Part 3 of the Huntress Storyline
The manor on the hill used to be grand, Xori could tell. It was a large, stately home made of washed bricks and stone. She made it to the house with plenty of time to spare before the sun began to set. There was a park across the street, she set herself up on a bench underneath a tree. She wanted to take in the environment, see if she could see anything from the outside that might give her more of a clue as to why she was summoned.
The front yard and gate had been clearly cared for. Shrubs remained trimmed and path had remained cleared of weeds and stones. She saw a few who seemed to work in the house—they all wore the same gray clothing, bustled in and out from around the sides of the house—who probably tended the lot as need be. As the sun began to set, many of them made their way down the path and out the gate, disappearing into the town in various directions.
As more and more of the staff left, the house grew increasingly still. Lifeless, even. The lamplighter started making his rounds, carrying a torch from lamp to lamp, lifting the hoods and lighting each one lining the street. She shifted away from the lamplight, keeping herself to the shadow of the tree. Inside the house, the windows remained darkened, even as the sun sunk lower and lower. It was time, but still Xori waited. As she did, she saw others approaching.
A man dressed in brown furs and leathers approached the gate, a longbow strapped to his back and a half-full quiver of arrows at his side. As he lowered his hood, she could see he was an Elf. A hunter of game animals, she presumed, from the dirt that dusted his face. He looked both ways down the street before opening the gate—seemingly not seeing her—before slipping inside and heading up the path. The door to the house opened before he could knock, one last gray-suited staff member on the other side. He stepped aside, and both of them disappeared into the house. Shortly after, a single room on the east side of the building was lit.
Three others appeared after.
One, a bald man in a priest’s robes, clutching a book to his chest. Xori can’t remember seeing him before, but then again she wasn’t known as a regular at temples or other placed of worship.
Then: a squat Dwarf carrying a smithy’s hammer at his belt went shuffling through next. He carried a muffin in one hand, and opened the gate with the other, leaving a trail of crumbs behind him as he climbed the path. She remembered seeing him before, hammering away behind a forge at the Thunderhead Smith Shoppe in the village—the smith’s son. Jandor, she remembered his name was. Well respected in town, and always hungry.
The last was a Dragonborn, which surprised Xori. She hadn’t seen very many of their kind in her lifetime, let alone in this small village, but his lineage was undeniable. He was huge, even from a distance. Xori had no doubt he was a whole three heads taller than her, with golden scales encrusting his face, and massive horns curling back behind his ears. A paladin, she would guess, with how he carried himself—spine ramrod straight, head high and alert. His scales glimmered the same shade as his shiny gold-plated scale mail, a huge longsword strapped to his back. Odd—as he walked by, Xori caught the faint whiff of oranges. Another delicacy.
Xori waited in her spot until she was certain the rest of the street was empty, no one in either direction. The sun had fully set by the time she made her own way up to the house. On the door, a large brass dragonhead stared back at her, it’s mouth pitched open, as if dragonfire were stirring in its throat, if it had one.
She curled her fingers into a fist, pulled back, and used the heel of her hand to knock. Once, twice. The door opened before she could connect a third time. The gray suit appeared, prim and proper, spine ramrod straight. An old man, probably in his seventies, who probably should have been long retired in front of a roaring fire and days filled of not much else, but still he kept at it. Buttoned up, everything in it’s proper place. Even every wrinkle on his face was organized in neat and tidy rows.
“Mistress Xori, we’ve been expecting you.” He moved aside and bowed his head in the slightest, drawing her inside.
Presumptuous, she had wanted to say. But without knowing much else about her summons, she stayed quiet instead as she cautiously moved into the house. Not a speck of dust in sight. Clearly the suited man’s handiwork. As she crossed over the threshold, she took note to dig her hooves into the mat by the front door a little firmer than usual. She may have been covered in road dust more than she wasn’t, but she still knew manners.
The front hall was small, narrow, dimly lit. The deep red wallpaper helped nothing to abate the shadows from the heavy, darkened oak furniture places about. A grand, polished staircase led up into nothing but darkness. The lone light coming from the house filtered out from a single room, just beyond an archway further into the hallway.
Xori took particularly to note that not a single portrait or painting was displayed. Instead, sun-bleached spots where frames used to hang lined the walls. A single frame still hung on the wall at the far end, but it’s painting was covered with a thick, black shroud.
A shadow appeared in the lit arch. A once-rounded, now ghostly gaunt man appeared. His suit appeared like it was brand new, a sweetened honeyed brown with lines crisp from the iron—like he had just put it on. His face looked tired, sad. Sad ol’ coot, Xori heard in Mag’s voice the longer she looked at his face.
This must be Rawlin. “Thank you, Gerald. Please, come join the rest, Huntress.”
Gerald nodded and tucked his hands behind his back, disappearing down the darkened hall. Flames flickered in the stone fireplace within the small study. Each of the others she’d seen entered were collected in this room, silent.
