The pair turned and bolted, making for an alley across the street. Behind them, the strange sound repeated in a rapid staccato; chips of stone jumped from the walls on either side as they ran, rattling against Dahlia’s armor. Nil turned as they crossed the threshold, raising a hand to weave a looping pattern in the air with her fingertips – a brick wall sprang into existence at the mouth of the alley, cutting them off from the platoon’s line of sight. She led the way through a complicated series of switchbacks, trying to put as many twists and turns between them and their pursuers as possible. 

Dahlia ducked around a corner and put her back to the wall, fighting to catch her breath. Her armor was helpful in many situations – a dead sprint through winding backstreets was not one of them. At her side, Nil was looking similarly haggard, her curls plastered against her pale, sweat-slick forehead. The diminutive witch did not look as if she was accustomed to much in the way of hard running. 

“What was that?” Dahlia gasped. A quick look over her shoulder revealed no one in hot pursuit – not yet, anyway. 

“It’s an illusion, you idiots!” Barked a familiarly irate voice – distant, but not nearly distant enough. “Find them! Now!”

Nil shook her head, disbelieving. “Magic. They were using magic, I’d stake my life on it, but…that should be impossible.” She pushed away from the wall. “Doesn’t matter right now. We need to find somewhere to hide.” 

They began moving again with all feasible stealth, pausing at every intersection to survey the path ahead. Nil pulled a tiny hand mirror from the seemingly endless depths of her hat and poked it out around each corner to make certain the coast was clear; all around them, the sounds of shouting and steel-toed boots on gravel drifted through the still morning air. Evidently they had arrived just in time to watch Kaldemere fall into chaos. 

“Gotta say, I’m a little surprised.” Dahlia said. “Situation like this, I thought for sure you’d just, y’know, turn invisible and leave me for dead.”

The goblin tucked away her mirror and jerked her head, signaling for Dahlia to follow. “Letting you die is not currently an option.”

Dahlia grinned. “Aww! You are warming up to me.”

Nil responded with a withering look. “Letting you die is not currently an option because I have yet to verify how the binding spell would react to your demise. It is entirely possible that whoever imprisoned our obnoxious friend’s soul in that skull designed the spell in such a way that it would crumble to dust upon the death of the bound individual. Quite likely, in fact. Ancient wizards were a notoriously paranoid bunch.”

The emberling gave a low whistle. “You really know your stuff, huh?”

“Yes, I do. Now please be quiet, if you’re capable.” The path ahead opened into a more proper street, which in Kaldemere’s case meant that only the occasional tuft of weedy grass had been allowed to poke up through the gravel. Again, Nil poked her hand mirror out around the corner.

“Oh.” She said softly.

“What?” Dahlia whispered. “You see something?”

Without waiting for an answer, the emberling stuck her head out beyond the wall. Two individuals stood a short ways down the street, frozen in place; A soldier of the watch, his back turned to Nil and Dahlia, stood with his death-thrower shouldered and ready. He had drawn down on an elderly dwarven man standing some twenty paces further down the street. The dwarf stood stock-still save for his hands, which fluttered upward in an uncertain gesture of surrender. For a moment they simply stared at one another, as if even the soldier was unsure of what was supposed to happen next. His finger trembled on the trigger.

“Hey!” Dahlia shouted at the top of her lungs.

The soldier wheeled to see Dahlia lunge out from the alleyway, heels skidding on the gravel path as she broke into a sprint toward him. With a wordless yelp of panic, he swung his weapon around to take aim at this new threat and fired, the first shot going wide and kicking up a spray of chipped gravel at her feet. She ignored it completely, not veering in the slightest as the soldier swore and fiddled with something on the side of his death-thrower with trembling hands. There was a sharp click and he brought the weapon up again; Dahlia would not reach him before the second shot.

