Chapter 58 (Patreon)

“This will do.”

Meyneth gave the place a satisfied once-over. During the past few days since the Deserters had arrived at Esternard City, she’d given trial runs to several different Human buildings, but none had ended up as the right fit to serve as her temporary accommodations. They were livable, but they didn’t feel as they should. And while it might be greedy on her part to reject perfectly-good domiciles for purely aesthetic reasons, it had been many years since she’d had any choice at all in her sleeping arrangements. She could allow herself an indulgence once every shake of Tylrud’s tail.

“Do for what?” Her hanger-on asked. Meyneth turned around to face the Elf boy who had been shadowing her for the better part of the day. Well, not a boy – that was unfair. He was well past boyhood, and if even half the stories of the battles he’d survived were true, then he deserved to be called a man regardless of age. She was just unused to everyone being so much shorter than her. The hanger-on – named Vul’to – was one of the tallest of his kind and his height still barely exceeded that of the average Dragonkin who had recently matured past childhood.

It was a fleeting subconscious reaction, and one that was unavoidable considering she’d never met Elves until recently, but also one that could be fatal if left uncurbed. The Deserters had been passably cordial with her up until this point, but she had no true allies among them. Rob’s pity kept her alive, and pity was a finite resource. If any of the Elves got the impression that she was looking down on them, they might take it upon themselves to remove the eyesore from their sight, and she would only have herself to blame.

This Vul’to was not a boy, she forcibly reminded herself. Despite his size, she couldn’t be more than several decades older than him. She might be three Levels above him, but that was well-within the range where combat expertise could overcome raw stat totals. And most importantly of all, he was Rob’s friend. No misstep would sooner spell her demise than to offend a companion of the person by whose goodwill she still drew breath.

For all these reasons and more, she prayed that the Ranger would go about his business and leave her well enough alone. That he yet stood before her, expression growing more concerned the longer the silence stretched on, was a testament to how one did not always get what they desired.

“This building will suffice for my place of residence,” she finally answered. “I am officially staking my claim; any who wish to challenge me are free to do so.”

Vul’to’s eyes slowly trailed from her, to the building, and back to her again. “...You’re going to live here?”

“Yes,” Meyneth nodded, firmly. “It possesses the closest approximation to Dragonkin design sensibilities that I could find.”

She didn’t miss the Dragonkin lands outside of vague pangs of unwarranted nostalgia that cropped up every now and then, but she had to admit that the aesthetics of Human architecture made little sense to her. Their homes lacked individuality to the point of coming across as soulless. Some houses were bigger, some were cleaner, some were ostensibly-better constructed, but you very rarely got a strong impression of who the owner of the home was from looking at its exterior. The home of a Warrior should be bold, large, tipped with harsh edges, constructed of a rough material, and with trophies of battles won proudly displayed in front. The home of a Physician should be stern, pragmatic, clean, sterile, constructed of a hardy material, and with examples of the most noteworthy lives they’d saved proudly displayed in front.

As far as Meyneth could tell, Humans were reluctant to proudly display much of anything. Externally, at any rate; more personality was reserved for the interiors of their domiciles, which was backwards thinking at its finest. It was like if everyone personalized their clothes to suit their identity – or at least the identity they wanted to portray to the world – and then concealed it with heavy overcoats when mingling among the populace. And that was to say nothing of those soulless husks that Rob had identified as ‘apartment buildings’. Meyneth could feel her sense of self shriveling away just from looking at those abominations.

The more she thought about it, the more she agreed with her decision. This was an occasion where she should indulge in her whims freely and openly. She had an opportunity to choose the message her housing would express, and by Tylrud’s claws she would-

“Meyneth?” Vul’to interrupted. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied. “Have I given you reason to think otherwise?”

The Ranger scrunched his face into an expression that she couldn’t decipher. “You didn’t answer my question.” He frowned. “And it is only now that I realize that may have been intentional. I must apologize if I’ve been overbearing – worrying too much is a poor habit of mine.”

...he asked a second question after his first? Meyneth nearly let out a growl. Miles away from home, and she was still getting lost inside her own head, and she was still paying the price for it.