The Dragonborn warmed his scales as he leaned a massive arm across the mantle. It bowed under the weight of him.
The Elf sat in a chair in the corner. He’d pulled a small dagger out, whittling away at a piece of wood he has somewhere on his person. Xori could tell it wasn’t the usual absent-minded ritual of someone just passing the time. The Elf’s eyes were on his carving, but his pointed ears were perked with intent.
The bald man had his back to the rest of them, studying the books lining the shelves. Xori could only see the side of his face, flickering in firelight, but she noted how utterly expressionless it seemed. How measured. If he had a thought or opinion about the pages lining the shelves, he gave none of it away. His hands remained politely folded in front of him the entire time.
The Dwarf was the lone source of sound in the room, save for the crackling wood set alight. A small table had been laid out with meats and cheeses. Nothing extravagant, though perhaps softer and fresher than one might find scrounging around the tavern. The Dwarf happily fisted entire rows of meat, bringing them to his mouth, chewing loudly. Whatever it was, he was enjoying it, only stopping every few moments to wash it down with a deep red liquid from a starburst bottle on the next table over. Glassware be damned.
“Interesting crowd for an interesting note,” Xori said, holding up her invitation. Clearly she had been expected, but there was always a part of her that felt the need to remind everyone around her that she belonged. She was requested. She was meant to be here, just as much as the rest of them. The rest of the room’s inhabitants turned towards the first voice to be heard.
She kept her tail tucked closely to the back of her legs as she moved into the room. It was luxurious, no doubt. More…comfortable…than she was used to. But she wouldn’t let herself get comfortable, nonetheless. In the middle of the room, a large wooden desk sat riddled with papers. The cost of owning a town, Xori thought, peaking at the contents of the notes. Tax records. Letters from townspeople. One thing stood out strangely from the rest, a drawing of a curious tower.
Rawlin placed his hands together, a soft clap barely making a sound, and moved to sit behind his desk. He gestured for the rest to find seats, as well. “Well, then, I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve asked you to come.”
The Dwarf grabbed one last handful of cheese cubes from the table, and shuffled himself into a large, beaten leather chair. The Elf remained unmoving, except to set his whittling aside. The bald man, found himself a seat on a plush couch. The Dragonborn remained leaning against the mantle, but turned his head to stare directly at Rawlin. Xori perched on the arm of a chair near her, not quite sitting, not quite standing, ready to leave when she needed to. She had noted there was only one exit from the room, unless someone was planning on going through a window. The group remained silent, still, looking for Rawlin to get on with it. Whether they were distrustful of each other, or the conversation to be had, Xori wasn’t sure. For herself, it was a bit of both.
“Right, so, I’ll just get on with it, then. You see…My wife has been gone for a fortnight. I expected her back several days ago and I… well, I’m not sure quite what to do about it.”
“Have you…tried looking for her?” Jandor asked, bits of cheese crumbling into his beard.
A simple question. Xori might have laughed, but at that same moment, the bald man caught her eye. Then the Dragonborn. All were thinking the same thing.
“I know where she is. She just…hasn’t come back.” Rawlin’s voice cracked. The sadness that was written on his face when Xori first entered the house was deep-set and lingering, but now it seemed to bubble up to the surface. His eyes started to gloss with a fresh film of almost-tears.
“Master Rawlin,” The bald man spoke, his voice soft. A priest, maybe, at first glance. He seemed soft spoken enough, a comfort in his voice. “It seems as though that may be a job more suited for the city watch.”
“If anyone at all,” The Dragonborn said. His voice was raspy, like he hadn’t used it in a while. His tone was timid, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. His message was clear, though. The gloom that surrounded the house on the hill was palpable from the outside. Inside, it was oppressive. Even with the heat from the fire, a cold dread made the air around them heavy, like the ghost of tears long cried hung in the air and clung to their skin. There was an invisible weight pressing in on them all, and none of it belonged to them. It lived in the house. It was confined. It lingered. Maybe the missus had grown tired of its stewing. Maybe she fled to fresher air.
“No… no. My wife, Isabelle, she...” His voice started to catch again, the glassy film of his eyes threatening to bubble over. Instead, Rawlin cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and visibly pulled his emotions back inward. “Let me start over.
“Our son passed a few years ago. There was an accident and he…well, that’s history.” The Dwarf and the bald man nodded. They knew. They both must’ve been in the town when it happened, heard the news. “My wife has struggled all these years. She had wanted a child so badly, but something always seemed to go wrong. The clerics of the town they…they couldn’t help. Isabelle was so deep in her hopelessness, and we had just about given up. Until finally, a son.