Dahlia’s body flickered, blurring intermittently from sight as if she had suddenly begun moving too quickly for the eye to follow. In the same instant she was suddenly directly in front of the soldier, flashing across his field of vision from the corner of his eye. He sucked in a breath and swept his weapon wildly to the side, one foot kicking out from beneath him; another shot echoed through the street, drilling into the sky. He faltered, off-balance, and Dahlia had the time she needed.

Still sprinting at full pelt, Dahlia threw a punch that caught the soldier in the temple, denting his helmet and bending him backwards to bounce his head off of the pavement. Both feet went completely out from under him and he crumpled, a low wheezing escaping him. He made no move to rise again.

“Hey!” Dahlia hissed, waving her arms wildly at the old dwarf staring at her bug-eyed, “Go! Go now! Run! Yes, you, of course I’m talking to you! Skedaddle!”

Evidently realizing at last that he was not about to die, the old man finally turned and scurried away down a nearby alleyway and out of sight. Dahlia turned at the sound of small footsteps coming up rapidly behind her.

“Oh Nil, hey.” Dahlia bent over to brace her hands on her knees, breathing heavily. “That was you, right? Quick thinking. Almost threw me off for a second.”

The goblin lifted her foot and drove a heel down on Dahlia’s toes. She yelped and hopped away on one foot, grabbing instinctively at the pain with both hands.

“If you ever do something like that again, I am going to poison you.” Nil snarled. “Now come on, I don’t have time to stand around and threaten you properly.”

As if to confirm that statement, the sound of metal boots crunching on gravel struck their ears but a moment later, accompanied by a babble of distant voices.

“Of all the blessed…!” Nil grabbed Dahlia by the wrist and yanked her toward the nearest offshoot. “No time. Come on.”

Another stint of bolting to and fro among the tight back streets of Kaldemere. The fatigue had its claws in them in earnest now, and too often dead end after dead end forced them to retrace their steps. No matter how they ran, the sound of footfalls and shouting seemed only a few seconds behind, drawing closer with every setback. Even so, Nil insisted on pausing at every corner with her mirror, even as her hands began to tremble with exertion.

The witch retracted the mirror quickly, sucking in a ragged breath. “No good.” She whispered. “They’re coming from this way too.”

Dahlia’s head whipped back and forth, a look of intense concentration on her face. “How long we got?”

“Ten seconds. Less. Maybe if you hadn’t stopped to-”

The emberling waved a hand impatiently, cutting her short. “No time for that. Any ideas?”

The sound of steel boots crunching on gravel intensified from all directions as Nil turned a pitiless look upon her companion. “Just one. It seems I’ll be testing my theory a tad early.” 

“Huh? What theory?”

Nil’s spellbook materialized in her palm, fluttering open like a butterfly alighting on a flower. “About what happens to the binding enchantment when you expire. Goodbye, Dahlia.”

“Hey!” A new voice hissed, making the both of them jump. “You two, over here!”

The door that creaked open at Dahlia’s back was so dilapidated and ill-used that they had failed to notice it, blending as it did with a pile of mold-eaten lumber laid haphazardly against the wall. There was no time to consider their options; both women turned wordlessly and dashed through the opening, mashing the door shut behind them as quietly as their adrenaline-soaked nerves would allow. Outside, the sound of hurried footfalls coalesced and faded, replaced at first by frustrated voices, then retreating footsteps, then silence. Dahlia let out the breath she had been holding and let herself slump against the wall as she took in their new surroundings. 

There wasn’t much to take in – a dim, dusty hallway whose state of general disrepair suggested that the building had likely gone unoccupied for some time – but the pair now found themselves in the company of their rescuer. It took Dahlia only a moment to recognize the man’s slender, handsome features and hay-colored hair going to gray at the temples; this was the same elf they had seen heading the crowd only minutes before, standing now with his hands on his knees and looking quite out of breath. 

“Hey!” Dahlia said, popping into a standing position dramatically, “I know you! You’re that guy, from the…you know!”

The elf straightened, pushing both hands into the small of his back with a slightly pained expression. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“But I…okay, actually, obvious question time. Why are you helping us?”

