B4 – Chapter 11: Clues and going south

Reaching the graveyard, Tristan made his way past the rows of mausoleums. Standing at the entrance to the one he had sealed off with an ice wall, he saw two of the city guard – Demonkin standing at ready attention – holding a defensive posture with pikes crossed before the threshold. “Excuse me,” Tristan said in Demon’s Tongue, “I am Marius Lestrange. Lord Dalphatroux had me investigating the Feather Scourge.”

The two guards looked at each other, then the one on the left spoke to his fellow. “Fancy Demonkin with the silvery armor and sword. Seems like him.”

The one of the right nodded, “Yup. Looks like the guy.” The two faced Tristan and raised their pikes out of the way, “Go on in. A few of the city guard are down there already. Just holler if you hear voices.”

Tristan walked past them with a curt nod and made his way into the depths that he had just the day before day before sealed off. He could feel sleep drawing him inexorably onward, having been awake for well over a day now. Felicity seemed unperturbed by the lack of sleep, as she kept making frantic little paw-claw biscuits on his head. Deep inside the warrens of the tunnel network, she spoke. “That was a great plan! Having me fake being you was genius. I wish I had come up with it.”

Tristan scratched her head, delighting in her praises and the little purrs she emitted from the scritches. He replied in the Standard Tongue, “You played me perfectly. A masterful blend of arrogant tone. I almost cracked.”

“How many times?”

“Once,” Tristan replied with a smile. “I thought you were going to say something really offensive and make me slip up.”

She giggled, “Sorry. Next time I’ll try harder.”

“How about not making me chuckle when I’m supposed to be translating for Lord Winterbloom?” Tristan said as he poked her slightly in the side.

Felicity nodded, “Okay. Oh, that reminds me, been meaning to ask – why do you let everyone in the Fey Realm call you Lord Tristan? And at the Citadel, even. In fact…everywhere we’ve been except for the Demon Realm.”

“Just another layer of safety precaution,” Tristan replied. “Granted, in hindsight, I should have always used Lord Winterbloom…but honestly, having the reminder that I’m the last of my bloodline…” he trailed off for a moment, feeling the weight of that statement once more, then continued. “I am Tristan, first and foremost.”

“Well, not right now, since right now, you’re Marius Lestrange.”

Tristan smiled, “True. Now hush in the Standard Tongue, I hear voices.” Tristan’s keen hearing had picked up the slight sound that now was clearly Demon’s Tongue being spoken further ahead. He cleared his throat and spoke in kind, “Hey! Friendly, coming in!”

He heard a shout back, “Alright!”

Proceeding forward, Tristan came across a group of Demonkin. Two of them were dressed in white cloaks, with simple attire and vials strapped to their belts. Next to them were two of the city guard. One in a white cloak, a woman, turned to face Tristan. She had deep, cerulean eyes, deep blue skin, and her horns curled up from her head like a ram’s, with long, silver hair flowing down the back.

“Ah, you must be the mercenary who identified this location. Silvery armor, fancy sword.”

Tristan nodded, “Marius Lestrange, at your service.”

“What are you doing down here?” one of the city guard asked.

“Just looking for clues as to the source of this plague. Yourselves?”

“The same,” the woman replied. “My name is Turien Firin. You’re welcome to search deeper, we are only just getting started down here.” She sighed as her mouth tightened, “Only the infected were found down here. And corpses that had been cut apart. Those have all been taken for examination and then burning.”

“Any ideas on where the Feather Scourge came from?” Tristan asked.

The male, white-cloaked figure, silent until that moment, spoke. “Yes…there are enemies of Lockwood, and the Dalphatroux house. Most likely, the Mericlau to the north.”

“It could be from another Realm,” Turien replied quickly. “I would judge given its feather-laden final appearance, that is more likely.”

“Why not just ask a diviner?” Tristan asked. “Surely it would be easy to query with a divination spell.”

Turien shook her head, “It’s been attempted. The knowledge is well concealed; it does not exist in the Thought Realm.”

“You know a bit about divination,” Tristan replied.

“Well I should, I am one of the few diviners for the city of Lockwood,” Turien replied haughtily.

Tristan nodded, spinning his crucible, and activated the Locate spell artificed inside the Archon’s Favor. Once more, his sight entered that black, liminal space, and Logos’ eye opened to gaze upon him.

“Lord Tristan…what do you seek?”

“I’m looking for the location of any clues that could lead to more information about The Feather Scourge.”

Logos chuckled, “Some information that is very well concealed or not widely known, even I do not hold. But, no diviner in this matter has asked about locations that could lead to more insight. Diviners are almost all the same – they ask the question, and go with the answer they get, or think it is fruitless to attempt other spells when I reject their query for lack of essence or lack of knowledge itself.”

Tristan saw the world painted around him, deep in a dark cavern that had a caved-in entrance. A small study, with papers, scrolls, and tables – all in varying states of having been burned. But, scraps and fragments remained. “Thanks,” he said.

Logos’ eye narrowed, “If you find out more information and willingly share it to others, it falls into my purview. Do unravel this mystery so I may add the new information to the Thought Realm.”

The painted scene faded as Logos’ eye shut, and Tristan blinked a few times as his body oriented itself to face forward, and he pointed slightly to the right. “There’s a caved-in room with papers that have been burned.”

Both white-cloaked individuals turned to face where he pointed, and Turien looked back at him. “How do you know that?”

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Tristan tapped his belt, “Artificed Locate spell. Instead of asking about the Feather Scourge, I asked where I could find clues leading to more information.”

The woman frowned, and muttered, “That’s unconventional,” under her breath.

Tristan walked past them and began his descent down the slight slope, noting the few empty chambers that had been cleared out and seemingly scoured by fire – most likely, he reasoned, a means to purge the infection. Just in case, he spun his crucible faster and pushed essence into his armor, feeling the familiar tingle of the fortune spells. He also tucked his fist into his chest, with the thumb facing down and extended, and all other fingers curled in. He spoke in Elvish. “The best of luck to you. May the good fortune of the world grace you.” The spell took hold immediately, and he could see faint wisps of green in the edges of his vision that vanished when he tried to look at them. And now, he thought, I’ll have optimal outcomes thanks to Good Luck.