“You haven’t been overbearing,” she lied. “I was merely distracted. Would you mind repeating your question?”

Vul’to hesitated. “I simply wanted to confirm that you are, in fact, choosing to live in this building, and that you’re aware of what it is.”

“Of course.” Meyneth gestured towards the new home that she had claimed as hers. “It’s far more beautiful than any of the Human houses the rest of the Deserters have taken. While it possesses the same love of rectangular, right-angled construction that Humans apparently fetishize, it uses that aesthetic design to portray a sense of power. Not overbearing, ostentatious power, but power that is solid as a rock and balanced at its core. At merely a glance, even the most untrained eye would understand that this is a place of importance and authority. The logo displayed at the top is just large enough to heighten the building’s aura of strength, while not being so large that it comes across as the owner overcompensating for their own deficits.”

An easy smile spread across her face. “I think it suits me quite well.”

Vul’to blinked. “Meyneth, this is a police station.”

“What of it?”

The young Ranger stared at her with another unreadable expression. Meyneth wished she could blame her inability to read his face on cultural or racial differences, but truth be told she’d been no better at picking up on social cues back home. “Were you present when Rob explained the different kinds of Human buildings?” Vul’to asked. “A police station isn’t a place where people live.”

Meyneth raised an eyebrow. “If necessary, I’ll requisition a bed from one of the unused Human houses. Transforming the interior to suit my needs is significantly easier than doing the same for the exterior.”

Vul’to sighed. “I suppose that’s logic I can’t argue with. Even if it’s not the logic I myself would have used.”

She nodded. “As I said before, any who wish to challenge my claim are free to do so.” Although I pray that they don’t. There are few fighters among the Deserters who I would triumph over in single combat. “If that’s enough to satisfy your curiosity, then I recommend you take your leave of me. I’ll be spending the rest of the day adjusting my new home to my liking.”

Meyneth panicked a little as Vul’to winced. What had she said wrong? Was it her tone? Not for the first time, she cursed whatever quirk of the system that had prevented her from ever learning Diplomacy.

“I’m sorry,” the Elf said, sighing again. “I honestly didn’t realize I was being so much of an annoyance.”

“Would it be easier for you if I made an oath not to attempt any sort of sabotage against the Deserters?”

The Elf’s eyes widened. “Were you planning to?”

“Not in the slightest. But I struggle to think of a reason why you’d be shadowing me unless you were suspicious of what I might do.” She locked eyes with him. “I can assure you that – as a person with a strong interest in my continued existence – I have no malicious designs planned against the Deserters or anyone else.”

Vul’to’s mouth fell open. “Lothren’s mercy – I’m here because I’m worried about you, Meyneth.”

Now it was her turn to look like a fish gasping for air. “...Why?”

“Because you’re isolated!” The Elf’s voice reached a crescendo on the last word. “You’ve barely talked to anyone since you started traveling with us, and I worry that it's because of our own failings. Rob has made himself scarce since we arrived at Esternard, Keira is too embarrassed over how she treated you, Zamira and Orn’tol are naturally reticent when meeting new people, Malika is engrossed in her tutelage, the other Rangers don’t know what to think, and the civilians are terrified of you.”

Vul’to hung his head. “No one’s making any real attempts to reach out to you. And we should. The task shouldn’t have fallen to me – I’m hardly better than Zamira or Orn’tol in this regard – but in lieu of someone with conversational competence, let me be the one to apologize on behalf of the rest of us. You’re not unwelcome among our number. We’re just...”

He trailed off. A hurricane of questions swirled in Meyneth’s mind; she grasped at the closest one and blurted it out to avoid sinking into another bout of silence. “The civilians are terrified of me?”

Vul’to chuckled. “You’re nearly a foot taller than most of them, you have arm muscles that are visible even when wearing a shirt with sleeves, you have claws and fangs, you’re Level 24, and you’re a Dragonkin. Perhaps ‘terrified’ was too strong of a word, but intimidated? I’d say that most of us are.”