“I try not to be in the habit of stranding aside and watching people die. Doesn’t matter much who they are. But more importantly, miss Scratch,” he said, a glint appearing in his eye, “I’m afraid I’ve seen through your act.”

Dahlia froze, eyes going circular. “…You what?”

The man’s smile grew a bit wider. “I was there for that stunt in front of the manor, remember? You had me fooled, too. For a minute I thought things had gone from bad to worse, but then…” He waggled a mischievous finger toward the door, “…I happened to spy you saving old Burley out there not a minute ago. I know you’re no Villain, miss.”

“N-now hold on!” Dahlia squeaked, face twisting nervously. “I didn’t save anybody, I, I was, uh-”

“Alright, Dahlia,” Nil said suddenly, stepping forward with her arms clasped behind her back, “I think it’s well past time to drop your little ruse, just for a moment, don’t you?”

The emberling turned a blank stare on her companion. “…my what?”

Nil gave a long-suffering sigh, turning toward the elf with an apologetic smile. “You’ll have to forgive my friend. I’m sure you’ve heard how…eccentric mages can be.”

The man rubbed his thumb and forefinger along either side of his chin as Dahlia looked back and forth between them, blinking uncomprehendingly. “Aye, suppose I have.”

Smiling sweetly, the goblin struck a smooth curtsy. “Well, you’ve found us out, as you say. My name is Brinya – you’re familiar with Dahlia already.” Nil chuckled softly, as if the elf were in on some secret joke. “Mage and handler of the Traveler’s Guild, at your service.”

“I knew it!” He said, smacking one palm against his thigh in a sudden burst of excitement. “I knew the Chancellor wouldn’t just…abandon us like this. You ladies have no idea how long we’ve…” The elf shook his head, still beaming. “Forgive me, I haven’t even introduced myself. Soren Morrelath, at your service.”

Exuding the energy of an exuberant puppy, Soren took each of them by the hand, pumping up and down in a slightly over-vigorous handshake. Dahlia accepted the gesture bonelessly, like a marionette – her attention was on Nil, and on the way the goblin’s entire personality seemed to have changed the moment Soren entered the picture. 

“A pleasure, Mr. Morrelath.” Nil said smoothly. “With that out of the way, perhaps you’d enlighten us as to what in the world has gone so wrong with this sleepy little town of yours?”

Soren nodded soberly. “Of course, but we shouldn’t linger here – no telling if they might decide on a more thorough sweep. Follow me, stay close, and I’ll get the two of you somewhere we can talk.”

Nodding their assent, Dahlia and Nil followed their newfound guide deeper into the building; nothing of the adjoining rooms served to contradict the original impression of emptiness and dereliction. A broken piece of furniture here, a scattering of rubbish there – what was left was not even enough to guess what function the building had originally served. Occasionally, Soren opened a door onto outer streets just long enough for the trio to dash across an alley and into another structure; almost every interior was as vacant and dust-filmed as the last. 

It had been several minutes since the commotion outside died away, leaving them to the eerie mid-morning quiet and the gentle creaking of long-abandoned houses. 

“Jeez,” Dahlia piped up, not quite whispering, “how much of this place is like this? Where is everybody?”

Soren made a small, frustrated sound. “Used to be that a lot of the well-to-do’s lived on this side of town. Suppose they got out while the getting was good.” He let out a long, weary breath. “We’re past the worst of it, I think. Might as well fill you in, just…keep an ear out, yeah?”

“So. Where to start. I suppose it’s a pretty simple story, but it doesn’t feel that way when you live it.” The elf paused, nudging the splintered remains of an old rocking chair out of their path with his shoe. “Kaldemere was a mining town, you see – er, I guess we still are. You probably saw the mountain range on your way into town?”

“Sure did.” Dahlia said. “Been wanting to ask somebody about that, actually.”

