Repercussions - 1. Chapter 1

Ink stained Hope's fingers, the quill in his hand shaking slightly as he copied the letter onto a sheet of parchment. He had never had to write before, and it showed.

"Huh, I guess we're back. That was… what, a week?" he muttered.

Ink dripped from his quill, splattering the parchment, and Hope cursed quietly.

"Eilthairi," he murmured, energy rushing from his hand and onto the parchment.

The ink vanished, the parchment blank once more. It was the only big spell in the tiefling's book so far, scribed in by Keeper Maris after he had admitted his inability to write. It took most of the week for him to get the hang of the spell, but he found that he could control the flow of the magic, much like he did when he used what the mages referred to as a spark spell.

If only writing could be learned as easily.

Setting quill to parchment once again, Hope slowly copied the sentence. His strokes were careful, even if his hand wobbled slightly. A minute later, the tiefling set his quill aside, satisfied. It looked almost legible.

"Hey tiefling."

He looked up from the scroll, as a gnome dropped a heavy tome on the table.

"Tyrivan," he nodded.

The gnome had befriended him on his first day, seeming to take a liking to Hope. He was surprisingly old, with a wrinkled face that nonetheless spoke of mischief and joy.

"Any luck with the copying?"

"Some. What about your dwarf poems?" Hope replied.

"I can't seem to get the enchantments to flow through them," Tyrivan said.

"Try a battle chant," Hope shrugged.

"Why, because it's dwarven? That's racist," Tyrivan frowned.

"I was actually thinking that you usually stay more toward gentler emotions and if they aren't working you should try something different, but sure, call me racist," Hope shrugged.

"Oh… Sorry," Tyrivan said. "Uh, I guess I'll try that then."

Sighing quietly, Hope began writing the second phrase of the erase spell. It was good practice for him, and for every scroll he completed, he had an extra erase spell for the next day. The tiefling was grateful the Guild only charged fifteen gold to train him enough to take an apprenticeship with an experienced mage. The supplies he went through just to learn writing were expensive.

His hand slipped, sending a thick line of ink across the scroll, and he growled in disgust.

"Fuck! You did that on purpose!"

Tyrivan frowned slightly, but shrugged off the tiefling's snarl. Hope sent a spell through the scroll, and began driving the spell again, slowly, painstakingly inking the scroll. He had to get this attempt right.

Elluin stalked through the trees that once made his home. He barely knew this place anymore. Years of travel, of time spent on the outside had taken their toll, and while he remembered basic paths to major landmarks, he was having trouble finding his own house.

"Need a little help there?"

"Siretha," the skinwalker nodded to the elf that dropped from a tree beside him.

"I'm surprised to see you back so soon," the elf said, subtly turning the two of them to the left. "And I'm always shocked that you have such a terrible sense of direction. You're supposed to be a-"

"Don't. Please, just don't," Elluin sighed.

Siretha huffed quietly, nudging Elluin toward a large blackened tree. This tree Elluin recognised, the lightning tree, struck by a spell thirty years ago, yet still standing. The Elven village wasn't far from here.

"I know you know the way from here," Siretha smirked. "I'll see you around."

"Have fun with guard duty," Elluin shot back.

The other elf made a rude gesture before vanishing up a tree. With a sigh, Elluin continued his walk, soon noticing inquisitive faces that disappeared shortly after he saw them. Typical. They couldn't even meet his gaze. He was a bad memory given life, a reminder of a massacre that wasn't even his fault. And yet he suffered for it.

It didn't matter. He'd be gone from here soon enough. Just a night of sleep in his house, not home, and he'd be gone come morning. Where to, he had no idea. But he'd figure something out. He just needed to stay away from Cadara until the rumours of werewolves died down.

Stopping in front of a tree, the skinwalker began climbing, hands and feet finding hidden steps. His house was tucked among the branches of this tree, camouflaged like the rest of the elf village. No intruder would be able to spot the buildings hidden in the leaves.

His house was smaller than most, only a single room within. A mossy mat sat beside a wall, waiting for the skinwalker. Elluin stepped over a small hole in the floor; his food prep area. It was perfect for crushing nuts into meal, the only food he really needed.

In fact, he still had a few acorns left. He could crush those up for dinner, and save that last of his trail rations for tomorrow night.

Elluin unstrapped his sword, setting it carefully in the corner of the room. He swore he heard a faint whisper as the blade left his hand, but the skinwalker brushed it off. There were always weird things happening here. He wouldn't be surprised if a spirit was trying to haunt him.

Locating his stash of acorns, mushrooms, and berries, the skinwalker selected a small portion of the stores, and cracked open the nuts, before crushing the larger chunks. Conjuring some water, the mage began mixing the powder into a mush, adding the berries for flavouring. The mushrooms, he set aside for now. This meal would be bitter. But with luck, the berries would make it edible. If not, he could use the mushrooms to cover the flavour.

Scooping the meal into a wooden bowl, Elluin sat down and began eating hungrily. It was grainy and bitter, but it was food. Hells, Hope and the orphans would probably kill for a meal like this. The skinwalker wondered how the tiefling was doing. He had finally joined the Mages Guild. He was no longer any of Elluin's concern. A good fiend. Who would have thought it was possible?

Still, Elluin couldn't stop thinking about the feline fiend. The time he had spent with Hope ranked among his worst experiences, yet he missed the tiefling. It made no sense.

With a sigh, the skinwalker finished his meal and laid back on his mat. It would be nice to actually get some rest tonight. Sure, he didn't need to sleep if he kept casting the Watchman's Spell, but staying awake for days at a time was so overrated.

