NOVEL NEXT 29 - Parting Mist
Stump stood before Wasptongue's desk the next morning as she penned a letter with furious precision. Her good eye was so close to the page he feared a sudden flinch might impale it on the quill.
"Are you sure?" Stump said pensively. "I don't think they'll allow me."
"Shut up." Scratch, scratch, scratch.
He stiffened. "Oh. Alright."
Wasptongue's hand moved deftly around the wide circular strokes of her signature. With a satisfied mutter she held her hand open to the side, beckoning impatiently.
A young goblin in the corner was bent over a candle, turning a small instrument around the flame. "It's almost ready," he said timidly.
Her fingers fluttered. "It's hot enough, Biter-Of-Wax. Bring it here."
He rushed over and placed it in her hand. She folded the letter and pressed the implement down hard where the paper met itself, and held it there for a breath. When she pulled it away, the wax had hardened. She handed it to Stump and seemed annoyed he wasn't immediately there to grab it.
He shuffled forward. "Thank you," he said, receiving the paper like he'd been handed the map to a horde of treasure. "But are you…"
"I am sure," she said with something approaching a grandmotherly smile. "There was no reward agreed for your help in solving the Iron Fleece quest. Let that be it."
Stump ran a thumb over the warm wax bee and the name of the brewery crowning it. "I would love to go, but…"
She rose ponderously and circled the desk. "But nothing, young one. Precedents are there to be set, and lucky for you this one in particular is well trodden."
He met her eyes when she stopped beside him. "You went to the Amber Bastion?" he said, voice thick with wonder.
Pride breathed temporary life into her posture. "The first goblin to do so. If you continue on this journey, I won't be the last."
"I will," he stammered. "I want to. But how do I deliver it?"
She hummed thoughtfully. When she looked over at Biter-Of-Wax, her jaw clenched. "Put that down! You'll eat all the sealing wax!"
Biter-Of-Wax, his fingers coated in the partially melted material, shrunk embarrassingly into the corner, sputtering apologies.
Wasptongue hobbled over, grabbed him by the elbow, and shoved him to Stump. "Take that letter to my husband and inform him he is to bring it with him when he makes port. And don't you dare offer Parchment-Eater a bite on the way over!"
Biter-Of-Wax took the paper and gazed hungrily at the seal, but a dextrous kick from Wasptongue sent him scurrying out the door.
She sighed aggressively. "It's a wonder this enterprise is operational at all. How is your injury?"
Stump instinctively ran a finger across the bandage. "Better. Walking doesn't hurt," he said.
She began a slow hobble back to her desk. "You wait until you're my age. Walking. Standing. Sitting. Any middling form between the three. And you won't need a knife in the gut to bring the pain, let me tell you." She sank into her chair with the agonized groan of someone bleeding out. "Don't exert yourself for a few days. The potion's full effects come with time."
In the quiet presence of the two of them, Stump absorbed the fixtures and furnishings of her quarters—a wreath of seashells, hung around a wax scene of her and Pest, younger, without their canes. It had been nibbled on in parts. A table of notes and letters and pens scattered between islands of glittering coins. The wheel of a ship, darkened with time and cracked by salt, affixed to the wall with a short inscription lining a spoke, its words too small to read. An ancient barrel of Jailburn, its green and blue signage suggesting an older iteration—maybe their first.
Pages of our own books, Borag had said of possessions. Garron's badge thrummed in Stump's pouch, or maybe he only imagined it. But as he looked around at the chapters of Wasptongue's life, he wondered if his own would one day be as storied.
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"Do you think it'll be alright after what's happened?" he said. "I wouldn't want to see this place… you know, go up in flames."
"Hm?" said Wasptongue, from her desk.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been silent, but he was grateful she never tugged him from his thoughts. "If we leave, I mean. What if that cultist comes back?"
Her face wrinkled in contemplation. "Yes, my husband said the same. I've written a letter to be delivered to the council of Aubany, explaining the situation. They will send their own agents to investigate the ruins of the temple. Beyond that I have no say."
"Well, if you ever need help again, the Nobodies are always here."
"Heh."
Despite the scoff, Stump found a hint of affection in her tone.
He turned to leave when she called to him.
"Oh, I should mention," she said. "Do not expect much to come of my letter of recommendation. If you wish to be admitted, this is only the start."