“The Divine Cadaver.” Soren said, nodding. “Most folks around here think it’s just an angel, but nobody’s really sure. What matters is that it’s always been ours. First settlers who came out here, couple hundred years ago I’d say, they saw that thing all hung up in the mountains – they knew it would be hard going, but anybody with the right know-how could make a lot of money keeping it to themselves. So they started building their little town at the foot of the mountain, came up with a few tricks to get the ‘daver down from the cliffs without dying in the process, and Kaldemere was born.”

“‘Daver?” Dahlia said.

“It’s the colloquial term for pieces of Divine Cadavers.” Nil said matter-of-factly. “A highly valuable mineral these days.”

“Damn right it is. Damn right. That stuff is everything to this town. Never could have survived without it. Eventually word got out. Folks started coming in from all over Qorth – sculptors, jewelers, real artists who could do things with ‘daver that I can hardly even…” He shook his head with a nostalgic smile. “I’m just a simple miner, you see, but it’s hard enough just harvesting the stuff without it going to pieces or taking bites out of you.” Soren turned partially toward them, raising an arm – his forearms were stained a chalky white, dozens upon dozens of hair-thin scars standing out along his hands and wrists. “Boys on the crew like to say it’s got a mind of its own. Won’t cooperate unless you respect it, you know? But my father, and his before him, they knew what it was worth, and they built this place from a couple of tents in the middle of nowhere into a proper town. We did all right for ourselves for a long time, we really did.”

“And then,” Soren went on, his tone darkening slightly, “Lord Gilveer came up the road, with a letter from the Chancellor herself. This is a few years back now, and we…we were ecstatic. Most of us, anyway. It was the biggest thing that had ever happened to Kaldemere – the Triumvirate wanting to incorporate us, officially! It seemed like a dream come true. All the town had to do was contribute a portion of our harvest to the Empire each month, and they’d pay us more than we could ever even sell it for on our own. And that’s to say nothing of all the benefits Kaldemere earned from being under the Triumvirate’s wing. We get a lot less trouble from bandits and roving beasts these days, let me tell you.”

“I can hear a ‘but’ coming, I think.” Nil said.

The elf nodded. “Every few months, the Delegate came to us with a new quota. The Empire has a hell of a high demand for ‘daver, far as I can tell, and getting higher all the time. Between you and me, I’d guess it must be good for a lot more than brooches and statuary. Funny thing is, every time the quota went up, the price went down. Gilveer had plenty of excuses at first – changes in shipping methods, market overload, any number of other things – but it always went down. No amount of shouting at our little town hall meetings ever changed that, and eventually Gilveer stopped even bothering to show up.” Soren leaned into a dusty windowpane, peering into the street outside. “Now folks are barely making enough to eat, and the soldiers who were supposed to protect us spend most of their time kicking people in the teeth for raising a fuss. That, or tossing ’em away to forget about. Some good friends of mine got grabbed just a few days ago, and to tell you the truth I don’t even know if they’re still alive.”

“I am so, so sorry to hear that, Soren.” Nil said, laying a gentle hand on his forearm. The elf paused, looking down at her with a slightly surprised expression. “Truth be told Dahlia and I were only passing through, but… your story wounds my heart. There must be something we can do to help.”

To Dahlia, the goblin’s tone came across as rather patronizing and false – and yet, Soren seemed completely taken in. He shook his head slowly, smiling as if he could not believe his good fortune.

“I… I don’t know how to thank you. Truly.” The elf’s expression shifted, as if remembering something, and he turned his attention to Dahlia.

“So, ah, not to pry, but I’ll admit I’m damn curious.” He said. “What was all that, anyway? Outside the manor?”

“Oh! That! Well, I uh…” Dahlia stole a glance at Nil; the goblin responded with a sidelong glare. Keep playing along, or else. “…I’m not great under pressure, is all. Got a bad habit of jumping at the first thing that pops into the ol’ noggin, y’know?”

“I keep telling her to stop filling her head with that Villain nonsense.” Nil said, tone dripping with exasperation. “One of these days they’re going to ban you from the library, Dahlia.”