Finally he could sleep.

"It's been a week. I wouldn't be surprised if the beast fled across the sea."

Gwin let out a grunt, taking a deep drink from her mug. She gave the group around the table a scathing look, taking in the cleric, fighter, paladin, and mage.

"It's not escaping us. One more night of preparation will do us good," she said.

"And while we sleep, the werewolf is mauling a shepherd's boy or destroying half the livestock between here and Kalen," Orain, the half-elf cleric, said hotly.

Gwin shook her head, rising to her full height of three and a half feet. The gnome glared at her companions, many of whom seemed to agree.

"You are free to run off on your own," she shrugged. "But remember, I've spent my life tracking down these monsters. You'll need me to find it, trust me."

She finished her mug of ale, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Around her sat an adventuring group, young and inexperienced. They all thought killing a werewolf would be some grand adventure. Gwin knew otherwise. Killing monsters was dangerous work. She gave this group a survival rating of maybe two out of five. If she worked hard to keep them safe, maybe three.

"Think for a moment. The full moon was a week ago. How are we going to find a werewolf when they're in human form? Or elf form, given that they seemed to run for Kalen."

"The dwarf told us it was an elf warrior-"

Gwin nodded at the halfling paladin. Her name was… Hera? She seemed one of the more level headed of their group.

"An elf warrior. Don't elves have magic in their blood? You're underestimating him. Besides, he came from the room; there's no guarantee he's actually the werewolf. Maybe he is taking the blame for someone else."

"A werewolf ally then…"

Stranger things had happened. Someone who actually cared for a lycanthrope was not uncommon.

"We still need to track him down," Mathira, their human mage, said.

"Leave that to me," Gwin said. "I suggest you all get a good night's rest. No fooling around. We leave at dawn."

The gnome set a gold on the table to pay for the numerous drinks, and made her way upstairs, twin silvered blades bouncing on her hips. She would take her own advice and get to sleep early. The journey to Kalen would take at least six hours on horseback, and she wanted to make sure they reached the end with energy to spare.

Stepping into her private room, Gwin let out a shuddering breath. With luck, there would be blood sometime in the next week. She could be dead any day now. And the thought was thrilling as much as it was terrifying.

There was a knock on the door. Shaking her head, the gnome went to the door, opening it to find Hera standing outside.

"I have something I need to admit," the halfling said, stepping into the room. "I… I've never killed before."

"If you're lucky, you won't have to kill now either. I'll finish off this beast, and we can all go back to our lives," Gwin shrugged.

Suddenly lips were pressing into hers, soft and wet. The gnome took a step back, blinking in surprise.

"I… I never did that before either," Hera blushed.

Gwin felt a small smile appear on her lips.

"There's a first time for everything. But tonight is not the night. Rest up, we have a long journey ahead of us, if Mathira's cards are right."

Nodding quickly, Hera turned to leave, almost smacking her head on the doorknob. Gwin let out a small sigh. The thought of death did strange things to people. She might take Hera up on her unspoken plea. It would be a nice distraction from thoughts of death.

He stared down at the cards, rush candle burning dim on the floor beside him. Mathira rubbed his eyes, exhausted from a day of casting for the group. Still, he needed to know more. The nagging in his brain wouldn't allow him to sleep until he saw what he needed.

"The gnome said we need to sleep."

He gritted his teeth. Why the half-elf decided to bunk with him was beyond his comprehension. He was a witch; he had no connection to the divine, only to his cards and the power they held.

"I'll sleep enough," he muttered.

Just as soon as he had the questions asked. It didn't matter if they were answered.

Was it the place they visited? That barbarian helping an orphanage was strange, not to mention there was no reason his cards should send them there. They knew nothing about elves or werewolves, and the elf who lived there looked like he hadn't seen daylight in years. But there was something there, some connection.

Maybe if he asked directly. It was worth a shot.

Shuffling his cards as he thought, Mathira let them fall, a traditional nine card spread. What was the connection at the orphanage?

The Fiend reversed. A message of weakness? Or an actual fiend? Lawful evil, but it was reversed…

Combined with the next two cards, the Desert and the Mountain Man, Mathira got a picture of disaster driven by an unknown force. Something was going to strike the orphanage. And hard.

Below, he found the Tangled Briar, a symbol he took to mean the werewolf, a creature influencing his question. There was an implied evilness to the draw, though it was tempered by the lawful goodness of the Hidden Truth card beside it. A search for truth within oneself… perhaps the beast they hunted was at war with his lycanthropy. The Empty Throne repeated the theme of lawful good, and spoke of lessons learned from a figure from the past. A friend of the werewolf's?

Finishing his tableau were the Liar, the Marriage, and the Betrayal reversed. The werewolf was connected to the orphanage, a connection that spelled either blessing or disaster for the place. Yet his connection seemed selfless, hardly common for one infected with the curse of the moon. There were emotions involved, a love that festered, obsessive and destructive.

As usual, Mathira was left with more questions than answers. The werewolf seemed… good, according to his cards. But he could be reading them wrong. Perhaps the answer lay in the orphanage. Something was going to happen there, something big, and likely deadly. He would stop by there before they left and let the people within know to be cautious.

But that nagging presence in his mind was finally gone. Shuffling his cards once more, Mathira slid them carefully into their silk pouch, securing it around his neck. He blew out his candle before crawling onto the bed next to Orian. At least he was reasonably sure the shepherd's boys were safe for one more night.