"The start?"
"The Amber Bastion is competitive. You, being a goblin, will need several letters from its alumni. Teachers. Masters of the craft."
Several? It had taken ghosts and a ghost ship, a mad cultist, and almost Stump's own life to earn a single one. "Do you know where I can find them?" he asked, scratching his head.
A smile unearthed gaps in her crooked teeth. "I've surrounded myself with water for a reason, young one. I know little of the people of the Downs, or their silly gossips and rumours, and I'd like to keep it that way. Speaking of, when are you leaving?"
The boat nearly capsized on the beach.
Morg readjusted to centre his weight near the bow, oars in hand, masked, and wrapped in leathers. He nodded to Stump, and after a quick wave to the goblins on the beach, they pushed offshore. Stump looked back and caught a wistful glance of Wasptongue and Pest on their canes, like a pair of old goblins competing for the most pronounced hunch.
Before long the Spits were nothing more than narrow specks of land behind them, and Aubany was a slowly rising behemoth on the horizon. Stump let his mind wander back to the system and his chosen focus.
Chromomancy I
"Gain the ability to precisely manipulate the colour and texture of your lumen or an existing source of light without your concentration."
Enhancement
Minor Illusion (Virtue: 1/hour)
"You can create a simple visual illusion of a small size."
Alter Image (Virtue: 1/hour)
"You can slightly alter the visual appearance or colour of a person or object."
Moving Image (Virtue: 2/hour)
"You can create and manipulate a series of images in a sequence."
It was a tough call deciding between the manipulation of colour and the bending of light. Flectomancy had the more obviously powerful enhancements, but Stump could see a number of uses for Chromomancy, including possible ways to make glimmer. I could put on light shows for parties or create illusory performances, he had told himself.
His class had also upgraded in the choice. No longer was he a Lumenurgist, a generalist of the skill. Now he was an Illusionist of the first tier.
After a long stretch of silence, Stump dismissed the system and glanced at Morg across from him.
They hadn't said much to each other after the dwarf woke. He asked for some water, and Stump had fetched some diluted with blood and gave him a quick summary of what happened while he was unconscious—where the others had gone, what happened with the Ocelots, if the ghosts had returned to the afterlife. Anything but the topic of his vampirism. He listened to Stump with a heavy frown.
"Morg…" Stump began in a gentle tone.
The dwarf met his gaze, but seemed lost in thought. "Yeh?"
"I wanted to thank you for saving my life."
The dwarf's mask was unreadable. "Don't mention it."
"To anybody. Right." Stump chuckled. "But really, thank you."
Morg steered them on, and buried beneath the mask Stump felt genuine recognition.
"Couldn't leave ye in the Spits," said Morg. "Reem would've had me on me ass."
"I guess it explains some things, huh?" Stump wondered aloud. "The way you are around lights. And your…" he gestured to the dwarf's style of dress. "And the beer you drink at the inn, that's got blood mixed in, doesn't it?"
"Porkling's blood, aye…"
"And… Borovic?"
"City o' vampires 'n werewolves."
"And the companies? The ones that keep kicking you out?"
Morg sighed heavily. He stopped rowing, letting their boat drift quietly across the sea. "Aye," he said sadly. "The city don't much like our kind in the Downs. And the Downs don't much like me."
"I like you," said Stump.
"I appreciate the thought," Morg said skeptically. "But ye can hand me that piece o' silver if ye like, and that'll be an end to it. I'll save ye the trouble o' cuttin' me from yer life by doin' it meself."
Stump placed two silvers on the seat between them. "I like you, I said."
Morg stared at the coins. "One silver's what we agreed to." It was posed as a question.
"Members get two silver."
Silence simmered between them. Morg lifted his mask. Beneath it was the furrowed expression of a very confused, and very vulnerable dwarf. "Yer not…" he began, but lost his words. "I don't spook ye?"
Stump shook his head.
"But I'm a… I'm afflicted."
"And I'm a goblin," he countered. "But you're kind to me. And I want you to be a part of my company," he said. "How does that sound?"
There was another long pause broken only by the rhythmic lapping of waves against the hull. Morg never took his eyes off Stump. His face, twisted with uncertainty, gradually softened. He blinked away what might've been tears. "That sounds good, Stump."
Tenet of Lumensa Fulfilled - Virtue +1 (6/9)