Ah. Of course. Antipathy settled over her like a well-worn coat. She’d momentarily forgotten that the Deserters weren’t aware of what kind of Dragonkin she was. Just as well; if it would make them hesitant to browbeat her once Rob’s goodwill ran thin, then she would keep up the charade as long as it suited her.

“I understand,” she stated. “On that specific point, at least. I’m having greater trouble understanding the rest of your worries. You seem to be under the impression that the Deserters have mistreated me, while from my perspective, their conduct towards me has been quite amicable.”

“You’re sure?” Vul’to asked. He sounded genuinely concerned, which made for another point of confusion. “Because if you’d like to join us in conversation, no invitation is required. Unless you’re the type who prefers solitude, which is perfectly fine, of course.”

“I’m not sure if I am,” Meyneth admitted. “That’s a matter I’m still attempting to reconcile. But even if we were to assume that I am someone who desires companionship, my isolation among the Deserters is hardly a black mark worth noting, whether it was intended or otherwise.”

“But-”

“No one has taken my food,” Meyneth explained. Vul’to fell very quiet, very quickly. “Despite the fact that I eat more than even Rob does, I’ve been granted full rations every day. And none of the higher-leveled people have tried to take it from me by claw or by threat. Neither do they force me into public duels meant to put their own strength on display. Nor do they belittle or mock me; when overcome with anger, their frustrations are vented elsewhere.”

For some reason, her claws extended by an inch, and her voice wavered slightly. “I’m free to draw or practice numbers in peace. None of my scales have been torn off. My sleep is peaceful and undisturbed. And when people do talk to me, they do so politely, and they call me by my name.”

She put on her best smile. “I hope that makes it clear. The Deserters have treated me well – better than I could have dreamed of, in many respects.”

Vul’to gaped at her with an expression of stricken horror.

Now, it was Meyneth’s turn to sigh. What had she said this time?

--

Elder Duran kneaded his temples in preparation as he sat down at the opposite end of the table from Elder Alessia. Their daily meetings, important as they were, had a tendency to leave him with a throbbing headache. Please, Lothren, let the next answer be an affirmative. “Have your scouts returned?”

“They have not,” she replied, subdued.

Confound it. “What of their HP and Status? The scouts in my Party are as hale and hearty as ever.”

Elder Alessia hesitated. It was a moment of silence that set off a cacophony of alarms. In the years that Duran had come to know Elder Alessia, her actions had made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t the kind who hesitated over just about anything. Not unless the tidings were truly grim.

“Their HP remains as normal,” Alessia said, in a level tone. “I cannot say the same for their Statuses. Which have changed to, in order: Wearied, Forlorn, and Disturbed.”

Duran lowered his gaze. Alessia didn’t need to elaborate any further – there were only so many things in the world that could mentally imbalance a trio of battle-seasoned Rangers.

“I see,” he said. “Should we gather the others?”

Alessia shook her head. “Not until the scouts return and inform of us the specific nature of what threat we face.” Her cheek twitched. “Assuming they do in fact return.”

“Very well.” Duran laced his fingers together. “Have any traces of the Fiends been located in or around Esternard?”

“No.” Alessia’s mouth twisted into a wry sneer. “The fates have deemed fit to grant us that much leeway.”

It was unlikely that the Fiends would have traveled so far south so soon after the Humans perished, but the word ‘unlikely’ had lost much of its meaning in recent times.

“Finally some good news, then,” Duran replied, in a tone that was more chipper than he felt. “If I may add a sliver of my own; progress has been made towards unsealing the doors to Esternard’s underground farms. A day or two more should suffice. We’ll soon be able to add that boon to the preserved rations that we’ve managed to scavenge.” He gave her a slight nod. “I dare say that our food troubles are at an end.”

Alessia barked out a harsh laugh. “Unfortunate, then, that I can’t share those good tidings with the civilians. It would only make them aware of how close we were to dropping to starvation rations.”

She drummed her fingers on the table. “Another week in Esternard,” she said. “To rest our feet and establish a foothold should we need to return. Then we make for Broadwater City to the north. Do you have any objections?”