Soren chuckled. “Well it was a hell of a first instinct, but I can’t exactly argue with the results.” The elf looked over his shoulder, a smile crinkling the corner of his eye. “Reckon you saved a lot of lives with that crazy little stunt.”

Dahlia’s expression tightened, just a little. She swallowed audibly.  “Eheh, s-sure…”

Another laugh. “No need to be so modest, young lady.”

“Those dreadful devices, the ones they turned on the crowd,” Nil cut in, “have you ever seen them used before?”

Soren shook his head grimly. “They’ve been lugging those things around on and off for the last few months, but no, I’ve never seen ‘em…do whatever it is they did.” He shuddered. “Either of you girls have any idea what to make of that?”

“Never seen anything like it.” Dahlia said, shrugging. Nil made a small, thoughtful sound but said nothing. 

“I guess it doesn’t really matter. Come on, we’re almost there.”

The elf led them to a side door in a building that looked little different from the dusty shells the trio had passed through so far, pulling a small key from his pocket. The door swung inward on squawking hinges as Soren ushered Nil and Dahlia into a wide room, dimly lit but for a large bay window taking up the entire street-facing wall. The place looked to be a combination workshop and show room of sorts, with four heavy tables arranged about the floor and several display stands sitting forlorn and empty in front of the window. Scattered across the tables and floor were assorted sculptor’s tools; chisels of all sizes, mallets, calipers and other devices lay strewn here and there as if simply abandoned in the middle of the artist’s work. Alongside the tools were chunks of pale, pearlescent stone, ranging in size from that of a large human’s fist to scatterings of pebbles and dust. The stone seemed to sparkle internally where it caught the light, glowing in subtle hues of pink, green and blue.

“Over here,” Soren called, beckoning them towards a dim passageway in the back of the shop. At the end of the hall were a few dusty shelves and an old rug; the elf stooped to pull the rug aside, revealing a sturdy hatch set into the floor. Grunting softly with the effort, he heaved it open.

“All right,” he said, stepping down and out of sight, “watch your step.”

Nil and Dahlia exchanged a look and followed, descending a small staircase of creaking, splintered wood until their feet touched a dirt floor. The basement was large, possibly as wide and deep as the floor plan of the building above, and furnished with several chairs and a few tables of apparently random make. A pair of shelves stocked with canned goods, books and papers, and various other supplies lined the left wall, while four threadbare cots had been shoved into the back right corner. A single smoke-stained lantern hung from the crossbeams in the center of the room.

Two men looked up as the trio entered; a large, thick-set human with a balding scalp shaved down to stubble and a dwarf with his beard pulled into two stubby braids. Both wore well-used laborer’s garb, similar to Soren’s, and both had the same pale discoloration and scarring on their forearms and hands.

The human stood with a start, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. “Oh, what the fuck, Soren. What the fuck is this?”

“Now hold on,” Soren said, holding out a palm as if to placate an angry dog, “just give me a second, and I can explain.”

“This place is supposed to be secret. That was your rule.” The man’s gaze lingered on Nil, pointed and cold. “Now, what, you’re just dragging in random zyv girls? A gob, no less?”

“Corgan, listen to me. We’ve just come from Gilveer’s gate. The Watch is killing people.”

Now it was the dwarf’s turn to stand. “What?!”

“I’m trying to tell you. There was a…” Soren made a rotating gesture with one hand for a moment. “A gathering. Outside the gate, folks were upset. Obviously. Things got heated, someone threw something and they… I don’t know, they just attacked us. Those contraptions they’ve been carrying around, they just pointed them and people died. I couldn’t make any sense of it.”

Corgan slapped the table with a meaty palm and stalked away toward the corner of the room, scrubbing both hands over his scalp and mumbling under his breath; the dwarf simply stood in shock, eyes glazing. He shook himself, and said, “Alright, but…boss, who are these girls?” His eyes narrowed. “Were you two…involved in this, somehow?”

