, and a bit of vinegar and salt from my mess kit, creating what I hope to be a flavorful, acidic 'sauce' for the fish. The fish itself (some sort of petalfin as far as I can tell, though the color's off) is promptly scaled, (most of) the bones removed, skewered, and roasted over an open fire. The fatty nature gives it a strongly fishy taste, but one offset by the charred skin and zesty mixture I rub it down with. Overall, the meal goes well, though Vexabeth does insist on adding more salt to hers. As midday deepens into an uncharacteristically warm evening, the three of us - clown, witch, and wanderer - lounge about our bedrolls, enjoying our full bellies and the sounds of the crashing water.

"Ah, what I wouldn't give for some fuckingwineright now," Vexa sighs.

"Mmh, yeah," I slouch back, slipping out of my poncho and tossing it over my pillow. "That'd be nice. Little drink and a swim."

"Oh, uhhh. Hmm." Gelyn thinks for a moment, twirling a finger around the purple-and-yellow ribbons festooning her horns. "I have goblin-milk?"

Vexa sits up. "You havewhat?"

"Goblin-milk? Euh, I mean, that's what Braull used to call it. Ivol always saidactualgoblin milk was blue, though." She gets up onto her knees, grabbing her backpack and starting to rustle through it, fishing around for her strange prize. After a few moments, she withdraws a thick glass bottle filled with off-white liquid, slightly smaller than a bottle of wine would be. "Goblin-milk! It's good!"

"I... don't know if Iwantto drink anything called goblin-milk, honestly," I say, uneasily.

"I will if it gets me fucked up." Vexa's priorities are set shamelessly in order. "Provided I don't fuckin'garfon the first sip."

"Garf?" I ask before I can stop myself. "Is that like, being sick?"

"Elven word," she explains. "Something like being sick. Worse though."

"Do I want you to elaborate?"

"Not a chance."

Gelyn extends one long, muscular arm toward Vexabeth, offering the bottle. "I'm willing to share! Be careful, though. It's sort of... uh, intense! Takes a while to hit you, too!"

"Bigstuff, I'm an elf, we know how to handle our shi-" As she spoke, the necromancer popped the cork on the bottle, and the smell immediately caused her to reel away and let out a few hacking coughs. "What thefuckisthat, I once drank fermented bogge-sweat and it didn't smell that sour."

Gelyn shrugged sheepishly. "Goblin-milk?"

"Well... here goes, I guess.Kalssenda." Vexa swirls the bottle, then takes a drink - not even a sip, but adrink, her face immediately contorting in disgust, lips tightening and nose scrunching up. She visibly struggles to swallow, but ultimately manages, then lets out a labored breath. "That... is wild. You circus folk don't fuck around."