“The smile that boy brought to my wife’s face, I’ll never forget. And when he was gone, well… it never came back. You can see the state of her grief. We had to take down or cover all the portraits, less she might fall into a fit. Each time, it would get harder and harder to pull her from the depths of her grief, until finally…it seemed like she would never come back out again. And then she met a healer. Or…so he said.”
“From the temple?” The bald man, asked. He was invested now, sitting a little closer to the edge of the sofa, though his motivations were still unclear to Xori.
“No,” Rawlin shook his head. “Decidedly not from the temple, though we did encounter him on a way to see the priests. Someone who blew through the town just as quick as a storm. I didn’t even catch his name. He just came with a cart full of books and bobbles, and was gone just as quick. My wife took a tome from his cart, leafed through the pages, and then promptly wanted to return home.”
Without waiting for the next logical question—what was in the book—Rawlin held up the drawing of the tower that had laid on his desk. “I searched her rooms when I first started to worry. There was no sign of the book, but I did find this. Our son is buried here, in the family crypt. My wife has never wanted to visit before. She said…” His voice started to catch again. “She said that being reminded of his empty body reminded her only of how empty her heart felt. And yet, after she encountered the bookseller, visiting was all she could think about. I had told her I’d have the guard accompany her any time she’d like. There was a glimmer there, hope springing back into her eyes. But she refused each time, said she had to prepare first.”
They all waited for Rawlin to continue. When he didn’t, the Dragonborn prompted, “Prepare for what?”
Rawlin shook his head.
The bald man stood from his seat and crossed to the desk. He took the drawing from Rawlin’s hand and studied the page. Words has been written surrounding the drawing. Xori couldn’t make out the contents from her seat, but she noticed the truncated writing. A list.
“Ingredients,” the bald man said. “For a necromancy spell.”
The Elf in the corner finally perked up, his eyes drawn to the paper in the bald man’s hand. Rawlin’s eyes fell to his lap. “I wasn’t sure, but…” He paused, then. The burning logs in the fireplace answered with a crack. “When she hadn’t returned after a few days…I’m afraid that…”
“She succeeded,” the bald man answered.
“Or she didn’t.” The Dragonborn added, a clear disgust prickling across his scales. “The unnatural doesn’t tend to work the way those often wish it to.”
Rawlin let out a breath of air. “I wasn’t quite sure what the writings were but…I’m afraid for my Isabelle. And I wouldn’t dare sent the city watch, for what they might do with what they find.”
“And what exactly is it that you mean for us to do?” Xori stood then. She felt almost like she should walk out the door in that moment, but still held her place. “What need of you for a monster hunter?” As she spoke, she turned to the rest. “It appears you have a tracker, a spell caster, a holy brute,” she gestured to the Elf, the bald man, and the Dragonborn respectively. She’d made assumptions off of her observations, but none protested. “I deal in teeth and claws and the things of nightmares, not grieving mothers.”
“Isn’t a dead child a mother’s nightmare?” the bald man asked.
Xori shook her head. “That’s still not my concern. I’m not much for things I can’t run a sword through.”
The glassiness wiped from Rawlin’s eyes, replaced by resolve instead. “I’ve called you here, huntress, because I may each have a role to play. I’ve heard tales about all of you, your unique skills. I wanted to provide for every situation, take all precaution.” As he spoke, he turned to each of the room’s inhabitants respectfully.
To the Dwarf: “Jandor knows the way to the crypt, having worked with his father on the fence surrounding. And I know his confidence in handling an axe.”
To the bald man: “Duran is known throughout the town for his study of magics far greater than even our most skilled wizards.”
To the Dragonborn: “Bett, your mighty sword and devout conviction is surely needed to protect against any obstacle.”
To the Elf: “Eldar, your tracking and hunting skills will surely aid if anything runs amiss.”
“And to you, Huntress,” he turned to her, standing from his seat, palms on his desk. “Xori… your skills will be needed if the worst has come to past. Grief and despair can…do things to people. Turn them to monsters. Or create new ones. I know this to be true.” There was almost an apology in his voice.
The bald man, Duran, continued scanning the document in his hands. “I fear he may have a point.” He lifted his eyes to Xori. They didn’t know each other. She couldn’t even remember passing him by on the street during her short stay, but there was a comfort in his tone, a familiarity, like he was speaking to an old friend. “Xori, given this, your sword may sorely be needed.”
The one called Eldar finally put aside his whittling, a subtle motion so loud that all the rest turned to pay full attention. “This is all well and good, but I guess I’ll be the one to bring it up. I’m sure I’m not the only one who doesn’t provide services for free.”
Rawlin had anticipated the question. Without another thought, he reached into his desk and pulled out a large burlap bag. “One for each of you upon your return with my wife.” He placed it on the desk, a loud jangle of coins sounding through the room. “My staff has prepared rooms for each of you tonight in the house. There’s food prepared. The rest of my home is yours as you need. A wagon and fresh horses will be prepared for you first at first light. Please just… bring Isabelle home.”