Soren waved a hand hurriedly. “No, no, it’s not like that. They had nothing to do with it. Listen, I’m standing there, right? Watching everything start to go wrong…”

***

“Travelers.” Corgan said flatly. “These two. And you believed ’em?”

The dwarf crossed his arms. “Can’t trust Mages, Soren. Everybody knows that.”

“You two weren’t there.” Soren said, crossing his arms. “You didn’t see what she did for us, Mage or not. Those bastards aren’t just dragging people off any more, Corg. They killed Sam Bollent, probably more, and they would’ve done a lot worse if Dahlia here hadn’t come along when she did.”

Nil’s ears twitched and lifted as the trap door behind them squawked on old hinges and fell shut. Clumping footsteps sounded down the steps, and an old orc stepped into the flickering lanternlight. He was thin, with craggy features and a bent back that kept him from standing at his full height. He, too, had arms covered in chalky white scars. When his eyes fell on Nil and Dahlia, the old man’s curmudgeonly frown hardened into a scowl. 

“The hell’s all this, nephew?” He growled. “You just bringing any old moppet into my shop now?”

“Hello, Uncle Houg.” Soren said, sighing. “Listen, I’ll explain everything, but these two are exactly what we’ve been praying for. They’re with the Guild, uncle.”

Houg gave a low whistle, but his face remained hard. Skeptical. “Travelers, eh? Not many gobs in those ranks, last I heard.”

Nil squared on the old man, meeting his gaze with a chilly smile. “Precious few orcs, either.” She said smoothly. “What a blessing it is that the Guildmaster affords a select few the opportunity to prove ourselves.”

The old man snorted under his breath. “Sure.” He turned his attention to Soren. “Did you at least check to make sure these two are actually with the Guild?”

“Huh?” Soren said. His face took on a look of slight chagrin. “Well…no, I guess I didn’t.” 

Behind him, Corgan threw his hands into the air, exasperated. 

“Great, boss.” The big human said, “Fantastic. Alright, everybody, not another word until these two show us their emblems.” Corgan crossed his scarred, meaty arms over his chest. “Come on, let’s see ‘em.”

Dahlia shot Nil a worried look, but the goblin’s expression of heavy-lidded confidence did not falter. She shrugged, nonchalant. 

“Of course, of course, no need for a fuss.” Nil slipped a hand into the ruffles of her sleeve, rummaging around for a moment before drawing forth a small patch of leather with a metal badge affixed in the center; a stylized flame divided into three sections, the symbol of the Triumvirate. Wearing a look of mild boredom, she displayed the emblem to everyone in the room before stowing it in her sleeve once again. 

“Alright, Dahlia,” she said, turning toward the emberling, “your turn.”

Dahlia felt a prickle of sweat threatening to break out on her forehead. “Uh…”

“Do not tell me you’ve gone and misplaced it again, Dahlia.” Nil said quickly, tapping her slipper against the basement’s packed-dirt floor. “Have you checked your breastplate?”

Eyes darting nervously between Nil and the four expectant faces watching them, Dahlia slowly lifted her hand toward the base of her neck. There was no Guild badge to find hidden under her armor, of course; Nil would have known that as well as she did, but the slightest hint of a nod from the witch urged her on. As Dahlia reached into the gap at her throat, she caught a glimpse of Nil’s hand moving stealthily behind her back. 

The small leather patch resting in Dahlia’s palm as she withdrew her hand had no weight, no tactile interaction at all with her fingertips. To the eye, however, the illusory badge acted with perfect realism, bending and flexing with the small movements of Dahlia’s hand as she held it out for the room to see. 

“Huh.” Houg said, rubbing thoughtfully at his stubbled chin. “Could be a forgery, but…”

“Oh, give it a rest, old man.” Soren said irritably. “You wanted proof, you’ve got it. And you wouldn’t be giving them such a hard time if you’d seen the way Dahlia here handled herself.” He drove his fist solidly into a tabletop. “Gilveer’s gone completely over the edge, uncle. His platoon isn’t swinging fists and truncheons anymore, they’re killing people.” 