He had none. Officially, that marked an end to their meeting, but neither hurried to rush out the door. There was a general period of time that closed-door meetings between Elders were expected to last. A meeting that took longer than an hour would imply that great troubles lay ahead, while anything less than thirty minutes would send the message that the Elders weren’t giving current issues their due consideration. Nonsense either way, as far as Duran was concerned, but he’d long since learned that putting on a performance for the populace was as much a part of his leadership duties as making actual decisions were. If taking a respite helped put the Deserters at ease, then he had no choice but to oblige.

Even if being left mentally unstimulated and alone with his thoughts was a risky prospect. Residing in a Human city had resurrected many specters of the past; vicious creatures tormenting him with memories better left forgotten. They would quiet down, eventually, but for now he very much preferred to keep himself occupied.

Duran suppressed a groan as he settled back into his chair, joints creaking like unoiled hinges. Three days of rest had been insufficient for him to fully recover from their weeks-long journey from The Village to Esternard City. Vitality and Endurance can only do so much to deter the march of time, he mused. No matter. I have a few decades left in me, and that is more than long enough to see the Deserters settled and safe.

Had someone told him a year ago that, before long, he would be leading the survivors of the Village to slip out from under the Seneschal’s influence by rallying around the presence of a Human, Duran would have called that person a madman and prescribed them ten days of bed rest at minimum. He might still call that person a madman now, for only a person lacking sanity or good sense could have foreseen the twists and turns that his life had taken as of late.

The truly comical aspect of it all was that Duran had been planning to step down from his station within the next few years after choosing a proper successor. Some old men became inflamed with passion in their twilight years, suddenly inspired to perform a grand undertaking to attach their name and legacy to before going to meet Lothren in her Hallowed Halls. He was not one of those men. He would have been perfectly content to spend the rest of his days reading, observing, and expanding his pool of knowledge simply for the sake of his own enjoyment. After living for several centuries, surviving The Scouring and The Cataclysm, and playing a pivotal role in unifying the disparate survivors in Ixatan Forest, Duran was satisfied in having accomplished all that could or should be expected of a man.

Then Rob had come, and then the Blight, and then the Seneschal. Duran had offhandedly mentioned all of this to Rob a week or so ago, prompting the Human to be struck with a laughing fit over how Duran had been ‘three days from retirement’. Once the lad calmed down enough to explain the context, Duran  found himself sharing in Rob’s amusement, if only because it gave him another insight into Earth’s vast and indecipherable culture of entertainment.

What I wouldn’t have given to have a solid decade of conversations with Rob, he thought. I’d never grow bored again.

“You’re smiling,” Alessia commented.

“I suppose I am,” Duran said, with a hint of a chuckle. “Don’t mind me. I’m remembering simpler times, wondering what could have been, that sort of thing.”

Alessia fell silent. A few seconds passed, her entire body tensing up as if she was preparing to do battle. “Have I wronged you, Duran?” She asked, in a hollow tone.

He sat up straight, eyebrows shooting to the top of his head. “...I’m afraid you have me at a loss. What brought this on?”

“I was the one who attacked the Seneschal’s Advance Guards,” she stated. “They were arrogant, yes, and they put forth not the barest hint of effort towards understanding our plight. Were I a simple Mage with no duties or responsibilities, I could easily forgive myself for lashing out when they tried to abduct the Human and impose punishments on the rest of us.”

Alessia closed her eyes. “But I am not a simple Mage. I am an Elder. I should have made every possible attempt to pursue a more Diplomatic resolution. Instead, I stood aside as Keira’s rage reached a fever pitch of bloodlust, and as the Human was backed into a corner by their words until he felt as if his only available recourse was to decapitate their Elementalist. It’s not just that I failed to come to a peaceable agreement between all parties – it’s that, in my grief and my exhaustion and my hatred, I didn’t even try.”

Her eyes snapped open, looking as intense as burning coals. “A choice made through inaction is still a choice, and it’s one I made for everyone. When I took up arms against the Seneschal, I cursed the survivors of the Village to choose between the lesser of two cruel fates. You most of all, Duran. Sylpeiros would not believe that one Elder acted out of accordance with the other, and he should have been entirely correct in that assumption. I betrayed your trust and the trust of everyone that I’d sworn to protect.”