Soren pointed emphatically at Nil and Dahlia. “These two are exactly what we’ve been waiting for. We can’t afford to sit on our hands any longer.”

Nil cleared her throat. “Just a moment, gentlemen. I’m not sure exactly what you have in mind, but Dahlia and I are not here in any official capacity. The best thing the two of us can do is to get out of town, so that the Chancellor can be apprised of the situation through the proper channels.”

“No, you have to understand, there isn’t time to wait on help from Dianophon or anywhere else.” Soren’s body language was growing desperate. “But with a Mage on our side, we might stand a chance. We could break into the prison, and-”

A wide hand clapped down on Soren’s shoulder. “Boss. Boss. Quick meeting before you go blabbing everything in front of these out-of-towners, yeah? Just us lads.” Corgan shot a look at Jonar, jerking his head toward the stairs. 

“And you two,” he went on, addressing Nil and Dahlia, “hold tight. Won’t be a minute.” 

Nil put her hands up in a gesture of mock surrender and made a display of hoisting herself into one of the slightly bedraggled wooden chairs scattered around the basement. Shortly thereafter, the four Kaldemere men retreated upstairs, closing the trap door behind them. 

“You’re pretty good at that.” Dahlia said, once they were alone. 

Nil looked up with an expression of mild surprise. “Good at what, love?”

“Lying.” Dahlia said. “I’ve never been good at it. I get sweaty.”

The goblin blinked slowly. “You want to be a Villain, and you don’t know how to lie?”

“Hah! Wanting’s got nothing to do with it.” Dahlia made a grand, sweeping gesture. “The great and terrible Dahlia Scratch was born to spread pain and misery from one end of this world to the next. I’m just all about the, y’know, straightforward approach.”

The emberling flopped heavily into another nearby chair, causing its fastenings to squeal in protest. “But you’re smooth. I could almost believe you really are from the Guild, whatever that is.”

Nil gave a faint smile. “Yes, well, plenty of practice, I suppose.” Her expression shifted toward exasperation. “Hold on. Did you just say you don’t know what the Traveler’s Guild is? You really aren’t from around here, are you?”

“I mean, I’ve heard the name once or twice.” Dahlia said, shrugging. “Listen, it’s big picture stuff that keeps my attention, alright? I can’t be trying to memorize every minute detail of your society.”

“Fine, it doesn’t matter.” Nil said, making a dismissive gesture. “Now listen, because there’s a lot you need to know before those idiots come back.”

Soren was the first to re-emerge from the trap door a few minutes later, followed closely by his compatriots, all three of whom had the resigned look of having agreed to something they expected to regret. No such doubt was visible on Soren’s face; the elf grinned brightly in Nil and Dahlia’s direction as he descended the stairs. 

“Great news, ladies.” He said. “I think – no, I know we are going to be able to help each other.”

Nil’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Do tell.”

Soren rushed over to a nearby shelf, shuffling through a few papers and knickknacks until he pulled out a sheet of loosely rolled parchment. He brought the paper to the table, spreading it flat with the heel of his palm and revealing what appeared to be a hastily sketched map of Kaldemere. 

“Now,” he said, “before we go any further. Dahlia. When we were outside Gilveer’s manor, I saw you heat the metal in your gauntlet, do I have that right?”

“Oh, this little old thing?” Dahlia held up her hand. “Sure, but that’s nothin’. I can heat up all kinds’a stuff, set things on fire, heck, I can even animate-”

“How hot can you make it?” Soren was leaning over the table toward her, eyes sparkling. He thumped his hand against the tabletop. “Could you melt your way through something, say, about this thick?” 

Dahlia was swelling under the attention now, a lazy grin spreading across her face. She leaned back in her chair, crossing an ankle over her knee. “You kiddin’? Easy. You shoulda seen this vault I hit the other day, must’a been six inches thick at least-”

“Dahlia.” Nil hissed. 

Dahlia turned to see the goblin pointing one of her one-more-word-and-I’ll-skin-you glares in her direction. Her mouth snapped shut. 

Nil cleared her throat, folding her hands primly in her lap. “Mr. Morrelath, you may be unaware of this, but the regulatory limitations upon the situations in which a Guild Mage may or may not employ their art are extremely restrictive. I am afraid I must ask what it is, exactly, you are requesting.”

The avid light in Soren’s eyes shrunk back, just a little. “Right.” He said, straightening up and running a smoothing hand down the front of his shirt. “Right. Of course. Listen, the truth of it is that I don’t have a safe way out of town for you two.” He held up a finger. “Yet. And that’s because the men you see before you-” Soren made a gesture encompassing himself and the others, “-are not the Mountaineers. We’re just what’s left.”

“You leave me out of this, boy.” Houg grumbled. “Never been a part of this fool operation, never will.”

“A few weeks back, the Watch managed to ferret out our original hideout. To make a long and painful story short, most of us didn’t manage to escape.” Soren tapped his finger on an area of the map marked in red chalk. “If they’re still alive, they’ll be here. In the cells underneath the Watch barracks.”

“Cells?” Dahlia said, squinting at the map. “Like prison cells?”

Soren nodded. “That’s right. Kaldemere’s not exactly a big place, so it used to be they didn’t see much use aside from the odd out-of-towner stirring up trouble. Gilveer’s thugs changed that a while back, started putting away anyone who made a fuss about the Delegate bleeding us all dry.” He crossed his arms. “Guess today was them deciding they were done playing nice.”

Dahlia seemed to be barely listening to the details. “So, what you’re saying is…you need our help to pull off a jailbreak?” She said breathlessly. 

“Absolutely not.” Nil said. The goblin put both palms against the seat of her chair and hoisted herself forward until her stubby legs met the floor. “Under no circumstances would we involve ourselves in such a dangerous and foolhardy endeavor, to say nothing of its blatant criminality. My associate and I will find another way out of-”

“I’ll do it!” Dahlia all but shouted, stepping forward to grab a slightly startled Soren by the hand and pump it up and down vigorously enough to jostle his entire body. 

“Oh! Uh. That’s great!” Soren said. He glanced worryingly at Nil, whose expression was currently shifting from shock to tightly controlled rage. “Are you sure you don’t have to confer with-”

“I have always wanted to do a jailbreak.” Dahlia went on, heedless. “I mean, to be fair I did imagine it would be, you know, breaking myself out in a daring escape, employing equal parts infernal power and sheer animal cunning, but breaking a bunch of outlaws out of a dungeon has to be at least as nefarious as-”

“Dahlia.” Nil rasped. “Please. Stop. Talking.”

Dahlia stopped talking. All four men were staring at her now, faces slack. She cleared her throat. 

“Er, what I mean to say is,” the emberling clapped a gauntlet on Soren’s shoulder, “we would be honored to assist in the rescue of your unduly imprisoned friends and neighbors, citizen.”

“Really, that’s great, but…” Soren stole another look at Nil, who appeared to be on the verge of trembling with fury. “Perhaps you ought to discuss this with your handler…?”

“Oh, don’t worry about her, she’ll be fine.” Dahlia gave the goblin a sidelong look, smiling impishly. “After all, she has to go everywhere I do, right, Brinya?”

Nil did not respond with anything more than a glare.

“Whew, if looks could kill, right?” Dahlia said jovially. She drove a fist into her open palm. “Now, what’s the plan? C’mon, tell me. Tellmetellmetellme.”

Soren chuckled; the others traded another uncertain glance. “Well, no one can fault you for lack of enthusiasm, at least.” The elf motioned everyone closer, turning to lean over the map. “Come nightfall, we’ll put things in motion. Now, we’ll need a pretty big distraction to get the soldiers away from their bunkhouse, so…”