She slammed her fist against the table, cracking it in two. “And damn me if I’m making excuses, but events wouldn’t have had to play out the way they did if we’d just known! To this day it baffles me – how in the flying hells did the Seneschal learn that there was a Human among our ranks? If only we’d had time to prepare, if only we’d been able to present Rob to the Seneschal on our terms...”

And then the moment was gone. Her strength fled her all at once, and she sunk back into her chair like a puppet with its strings cut. “If only, if only. I suppose we’ll never know.”

Duran knew. By process of elimination, there was but one moment in time where the Seneschal had the opportunity to learn of Rob’s existence. He kept the deduction to himself; Alessia would feel no better knowing that their ill fortunes had come about as the result of Elder Cesario’s loose lips. She put great stock into the bonds of trust that they’d formed – which was why she was being so hard on herself – and it would cut her deeply to learn that Cesario’s last act as an Elder had been to stab them in the back and twist the knife.

“Alessia, my dear,” Duran said, kindly placing his hand overtop hers. She stiffened at his touch, but after a few seconds, hooked her thumb around his hand to gently grab the side. “You did not wrong me in the slightest. Were I in your position, I would have refused their every order to hand over Rob, even if it would have resulted in our respective sides coming to blows.”

The very notion of the Advance Guards’ request rankled him. Give them Rob to do with as the Seneschal pleased? Rob, who had gone on a Dungeon Crawl to save the Ranger trainees after having known them for a scant two weeks? Rob, who participated in the Village defense and almost sacrificed himself to the Blight for the sake of civilians who, up until that point, had scorned him? Rob, who protected hundreds of the survivors on their journey from the Village to Esternard? Rob, who had sat with him, shared stories, bared secrets, admitted doubts, laughed, cried, and smiled whenever his spirits were lifted?

Duran would sooner slay the Senechal himself than give him Rob. An Elder’s duty was to protect their own, and Duran had long since included Rob among them.

“And as far as the civilians are concerned,” he continued, “Do not forget that thousands of people have followed us north. They wouldn’t have done so if they weren’t similarly-appalled by the Seneschal’s decree. And speaking personally, I have yet to hear a single voice suggest that we turn back.”

“They haven’t been given time to think,” Alessia muttered. “Too much running for their lives to worry about the past. I guarantee that, a week after we’ve settled into our final Human city of our choosing, they’ll be pining for the south and wondering what sequence of events could have possibly brought them to where they are now.”

Duran smirked. “I think that, regrets or otherwise, we’ll all be wondering that for a long time to come.”

A ghost of a smile passed across her face.

“It may help if you speak to Rob about your thoughts on this matter,” Elder Duran suggested.

Alessia arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure it would be wise to admit to the Human that I sometimes regret not throwing him to the Seneschal’s mercy when given the chance?”

“Give the boy some credit. He already assumes as much about you, and he doesn’t fault you for those feelings.” Duran scratched his chin with his remaining hand. “I was actually referring to how you seem to be having second thoughts regarding whether or not the confrontation with the Seneschal’s soldiers could have ended peaceably. Rob should be able to dispel those wayward doubts of yours.”

“How so? I’m aware that his oration can be shockingly astute for someone whose Diplomacy should be at best Level 3 or 4, but-”

Duran shook his head to cut her off. “He won’t use his words to convince you – he’ll use theirs. Rob possesses a Skill called Recall that allows him to permanently record and memorize what people around him have spoken. He activated the Skill directly before engaging the Seneschal’s soldiers, and sometimes repeats their words back to himself whenever the guilt starts to gnaw at him. Having heard a recreation of the exact conversation that took place, right down to the soldiers’ uncaring tone and dismissive verbiage, I can give you my word that I don’t think the outcome of that confrontation could have gone any other way.”

Several seconds of silence passed.

“That’s rather morbid,” Alessia remarked.

“Effective, though.”

--

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